Futuretrack 5 by Robert Westall Read Free Book Online Page B

grand friends. He sent round the crate of whisky, but he never brought the printout back. And then the printout began coming true. And now it can never be… undone.” At that point he would always begin to cry silently, with his mouth gaping, showing rotten teeth, and the tears running down his face in a solid sheet.
    “What did you do for him, Idris?”
    But he would only shake his head violently and hide his face in his hands. I never got another word out of him. Except that Scott-Astbury was evil, evil, and when Idris was dead, and I had Laura, I must never let her work for Scott-Astbury. Who had done for us all… After that, he would take the last enormous drink that sent him into merciful, snoring oblivion.
    Then I would put him to bed and go and tap out questions to Laura about possible Scott-Astburys. That was worst of all, because in the whole of Britain, there was only one Scott-Astbury, orphan and bachelor. And I already knew him, as a total buffoon. All Cambridge knew him. Second-class honours degree in anthropology. Honorary unpaid secretary of the Fenlands Cultural Survey. Scott-Astbury with his solitary published book on the Christmas mummers of England, nothing but snippets of country folklore and badly exposed photos of ancient toothless rustics. Scott-Astbury with his plump potbelly and sweating bald head, dancing amid his morris men in King’s Parade on May morning. If we wanted to get a laugh in the Centre (and God knows they were hard enough to come by) an impersonation of Scott-Astbury always did the trick. Scott-Astbury was the final proof that Idris was going stark staring bonkers.
    He’d been the greatest; most days he still was. But he was like a powerful engine, running itself to death. A great, rusted sword that still hewed savage blows at his many enemies, but one day would splinter. An autumn tomato plant, still putting out new shoots toward the light, but with grey, crumbling mold creeping over its leaves. A time would come…
    And every time I left him, to fetch our meals, some high Tech would stop me, smiling, in the corridors. How was Idris’s health? Had he taught me to run Laura yet?
    I wasn’t just the tea boy; I was Judas.
    I warned Idris, every time I tried to stop him drinking. But he already knew.
    “I won’t let you down, Idris.”
    “I know, boyo, I know. You can have her, when I’m dead.” And the drunken tears would flow again.
    Then came an evening when every window in the Centre was open, and the warm scents of a May night drifted in to torment us all. That was the evening he decided to go fishing. He often talked of going fishing. I’d find him, some evenings, wearing his ancient fishing hat and tying flies for his old salmon rods. He’d been a keen fisherman in his Est boyhood. Sometimes he’d open a window and dangle paper fish down the glass wall of the Centre, to annoy Techs working below.
    But this night he was really stoned, and he really meant it. He was wearing his waders as well. Said he’d ordered a car and was all ready to go. He’d be back by dark. Laura and her family were staying at a cottage just up the burn… weren’t they, Laura?
    “The relevant cottage was demolished in 1995,” said Laura sadly. “My namesake has been dead seven years one month three days. The nearest salmon fishing is 237.25 miles distant. …”
    “Shut up, you stupid cow!” He staggered to his feet, laden with fishing tackle. I tried to stop him, but he was strong. I could only stop him by hurting him. Then he’d sack me, and I was the only friend he had. Oh, he wouldn’t go far. He’d soon be back. I let him go and sat in silence, tapping the gilt desk with a steel ballpoint.
    “Would you like a game of chess?” asked Laura. I could almost imagine sympathy in her voice. But that was the slippery slope Idris had slid down.
    “Not tonight, Laura.” I was too edgy. And she was far too good at chess—usually ended up coaching me so hard she was literally playing