Burning Down George Orwell's House by Andrew Ervin Read Free Book Online

Ray’s head. He already detested this man in a way he had never detested anyone before, except for maybe that fat piece of shit Walter Pentode. As with Pentode, however, he recognized the need to keep relations cordial, which was to say phony. He climbed into the passenger seat and the truck lunged into gear. “Truck’s not sounding so hot,” he said.
    â€œAnd what do you know about it, Chappie? I suppose you include auto mechanic among your infinite talents?”
    â€œI don’t know a thing about cars, but I do know that your truck sounds like it’s on the brink of death.”
    â€œI don’t see how it’s any concern of yours.”
    â€œOnly until you get me to Barnhill.”
    â€œOnly until you get me to Barnhill. I’ll get you to your precious Barnhill, Chappie, don’t you worry. I want you as far away as possible.”
    Driving on the wrong side of the road didn’t bother Ray this time because there was only one lane. If someone came from the other direction he would have to pull to the shoulder to let Pitcairn pass. It was tough to see much of the scenery through the mist. In his exhaustion, it felt like driving through the world’s longest car wash. The road followed the coastline north, over stony hills and glens, through small thickets ofdense forest and across bog lands and rickety bridges. The road doglegged through the Ardlussa estate, a holdover from a previous and wealthier era. The manor house looked like the set of an old, black-and-white murder mystery. Now it was advertised online as a bed-and-breakfast.
    The truck rocked and creaked like a wooden ship on stormy seas. Pitcairn yanked the wheel back and forth in what appeared to be a deliberate effort to smash into every pothole in the road. He grunted each time he hit one. They crossed vast stretches of desolate moorland and cut through groves of woodland straight out of the grimmest fairy tales. Ray’s stomach bounced inside his abdomen. Acid rose in his chest. The unsecured boxes knocked against each other on the back of the truck—and after twenty minutes, the road ended. A painted sign indicated that cars weren’t permitted any farther, but Pitcairn kept going.
    â€œIs this legal?”
    â€œThat’s just a warning for the bloody tourists. I’m sick and tired of towing out those ungrateful arseholes.”
    They continued on what appeared to be a rutted goat track with a median of waist-high weeds that followed on a ridge above the water. Across the Sound of Jura, not quite visible through the rain, the Scottish mainland beckoned with all the conveniences Ray had left behind. His lower back throbbed, his stomach waged war with his nervous system, the pipes—the fucking pipes—screeched at him from the speakers like a state-fair show pig headed to the slaughter, but the littlescenery the mist didn’t hide was dreamlike. The motion of the truck allowed his hangover to gain momentum in the pit of his roiling belly.
    â€œHow much farther is it?”
    â€œAlmost there now, Chappie, and I’ll be done with you and you’ll see what you got your sorry self into. I bet Fuller twenty quid you’ll come crawling back to the hotel before the full moon.”
    â€œThe smart money’s on Fuller,” Ray said.
    Pitcairn hit a hole as wide around as his tires. “Fuck! I know for a fact that some of these are so deep they’ll take you all the way down to Australia.”
    â€œStop the car,” Ray said. He hoped, one last time, to lighten the mood and improve relations before they got any worse. Maybe he could establish some kind of rapport with Pitcairn. It would be a mistake to make enemies on an island this small, particularly dangerous ones. “I could go for some grilled shrimp on the barbie.”
    â€œI bet you could, Chappie. I don’t go for all that foreign shite myself. We had some of that Chinese ping-pang ching-chong shite