Lamb by Bernard Maclaverty Read Free Book Online Page A

let it be known in a few grunted replies of ‘I dunno’ or ‘I don’t care’. Michael would then be quiet with him. He felt embarrassed when it was like this. The duty of keeping the conversation going rested entirely on him and when there was a void between them he thought it was his fault. He remembered the silences between his mother and father, warm full silences filled with the tick of the clock, but it was anything but that between Owen and himself. He blamed the age gap between them. He couldn’t help but talk down to him. When there was silence he wanted to manufacture something to say, no matter how silly it was.
    But Owen could take the lead any time he wanted. When he was in the mood he could prattle on and on. He could joke and make up stories and talk drivel, mostly when they were alone or out of earshot of others. In silence he couldn’t be shifted.
    Round the corner from the restaurant they found what looked like a good hotel. Owen went round in the swing doors twice and Michael hissed a warning at him before going up to the reception desk.
    â€˜Could I have a room for the night, please?’
    â€˜I’m sorry, sir, we’re fully booked.’
    They got this answer at three more hotels and Michael was beginning to feel tired and angry when they finally got a place.
    â€˜A double room, sir?’ asked the young receptionist.
    â€˜There’s just the boy and myself,’ said Michael.
    â€˜Would you sign here?’ she said, pushing a black register across the counter to him and picking up her magazine. He panicked when she handed him the pen. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? He should have had something prepared. Owen was taking giant steps from one unit of pattern in the plush carpet to another. He twitched the pen between his fingers. Smith was ludicrous. He stalled for time.
    â€˜What’s the date?’
    â€˜The same as the entry above,’ said the girl without looking up from her magazine. The title page of the story she was reading faced him. ‘An Act of Love’ by Garth Abrahams. He wrote in the register ‘M. Abraham’ and then after a moment’s hesitation ‘and son’. He gave the first Dublin address that came to his mind.
    The girl showed them to their room and opened the door with a key attached to a large perspex tear-drop. Alone inside, they gazed at the room. It was beautifully furnished.
    â€˜All the colours match,’ said Owen incredulously. He jumped on the bed nearest the window.
    â€˜Bagsy this one,’ he said bouncing up and down. Then he stood up and trampolined.
    There were two single beds with gold-coloured coverlets; the carpet and curtains were gold and similarly patterned; there was a desk and two Chippendale-type chairs upholstered in gold. Michael whistled and squatted, looking closely at the chairs. They had a bathroom off the bedroom, which Owen explored.
    â€˜Somebody’s left their soap behind – and their towels,’ he shouted out to Michael. Michael laughed.
    â€˜Idiot,’ he said. ‘C’mere.’
    Owen appeared at the bathroom door. From his pocket Michael produced a packet of cigarettes and offered him one.
    â€˜If you want one now you can have it. But I still think you should stop.’
    Owen took a cigarette and Michael struck the match and held the light for him. He smoked like a veteran, inhaling deeply. He lay down on the bed and watched the smoke drift up to the ceiling.
    â€˜All hotels leave soap and clean towels,’ said Michael.
    â€˜Do they not always be nicked?’
    â€˜Everybody’s not like you, Owen.’
    Michael stood at the window, looking down at the grey roofs in the twilight. There were some remnants of red in the grey clouds. This had been their second full day together but it had all been spent travelling, and in a way did not count. A weariness came over him and all of a sudden he felt very tired. He