"Innes, Hammond - The Doomed Oasis" - читать интересную книгу автора (Innes Hammond)

'Yes.' And then she added hastily, 'He's not a bad boy, not really.' She drew in her breath quickly as though gathering herself together. 'If I hadn't written to him like I did, it wouldn't have happened. But I'd had about all I could stand, you see, and then he came home and there was a bit of a row and Mr Thomas, he said things, you see, that he shouldn't have done, and suddenly they were hitting out at each other. It wasn't Dafydd's fault. He'd had a terrible shock, poor boy. And Mr Thomas, he'd had a few beers, and then--' She sucked in her breath again as though gulping for air. 'Well, then he had this stroke, you see, and I called Dr Harvey right away and then I telephoned you because I knew if meant trouble for Dafydd.' It had all come out in a rush as though she couldn't contain it any longer. 'My husband looked so bad, you see,' she added lamely, 'and I didn't know what would happen. I just didn't know what to do, Mr Grant - not for the best, as you might say. And then Dr Harvey came and he said there wasn't much hope for him and he phoned the police so it's glad I am that I called you now. You'll know what to do and what Dafydd should say to them. He's not a bad boy,' she repeated in a voice that was suddenly on the defensive. 'Just a bit wild you know.' And she added quickly, 'Mr Thomas hit me you see.'

There was a family row, in other words?'

'Yes. Yes, you could call it that. But I wouldn't like you to think that because Mr Thomas was a bit of a drinker there was anything wrong between us. He's good at heart, you know.'

'And he's had a stroke you say?'

'Yes, that's right. That's what Dr Harvey called it.' She seemed to have got a grip of herself. 'Come in now won't you, Mr Grant. He's lying on the couch in the parlour. And Dafydd's there too. I expect you'd like a word with him. But don't try and rush him, please,' she added in a whisper, and I got the impression she was afraid of her son. 'He needs a bit of handling, you see. And he's had a shock as I say - a dreadful shock.' She pushed open the door and stood back for me to enter. This is Mr Grant, Dafydd - Mr Grant the lawyer.'

The room was lit from the ceiling, a stark, glaring light without compromise. It showed me a couch with the body of a man lying on it. He was in his shirt sleeves, the brass gleam of a stud showing where his shirtband had been loosened. His eyes were closed and he was breathing with difficulty, his rather heavy, florid features fallen away so that the bone showed through the flesh. The nose had the veined look of a heavy drinker. Close against the gas fire, one elbow on the mantelpiece, leaned a youth of about twenty. He was rather over-dressed in a jacket with a lot of elaborate pockets and tucks and a pair of tight-fitting trousers. His face was as white as his mother's; the same features, too, except that the nose was more beaky, the jaw stronger. He didn't shift his position as I entered the room, didn't even look up. He was staring down at the gas fire and his immobility was oddly disconcerting.

Close by his feet was a litter of broken glass from the smashed front of one of those over-pretentious china cupboards. The mahogany beading as well as the glass had been broken in the struggle and the bric-a-brac with which the cabinet had been filled, mostly white china souvenirs from seaside towns, lay in confusion on the worn carpet. A vase, too, lay where it had fallen from the table by the window. It was unbroken, and beside it lay a much-thumbed photograph album spilling press cuttings. There was something a little macabre about the whole room; nothing cleared up after the struggle and the father lying there half-dead on the couch with a blanket tucked round him; and the mother and son standing, facing each other, absolutely still.

I could feel the tension between them. It wasn't hate, but it was something just as strong, an emotion so violent that the man on the couch, myself, the state of the room didn't exist for them.

'Well, now.' I addressed the boy, my tone as matter-of-fact as I could make it in that sort of atmosphere. 'Suppose you tell me what happened.' But it was like talking to a brick wall. He had a sullen, withdrawn look.

'I've told you what happened,' his mother said in a whisper.

'Quite so, Mrs Thomas, but I'd like to hear it from your son.' She looked deathly tired. I turned to the boy again. 'You've had a shock,' I said gently. 'It's natural you should be a bit dazed by what's happened. . . . ' But even as I said it I knew the boy wasn't dazed. The knuckles of the hand that gripped the mantelpiece were white with pressure and there was a muscle working at the back of the jaw. He was holding himself in like a boiler under pressure and I wasn't sure how best to handle him. His gaze had shifted now and he was staring at his mother. I felt sorry for the woman. 'Listen to me, young man,' I said. 'I understand Dr Harvey has called the police. They'll be here any minute now. If you want me to act for you, then you'd better start talking now, before they arrive.'

