Osama by Chris Ryan Read Free Book Online

and ordinary onlookers. Flashing sirens. Curious locals.
    A thought suddenly struck Mrs Jones. ‘You’re not from . . . ?’
    ‘Saudi Arabia,’ said Mr Ashe gently.
    Bethan nodded, pretending this meant something to her, but in truth one of these countries was the same as another to her. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Saudi Arabia, yes. Of course, I’m not saying all of you are . . . But I don’t care what anybody says, Mr Ashe, the world’s a better place without him.’
    ‘Safer,’ Mr Ashe agreed. ‘I wouldn’t wish to bring up children in a world where—’
    ‘I was never blessed, Mr Ashe.’ She adopted a look of mild tragedy as she glanced at Gethin’s photograph again.
    A silence, broken by Mr Ashe clearing his throat politely. Bethan blinked. ‘Saying goodbye?’ she asked, as it dawned on her what he had said several minutes ago. ‘But you’ve only been here for two days, Mr Ashe. You know how I enjoy your company.’ And it was true.
    Mr Ashe gave her a regretful little look. ‘My time is not my own,’ he said. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a thick wad of notes, bound with a red elastic band. ‘My rent,’ he said, handing it over, ‘for the next six months. Would you like me to put it in the sideboard for you?’
    ‘Thank you, Mr Ashe,’ Bethan replied. ‘Really, I don’t know what I’d do . . .’ But she failed to finish what she was saying, silenced by a dismissive wave of his hand as he stood up again – Dandelion jumped to the floor – and walked to the far side of the room, where there stood a large mahogany cabinet. He opened a drawer, slipped the notes inside, and walked back over to the sofa, where Bethan was lifting her Ribena to her lips with hands that trembled gently with old age.
    ‘Is there anything I can do for you before I leave, Mrs Jones? Any little jobs around the house? I can’t be sure quite when I’ll return . . .’
    ‘Oh, no, Mr Ashe. Really, you’ve done quite enough . . . You might pop some new batteries in the control for my stairlift . . . I wouldn’t want them to run out while you’re away. Do you know where they are?’
    Mr Ashe smiled and bowed his head before striding out of the room. Such a pleasant man. So helpful. Bethan didn’t really hold with foreigners. Couldn’t trust them, her Gethin used to say, and he should know after all the trouble they’d given him during the war. But Mr Ashe wasn’t like most of them. She had taken to him the moment they met. He was so much nicer than any of her previous lodgers. More like a helpful neighbour for whom nothing was too much trouble. So much so that Bethan actively looked forward to him staying. She felt somehow more secure with a gentleman like that in the house. But he was seldom here, even though he paid for his rent many months in advance, and that saddened her. She cast a slightly guilty look up at Gethin at this thought – how he would have disapproved . . .
    ‘All done, Mrs Jones.’ Mr Ashe reappeared by the side of the sofa, from which he picked a single one of Dandelion’s pale hairs. ‘Would you like me to turn the volume up again for you?’
    ‘Thank you, Mr Ashe,’ Bethan said. ‘My hearing isn’t what it used to be . . .’
    And as the volume returned and Mr Ashe took his leave, she took another sip of Ribena, closed her exhausted eyes and allowed the sound of the TV to wash over her as Dandelion snuggled up around her feet once again.
     
    Mr Ashe closed the door of the front room softly behind him. The hallway smelled as neglected as it looked: musty and damp. There were cobwebs thickening over the yellowed plaster cornices, and by the heavy oak door a pile of wellington boots and an antique stand containing old walking sticks. Mr Ashe was quite sure they had not been taken outside for years. On the opposite side of the hallway was a door leading into a dining room that was never used. The flagstones on the hallway floor sucked the warmth from his feet as he