Finding Davey by Jonathan Gash Read Free Book Online

Outcomes
expected, a million USA dollars a month in Sierra Leone. The sums grew. Diamond mining rights, tens of millions for mercenary wars. Companies were floated on Canadian stock exchanges, mining concessions wrested from African governments.
    Bray watched the credits roll after a mocked-up trial of a company administrator. They had failed in Papua New Guinea, yet somehow fortunes had changed hands.
    He switched off and tidied his scribbles, using an indexed notebook. The cover of another bore a single black question mark.
    The last task was to enter Mercenary Action in hisQuery notebook, and painstakingly delete it. He had considered that option. He carried the notebooks back to the shed, placed them in their new plastic case – purple, the first colour Davey had learned to name. Then he slid the case into the slot he had constructed over the shed door. He had built it the third day of horror.
    He went to bed, to the ritual of reading for an hour then pretending to sleep the night through.

    As Monday afternoon drew to a close Bray made sure his work was well finished by five o’clock. He told Harry Diggins, the oldest labourer, he would stay and close up. Only when he was sure everyone had called goodnights and gone did he walk to the end of the workshop. He switched on the display lights over his prize possession.
    Bray truly admired the Garvan Craftsman, sometimes called the Garvan Carver. Bray actually owned this piece personally, and was certain it was created by that wonderful ancient expert. It was his personal property, bought as a relic quarter of a century previously, and painstakingly restored in the lantern hours. Now, it was of stunning excellence. It stood encased in the workshop for all to admire.
    Philadelphia, in the years before their Independence, had a handful of genius furniture makers. Hercules Courtenay was one, Nicholas Bernard another. Closest to Bray’s heart was the Garvan Man, called after one Mabel Brady Garvan at Yale who had a furniture collection. The unknown Craftsman from those long-ago times had made furniture of genius level. Nobody carved leaves or vines on card tables, on desks, like the Garvan Carver.
    Bray had given almost a year’s salary for the derelict turret-topped card table. He had restored it with love. Foryears it had stood in a security case on the workshop floor, as example and tribute. Mr Winsarls often showed visitors the special piece, laughingly refusing offers. “It’s not ours,” he told people. “It’s on loan.”
    Mr Winsarls had pointed out to Bray that he could make a giddy sum by selling it at Sotheby’s, who specialised in 1759 Philadelphia furniture. Bray always smiled and shook his head.
    Now, though, he stood appraising it. It glowed, positively glowed, the lovely turrets, the wonderful carvings of vines, the slender feet each clasping a ball. He shook himself for feeling fanciful emotions, and spoke aloud.
    He said softly, “Time to earn your keep, Craftsman. All right with you?”
    He locked up, set the usual alarms, and caught the train. On the way, he bought the
Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook
. The manuscript woman, looking tired tonight, glimpsed it and raised her eyebrows, almost as if to say something. He moved elsewhere, and read it in silence all the way home.

Chapter Nine
    The boy could see strange trees, and people playing tennis in a park.
    Doctor was nice. The nurses said so. One nurse told him the sea was over there. The sun never stopped shining. The nurse was nice.
    This time he asked Doctor a question. Doctor was pleased that he asked a question, straight out without thinking for the words.
    “Can I go and see the sea?”
    “You sure can, Clint! We’ve got your old surfboard here! Sure!”
    The nurse brightly put in, “And Clint likes football, Doctor!”
    Doctor laughed. “Clint’s going to be a hotshot quarter back!”
    “He changes TV channels on his own now.”
    “Great!” Doctor exclaimed. “Now, Clint, no more