A slight movement of the shoulder, that was all the answer he made. It wasn't a shrug, more a muscular twitch as though he was impatient for me to go. 'Mr Grant is only trying to help, Dafydd.'

'Dammo di! What the hell good is a lawyer man now? It's done, and arguing about it won't alter anything.' His voice trembled. And then he turned on me, a flash of pale amber eyes, and told me to get out, the words violent, laced with obscenities.

'Dafydd!'

But she was frightened; she had no control over him. 'All right,' I said, and I moved towards the desk where I'd left my hat. 'I hope for your sake,' I added, 'that your father's condition isn't serious.'

'He's not my father.' The words flashed out from between clenched teeth. 'I'd have killed him if he'd been my father.' I turned to find his pale eyes fixed on his mother. '1 mean that, Ma. I swear I'll kill the swine -if lean ever find him.' The words had a violence and a bitterness that appalled me.

'He's not himself,' his mother murmured. 'He doesn't know what he's saying.' Her hands were plucking at the apron round her middle and her brown, doe-like eyes were wide with fear. She knew he'd meant it.

'You'd better get control of yourself,' I said. 'You've done enough damage for one day without threatening more and frightening your mother.'

But now the pressure inside him couldn't contain itself any more. 'You get out of here.' He said it quietly and because of that his words had force. 'What's happened here is nothing to do with you or anyone else. It's between my mother and me.' He spoke through clenched teeth as though he were still trying to keep some control over what he was saying. And then suddenly he lashed out wildly, all control gone: 'When you're suddenly told you're illegitimate, and your sister's illegitimate, too, you want to know a little more about it, don't you? You want to talk it over with your mother - ask her a few questions, find out who and what the hell you really are.'

He flung out an arm, pointing dramatically at the album on the floor. 'See that? Uncle Charles's scrap book. She subscribed to a press-cutting agency. Every story the newspapers published about him - it's all there, pasted in with loving care. My own mother clinging to the worn-out bed of an old love. Jesus Christ! It makes you want to weep. And me and Sue coming up the wrong side of the bloody blanket, and being fooled into calling that poor drunken sot Dada.' He stared at me balefully. 'Eight years old I was when I first stole a peek at the contents of that book. A relation, that's what she said, an uncle of mine. Started me getting interested in Arabia, it did. I thought he was a bloody hero. Instead, he's just a low-down, dirty heel who left my mother flat. Well, what do you say to that, eh? You're a lawyer. Maybe you can tell me what I ought to do about it?' And he glared at me as though I were in some way responsible.

And then he suddenly moved, a quick step forward that brought him face-to-face with me. 'Now you just get the hell out of here and let me talk to my mother alone, see.' His eyes had a wild look, the sort of look I'd only seen once before on a boy's face, but that had been in the midst of battle.

I'd known how to deal with it then. But this kid was different. It wasn't only that he looked tough; I had a feeling he was tough. Well, I'm not exactly soft, but I don't walk into things with my eyes open. But then I glanced at Mrs Thomas, saw how scared she was of him, and after that there was nothing for it but to stand my ground, not knowing what exactly he'd do, for I could feel the tension building up inside of him again. He was like a spring coiled too tight.

And then the ring of the ambulance bell sounded down the street and the violence suddenly died out of him. It drew up outside the house and a moment later two hospital attendants came in with a stretcher.

The attention of the three of us was focused then on the man on the couch. He murmured as they shifted him, an inarticulate sound, and Mrs Thomas, fussing over him now, spoke his name. The tone of her voice had a quality that is only possible between people who have shared their lives together, and it seemed to reach him, for his eyes flicked briefly open and he murmured her name. 'Sarah.' It came thickly from his twisted lips, obscured by the effort of moving half-paralysed muscles. 'Sarah - I'm sorry.' That was all. The eyes closed, the face became clay again, and they took him out.

Mrs Thomas followed them, sobbing uncontrollably. The door swung to of its own accord and the room was still. 'I shouldn't have hit him. It wasn't his fault.' The boy had turned away and his shoulders were moving. I realized suddenly that he was crying. 'Oh God!' he sobbed. 'I should have known. If I'd had any sense, I should have known.'