Arcadia by Jim Crace Read Free Book Online

the gloom. He was hungry, damp, and desperate for nicotine. He was embarrassed, too, by the way the elderly woman who had passed him in
the tunnel did so with such nervousness and haste that she had missed the pleasant smile he’d given her. He’d never met a woman of that age before who did not know his name and family,
who did not stop to swap a word or two. He called after her. At first a cheerful greeting. Then abuse. She did not turn. She did not seem to hear. Perhaps she was the sort that hates the young.
    He was impatient now to prove himself a citizen. He walked towards the daylight spilling down the steps from the street in the hope of spotting Rook amongst the faces in the crowd. Much easier
to follow Rook and rob him from behind. But as he turned to mount the stairs he saw Rook descending, in his path, three steps above. His victim was not looking well. He held his chest. The pallor
on his face suggested fever or anxiety. He was breathless, too, from walking fast and from carrying through crowds what looked like burgher laurel branches and a ribboned box, a pyramid, which,
thought Joseph, promised riches of some kind. That was the moment Rook and Joseph met. Rook, recognizing who it was, alarmed and startled, stepped aside to let his ne’er-do-well climb past.
But Joseph did not move. He let Rook step a pace or two into the stench and echo of the tunnel, then placed his left arm round Rook’s thin throat and held him – plus a bunch of laurel
– as tightly as the model held the bar girl’s wrist. ‘I’ve got a knife,’ he said. And to prove that he was honest in his way, he held the flick-knife, last used to
stop tomatoes at their crowns, in his right hand and sprang it open just a little distant from Rook’s nose.
    ‘Drop the box,’ he said.
    Rook let the pastries fall.
    ‘Now empty all your pockets, one by one. The jacket first.’
    Rook pulled out the envelopes with both hands, the rolls of banknotes, all the pitch money he had received that day. He held the money up and out, at arm’s length, as unthreateningly as he
could and as distant from the knife as his shoulders would allow.
    ‘It’s yours,’ he said. But Joseph had no hand free to take possession. One arm was pressed against Rook’s throat. The other held the knife.
    ‘Just drop that too.’
    Rook let the money go. The envelopes and banknotes, more money than Joseph had ever seen before, fell on the pyramid of cakes. Con’s envelope was in the pile.
    ‘The trousers now,’ he said. Rook emptied both pockets and turned their innards out like a schoolboy caught with sweets. ‘Let’s see what’s there.’
    Once more Rook held out his hands at arm’s length. He held a handkerchief, his staff pass, his keys, and just a little change.
    ‘Keep that,’ Joseph said, and liked the sound of it, the style, the generosity. He released Rook from his grip, and stepped away. The laurel branches fell amongst the booty at his
feet. ‘Turn round. Back off.’
    Rook turned to face the robber and his knife. He moved two steps away and waited. The ‘Keep that’ spoken by the youth had told Rook what he had hoped, that the knife was for display
and not for cutting throats or stabbing chests. The ‘Keep that’ meant ‘Live on’. Rook’s fear made way for irritation and for shame that he had let this ill-dressed,
ill-shaped hick make such a fool of him on this of all days, when he’d already – unaided, uncoerced – made himself a public fool. He wrapped his fingers round his keys. He let the
bevelled end of one long key poke out beyond his knuckles. He bit his lower lip – not fear, but anger on the boil. He felt a little sick, a little drunk, a little like a brute. It was not
hard to take one long step forward as Joseph bent to gather up the envelopes and cakes, to fix his eye on that birthmark in cherry red, and strike this young man in the face with knuckles and with
keys.
    Rook meant to hit him on the nose or chin, but