Part 29 (1/2)
That shut you up, you old s.n.a.t.c.h.
Cynthia must have been hovering outside the bathroom door. Robert heard her voice again with that frightened trembling quality he hated so much. ”Robert. Dad likes to have his hair dried straight after it's washed. Would you-”
”Cynthia.” With an effort he softened his voice. ”Cynthia, why don't you go downstairs and put your feet up. I can manage.”
Yes, I can manage to bathe the old wretch. I've been doing it G.o.d knows how many months now. I've soaped that old cabbage leaf skin of his, washed his hair until it looked like a bunch of rats' tails; dried it, combed it, powdered the old man's a.s.s. And I'm sick of it.
”All right, Robert,” came Cynthia's watery voice. ”I'll go down stairs, then.”
”Yes, you do that. I'll make us all a coffee when I come down.”
”B-b-berra bera”
Robert didn't know if the old man was trying to speak or just blowing water from his lips.
”Soon have you done and dusted,” he boomed at Stan. Then he turned on both bath faucets. The water came out in fat glistening jets, swirling round the old man's legs, rising up along the tub sides, covering the old man's genitals. The p.e.n.i.s was large and thick, not at all shriveled as he would have expected. But it was unusually white and looked more like a stick of celery lying there in the bath.
Robert gazed at the rising water. The shock of the cold dousing had shut Stan up nicely. No more babble about Baby Bones or Harry, or whatever else obsessed that senile brain.
The old man's ear must have been sore still from the lightning strike. A blister swelled from the skin like a black grape.
Robert shook his head. What had happened to his luck? Here he was living with his rich father-in-law, waiting for the b.a.s.t.a.r.d to die. The man gets an ear full of electricity when lightning strikes the telephone lines but all he suffers is a single blister on his ear. G.o.d Almighty. The old b.a.s.t.a.r.d's indestructible.
A rage that was bitter and dark swept through Robert Gregory, searing him from head to toe. Where was the justice? What had happened to his-Robert Gregory's-luck? Had he broken a mirror, or shot a freaking albatross or something?
Eyes glazing, he watched water rush into the tub, climbing up the sides, swirling round Stan's chicken bone chest. A few minutes ago Robert had been running his eyes over the man's bankbooks. There was the money. Tens of thousands. Like rows of b.l.o.o.d.y telephone numbers. But Robert Gregory couldn't touch a penny of it. Then there were the great bundles of t.i.tle deeds to Price's dozens of properties. The wily old beggar had not just run a chain of TV rental stores, he'd bought the land on which they stood, and the buildings that housed the stores might be as much as four or five stories high. The upper-floors he'd let as offices. Although the Ezy-View TV business had gone, the money river still flowed. Only Stan Price was too addled to spend it. And the accountant Stan had hired years ago merely allowed a n.i.g.g.ardly amount through to cover the running of the house, food and taxes.
Dear G.o.da again that dark wave of bitterness ran through Robert. The money was so close he could almost taste ita Now all that Stan need do is something that thousands of men and women did the world over every day.
DIE.
It couldn't be simpler for the old man, could it? He didn't need what was left of his brains to figure out how to expire. All he need do was breathe his last breath. For his blood to curdle in his heart. Then all that lovely, lovely liquid money would come gus.h.i.+ng Robert's way. Dear Lord. The things he could doa Robert gazed down at the water bubbling over the old man's chest.
The moneya that's what Robert wanted. He could do so much. So many wonderful things. Dear G.o.da in Leeds he'd seen a beautiful little prost.i.tute doing her rounds in black leather pants; they'd been so tight shea ”Bath's full. Bath's full.”
The words were a slap in his face. In a white-hot fury he glared down at the man. ”What's wrong with you?” he snapped. ”I don't give you enough food to keep a rat alive and still you keep spouting your f.u.c.king gibberish.” He mimicked a whiny voice. ”Baby Bones, Harry, Mr. Kelly, letters, scary lettersa s.h.i.+t, you can't be indestructible! You can't!”
With that he put both hands on Stan's shoulders and pushed him down hard. The man's rump skittered along the bath; his head went under with hardly a splash.
From underwater the man's blue eyes gazed up into Robert's. They were so shot full of surprise that Robert wanted to laugh viciously at them. Bubbles streamed from the ancient mouth.
Robert bore down on the man. The only sound, the water streaming from the faucets into the bath.
He pictured the smiling face of the pretty little prost.i.tute. Oh, he knew she'd be so hot, so charged with s.e.x-not like that ragdoll wife of his. The money would be- ”Robert. I've brought a clean pair of pajamas.”
Robert's eyes snapped into focus. He saw the old man's face beneath the water. Blue eyes gazed limply up into his.
Robert snapped his head round. With her father naked Cynthia wouldn't come into the bathroom. Even so, she held her arm through the door, dangling the pajamas.
Dear G.o.d! This wasn't the way!
Robert thrust his hands down under the old man's shoulders and pulled him up clear of the water. The head rolled. Stan coughed out the water, then breathed deeply.
No, he couldn't drown the old mana the police would realize that he hadn't died of natural causes. No, there had to be another way. Subtle, think subtle, he told himself as he watched Stan wipe his face with those liver spotted claws of his.
h.e.l.l's teeth, the old man had the lungs and heart of a marine. It would need a bullet to finish him.
Outside the door Cynthia sounded agitated as if she guessed all wasn't well in the bathroom. ”Robert. Is Dad all right? Why's he making that noise?”
Still she didn't come into the bathroom. Robert found himself talking to the hand that held the pajamas. ”Dad's got some shampoo in his eye. We're taking care of it now.” Robert sounded as hearty as ever. G.o.d, when it came to keeping up a pretence he was good. ”We'll soon have you right as rain, won't we, Dad?”
Stan Price looked up. For a second there was just a hint of reproach in his eyes. But the man had the memory retention of a goldfish.
Confusion seeped back into his expression. He ran a hand through rat-tails of hair. ”I'm hungry,” he cried plaintively. ”Is it suppertime?”
2.
Heaven is an abandoned railway station in a cemetery. The thought ran through Paul Newton's head as he held Miranda. This was the third visit to the old building. A dozen candles burned, sending wisps of smoke to the ceiling; a hundred shadows danced on the walls.
How many times had he made love to her now? Seven? Eight?
Eight, it must be eight. Condom factories would be forced to work overtime at this rate. Smiling, he nuzzled her fragrant hair. They should really put on their clothes again. There was a chance someone might slip into the ticket hall through the window with the loose board, just as Paul and Miranda had. And just like them, it might be another teenage couple looking for a piece of private heaven.
But it was so good lying here beside her on the upholstered bench. Her naked body was a whole landscape of curves, crests, hill, valleys. A place for his stroking fingers to explore, leave for new territories, then return a few moments later.
”Mmma that feels good,” she breathed. ”Are you sure you haven't done this before?” She kissed his chest.
”What makes you say that?” He smiled.
”Paul, don't kid me. You were a virgin until Sunday evening, weren't you?”
”Me? No way.”
Her voice continued in a gentle sleepy purr. ”Miranda knowsa Miranda knows. But I think you're well up the learning curve now.”