The Scribbler, Iain Maitland [inspirational books TXT] 📗

“Shut up,” the smart brother shouted, the tension twisting his voice. “I could have shot you, couldn’t I? Just now. But I didn’t. I will next time.”

He dragged Carrie up and to the window.

Shouts from the police. Checking she was well. Being treated properly.

She called back, her voice breaking, all good, bring back their mother and they have promised to release me unharmed.

Another long pause. The brothers and Carrie waited.

Silence from the police.

Just the unending light and the eternal quiet.

And then, after more shouts back and forth, it was agreed.

Between the smart brother and the police.

The mother was sleeping, resting right now, but would be brought back.

At daybreak.

Wait. Be patient.

An uneasy truce until then. 31. SUNDAY 18 NOVEMBER, 4.11AM

The three of them sat quietly on the top floor of the barn, up by the front window, the two brothers leaning against one wall, Carrie resting at the other. Close to peaceful, almost dozing, despite what was happening.

Waiting for the police to arrive with Mother. A lull. The calm before the storm.

The smart brother stretched up and moved occasionally, looking through the bottom pane of glass, checking. Just in case. Now and then, he’d send the slow brother to watch the back.

It was still dark. And cold. There was a sharp crispness to the air. And the light, lights really, two or three of them, continued to shine in and illuminate much of the barn. Light and shadows. Even so, there was a sense of stillness, a ceasefire, with both sides waiting for the real business to begin, the negotiations, on Mother’s return.

The two brothers had finished their cigarettes. Had papers still in the tin, but no tobacco. The slow brother rat-a-tat-tatted his fingernails on the top of the tin over and again. Some endless rhythm to a long-forgotten tune. The smart brother eventually reached out and touched the slow brother’s hand, hush now, to quieten him.

Carrie found herself fighting sleep, could not believe it in the circumstances. But she thought she had nodded off once or twice, soothed by the brothers talking. The smart brother’s stronger voice, explaining, clarifying, instructing, and the slow brother’s slower, monotone voice, listening and agreeing. Then waking at any sudden movement.

The smart brother was up. Across to the stairs.

Moving downstairs for a pee.

She could hear him below them at the back of the barn, the strong flow of urine hitting the wall.

Carrie looked over at the slow brother, who met her gaze shyly. He smiled back.

“You look tired, Dennis,” she said, yawning.

He yawned too, an instinctive response, and rubbed his left hand across his face. His right hand rested gently on his gun, she noted.

“I am,” he said simply.

“You’ll be glad to get to bed,” she said.

He nodded, “I will.”

“Not long now hopefully,” she said, smiling.

“When Mother comes home, we will sleep then. Up the stairs to Bedfordshire.”

She smiled again, not sure how to reply to that.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“I do not know,” he replied. “It will be a while. Before sunrise.”

“Do you have a watch?” Carrie pressed.

He shook his head.

She saw a possible opportunity.

“Can you tell the time?” she asked quietly.

He seemed awkward, looking down, thinking for a moment or two before answering. A stuttered answer.

“I know all the hours … the big hand. One o’clock,” he said, moving his right arm to the one o’clock position and then moving it to two, three, four o’clock as he gave the times.

She nodded, smiling and pretending to laugh as he went through to twelve o’clock and said, “Midday.”

“Or midnight,” she replied.

He thought about that. “Midday in the day … midnight at night.” Then added, for emphasis, “Mid … day. Mid … night.”

She laughed, properly this time, at his serious, childlike expression. And he laughed too.

“Noah’s birthday party starts at two o’clock. You must remember that. You don’t want to miss the fun and games or the tea or the take-home goody bag.”

The slow brother put his arm into the two o’clock position.

“Not at quarter to two,” she said.

He sensed oh-so slowly that Carrie was joking, having a little bit of fun.

Thought a while. Moved his arm back a touch, to where quarter to two might be. Give or take.

She laughed.

“Nor at quarter past two,” she added.

Thought again. Then moved his arm forward, quicker this time, in on the fun. But still not quite where it should be.

She laughed again, almost delightedly.

“Not at five o’clock,” he said, laughing loudly as he moved his arm sharply to the five o’clock position.

They laughed together.

Then fell back into silence.

She knew her moment was coming.

She listened, for a while, until she heard the smart brother zip himself up downstairs. She hesitated, expecting to hear his footsteps on the staircase. But, after a pause, she could hear him moving about down below, checking this and that and making certain the barn door was secure.

“Do you have a watch?” she asked again.

He shook his head.

“I have one you can have … if you’d like it … and I can teach you to tell the time … the big hand and the little hand. Not just the hours, but all of the minutes, too. You can show people how clever you are, knowing all the different times of the day.”

He looked at her, a sudden glimpse of pleasure on his shattered face.

“Would you like that?” she whispered urgently, hearing the smart brother coming to the bottom of the stairs.

A slight nod, shy, not wanting to seem too keen. Yes, yes, he would. As much for her attention than the exact telling of the time, she suspected. He’d not had much, after all.

“I have a watch in my car … just outside … it’s in the glove compartment … you can have that … if you let me go and get it.”

He looked at her, and she could see the excitement on his face.

“It’s nice. It’s a Walt Disney one. A blue strap with Mickey Mouse on the watch face. His hands are the big and small