Guilty Conscious, Oliver Davies [small books to read TXT] 📗

I nodded and bent my head, focusing on my tea. Elsie squeezed my hand.

“Tell me about it then.”

“No.” I shook my head. “A story for some other time that one is, Els. When you’re feeling better.”

She scoffed. “I’m here in my bed with nothing to do, Max.”

“You’ve got the telly downstairs,” I replied. “Do you want me to bring it up here? You can watch your Fawlty Towers DVD.”

“Don’t think you can distract me with John Cleese,” she snapped.

“That was a genuine question,” I assured her. “I don’t want you taking on those stairs when you don’t have to. I’ll bring the telly up and any books down there you might want. Just give me a list. Here.” I gave her a nudge. “Do you want a crossword book?”

Elsie gave me a withering stare. “Come closer, Max, so I can wallop you over the head.”

“I’m being serious!” I protested.

“As am I. Now, look.” She emptied her mug and handed it back to me, settling back down into her blankets as I placed it back on the tray. “Tell me a story, come on. It’ll keep my mind busy. I love a whodunit.”

“Elsie,” I protested again, not really wanting to relive that particular case.

“Tell me,” she insisted, taking my hand again, between both of hers, fixing me with a maternal sort of stare. I sighed and looked around the room.

“Can I finish my tea first?” I asked eventually.

“Go on then. Pass us a biscuit too, since I see you’ve helped yourself.”

I handed her the tin, prying the lid off for her first, and sipped at my tea as she foraged for a biscuit.

“So, this was before I got ill?”

“Around the same time, actually. Wasn’t the most enjoyable September I’ve ever had,” I added. I drained the rest of my tea and turned in my seat to place it back on the desk.

“I’m not surprised,” Elsie muttered back. “I caught a glimpse in the paper, and Sally made mention of it. Sounded awful.”

“You sure you want to hear it?” I asked her once more. “I can always go down and get John Cleese. If you budge up, I can watch it with you.”

“You tell me this tale of yours, Max Thatcher, and then you may bring up my television.”

I frowned. “That doesn’t sound like a very fair trade.”

“Stop pouting. Come on. I’m all ears, my boy. Share it with your Aunty Elsie.”

I couldn’t very well say no to that. Elsie had never insisted on being called Aunty, but she liked to play the card every now and then. As a boy to get me to listen and leave the worms alone or wash my hands, and now, probably to remind of those days. I looked up at her from beneath my hair that had fallen back into my face. She reached over and carefully swept it back, then took my hands again and settled down, closing her eyes as I began to talk.

One

Edward Vinson watched a fly bounce around the old window as he waited for Professor Altman to read his latest essay. He hated the room. It was high up in the building and was always uncomfortably warm or unbearably cold. It had sloping wooden walls and a low ceiling. The floorboards creaked under his feet when he walked, and the radiator beneath the window clicked, clanked and howled like there was something living trapped inside. The window itself was rarely opened, so the room was a stagnant box of cigarette smoke, coffee and breath.

Edward leant back in his chair, crossing an ankle over the opposite knee and tried not to listen to the professor sniffing and breathing. He could at least play some music or something, give Edward something to do while he sat and waited. At this rate, he’d take a magazine or something, National Geographic or bloody Horse and Country, if it meant he could have something to occupy him. He looked enviously at the bookshelves, so laden with books that they bowed slightly, threatening to come crashing down at some point in the near future. He wasn’t allowed to read them, which seemed ridiculous to him.

With Altman preoccupied, Edward twisted in his chair to where his bag was slung over one arm and pulled his phone from the pocket. God, he’d been here for almost an hour. And he was hungry. A few texts were there, most of them boring, but one from Freya stopped him from putting the phone straight back.

Hey, Ed. Hope Altman isn’t boring you to death. Can I still borrow your Machiavelli book? Library’s still out of one. Freya was often borrowing his books, she rarely bought her own, so if the library was out of a copy, she was rather scuppered in that department.

Edward glanced at Altman, who blew his nose loudly, still heavily absorbed in Edward’s essay. Must be good, he thought before replying.

Freya. Of course, you’d better look after it, though. I’m not a charity.

She replied straight away, Freya always did. God forbid anyone ever think you are. And you know I will, I always do. If anything, I give them back in better condition than I received them.

Don’t be cheeky. Meet me in my room once I’ve escaped from here, then I don’t have it on me. Usual time?

Thanks, Ed. Let me know if you need rescuing. I can call you from the “hospital” if you need.

He smiled at his phone. Any other time, but I need a good grade today, and Altman’s in a decent mood for once. See you later.

She sent back a thumbs-up emoji, and Edward put his phone away, spinning back in his chair. Altman still wasn’t finished, and he held in his groan. He’d already looked at all the photos and posters on the wall, already looked at the ancient map, the bust of Socrates gathering dust in the corner. Even the fly had lost his interest. Edward sat in his chair, flicked non-existent dust from his coat and dragged his