Now I Know by Aidan Chambers Read Free Book Online Page B

especially.
    He laughs, but for some reason I can’t join in.
    One even gets to the point, he says, of hiding the fact that one possesses gold oneself so as to avoid the embarrassment of people asking for some. One even sometimes tries to pretend that not having is the same as having. That the gold is an illusion. Which is a painful kind of betrayal. Of those people, like you, who ask, and of one’s faith. Worst of all, it is a betrayal of God.
    He mutters the last sentence so quietly, so shamefaced, that, though I sit forward to hear, I look away from him at once.
    Silence. Long, long silence.
    Broken at last by Old Chum. He wakes like a canine Lazarus, staggers to his doddering paws, shakes decomposition into the airless air, and hobbles to the door.
    Vic comes to and says with bluster: Sorry, dear boy, not much help to you, I’m afraid.
    It’s okay, I say. And it’s time I went. Things at home . . .
    Of course, yes, Vic says. I’ll see you out.
    At the door he slips a goff club from its bag and putts a pebble from the step. Old Chum lumbers after it like a geriatric caddy and disappears among the overgrown garden bushes.
    Pity you don’t play, Vic says. Easier to talk on the fairway. Fresh air. Exercise. Should try it. Strongly recommended. Give you a lesson, if you like.
    He is a different man from the one I’ve just been talking to. More lively but less likeable. The real Vic is hiding behind a shield of hearty gamesmanship.
    Thanks. Sometime, I say, and retreat towards the gate.
    You’ve only to ask, he calls, waving his club in farewell.
    I wave a non-committal hand and escape through the gate, thankful that a high wall makes it unnecessary for me to look back.
    â€ 
    Nik —Sorry to have been so little use last evening. After you left, a thought occurred that might be helpful. I suggest you see some friends of mine. They are a kind of monk. Don’t let this put you off. They’re quite sane. They’re called The Community of the Holy Innocents. CHI for short. (We do have monks and nuns in the Church of England, though most people don’t seem to know!) I think they might be able to answer some of your questions better than I.
    If you can stay a day or two you might even discover some of the answers for yourself. Seek and ye shall find, as the saying is.
    Whether you do or not, I think you’d have an interesting time. The brothers will put you up free of charge. (Though you may be expected to help with a few small chores.) And without any religious obligation of course. I mean you don’t have to promise to let them convert you in order to qualify for free bed and board!
    Do try. You won’t regret it. I spend a spell there every year and always return refreshed. Write to Brother Kit CHI, at the address overleaf. Say I suggested the idea.
    God bless.
    Philip Ruscombe
    â€ 
    Lacking clues, Tom visited the scene-of-crime.
    No one was there when he arrived. The cross lay in between a battered mobile crane and a pyramid of old tyres. He poked about, finding nothing except a confusion of footprints drying in the mud. Whatever else there might have been would, he supposed, have been carted off for lab treatment.
    An old man, hands in pockets, came wandering up.
    â€˜After something?’ he said, unwelcoming.
    Tom flipped his identity wallet.
    The old man was small and stocky with high, hunched shoulders. He wore a grubby cap and a torn old pullover that might once have been green and was covered with flecks of wood shavings and a powdering of sawdust. His trousers were baggy, tired grey, probably part of an old suit. His face was clean shaven, though spiky bristles grew in the creases of rugged lines. A prominent nose—almost a beak, Tom thought—and pale sharp eyes. He looked about sixty but could have been older. A hawk-like man.
    â€˜Thought your lot had finished here,’ the old man said.
    â€˜You know what all this is about