Helga's Web by Jon Cleary Read Free Book Online Page A

in her fluttery, high voice,
    but Savanna knew that what she dictated, Gibson did without argument. The vulgar old bastard had more enemies than the Minister for Defence, treated everyone he met as someone to be exploited; but Glenda had defeated him years ago, he had succumbed to something that he recognized in no one else: love. She sat there on the edge of her chair, corsetted upright at great expense, her pale pink face bright with that impregnable blankness that Savanna found in women of no imagination. He looked across at Josie: she was even worse, but at least she didn’t try to run his life. He felt a sudden warmth of feeling for her. Not love: he could never remember feeling that for her. And, hard on the heels of the warmth of affection for Josie, was the cold stab of conscience that he didn’t feel, had never felt, anything more for her. He had never loved any woman but his first wife, Silver, and she had left him twenty-two years ago and was now the wife of another man. He looked back at Gibson, wondering what the bastards of the world did to merit happiness in their marriages.
    “You should go out sometime,” he said, feeling malicious in his knowledge of what went on on at least one of Gibson’s trawlers. “J ust to keep up with things.”
    “He’s too old,” Glenda repeated, hurting her husband as only a woman with too much love can; Gibson shook his head, trying to struggle out of the grave she was digging for him. “Anyhow, we’re going abroad again soon. We’re going to Rome again,” she said, and turned her face to Father Wrigley as if looking for a benediction.
    “Wonderful!” exclaimed Wrigley, chalking up indulgences for himself. He had been pressing this trip on Mrs. Gibson for months, hoping that she might suggest taking him with them as their personal chaplain; he had read, with an envy that had required an Act of Contrition, of those priests fortunate enough to be chaplain to the aristocrats of Europe. It would be difficult to see as an aristocrat the sinful old repro-
    bate who would be paying for the trip, but perhaps a miracle would be worth praying for.
    “Dunno why we’re going there again,” Gibson grumbled. “Last time we were there I got sick as a dog. Had some seafood stuff in a restaurant down the arse-end of the Colosseum.”
    The arse-end of the Colosseum: so much for the antiquities of Europe with Grafter Gibson. Savanna smiled, holding out his glass to Wrigley for a refill; the priest leapt to it as if he were an altar boy. “Stick to steak, Les, wherever you go. Steak and beer, you can’t go wrong.”
    “He’s poking fun at you, Les,” said Glenda. “Trying to make out you’re nothing but an Australian.”
    But Gibson wasn’t offended. He winked at Savanna, realizing he had an ally against the priest. “I don’t find that such an insult. I been called a bloody lot worse. I bet Father Wrigley here’s called me a thing or two.”
    “I pray for you all the time,” said the priest, pouring himself another drink. “Mrs. Gibson asked me to.”
    “Father is going with us,” said Glenda, her smile expanding as she saw the priest’s face swell with delight. “It’s time we told you, Father. Les agreed to it this morning.”
    “Our own bloody personal chaplain,” Gibson growled. “How’s that for buying your way into heaven?”
    Savanna had felt Josie tense beside him and when he looked at her he could see the slight quivering round her mouth, as if she were about to burst into tears. You poor old cow, he thought. I can’t afford to take you to Surfer’s Paradise for even a week, and here’s this smarmy bastard being shouted a three months’ trip to Europe. Grafter doesn’t deserve to keep his money if he’s going to waste it like that.
    He stared across the room at the photographs on the bookshelves, one of Josie taken fifteen years ago when she had had no weight problem and when she had still believed that happiness was one of nature’s gifts and