Portobello by Ruth Rendell Read Free Book Online Page B

and
Uncle Gib often did think of it – there was no commandment
Lance did not regularly flout, except the one about not making a
graven image. Nor, as far as Uncle Gib knew, had he yet killed
anybody.
    Lance must be well out of the place before six when the prayer
meeting was due to start. Earlier in the day he had announced his
intention of leaving the house at 'around six' and 'going to see a
bloke about a job'. Uncle Gib didn't believe in the job or in any
job connected with Lance but he felt his usual satirical rejoinder
might be out of place. Lance might change his mind and stay at
home. At twenty to six he had his eye on the minute hand of
Auntie Ivy's family grandfather clock and was already beginning a
nervous pacing. Lance had been up in his bedroom, sitting on the
bed thinking about the money in no very systematic way and coming
to the conclusion that the sum might be ninety pounds or a hundred
and fifty-five and he was just going to have to guess. Gradually,
his thoughts turned, as they often did, to Gemma, the girl whose
eye he had blacked and tooth he had knocked out. He missed her
and not just her TV set and her microwave. The walk to Chepstow
Villas would take him very near her flat in Talbot Road. There was
a chance she might come out on to her balcony to hang out her
washing. Or she might be parking the baby buggy or, since it was
warm and sunny, just sitting in one of the chairs opposite the one
he used to sit in. After a moment or two, brooding on what he had
lost, he went to the top of the stairs and traipsed slowly down
them.
    From there, just inside the open front-room door, he could see
Uncle Gib pacing up and down, a cigarette hanging from his
lower lip. This cheered him up. Even if he stopped for as much
as five minutes under Gemma's windows, it still wouldn't take
him more than twenty minutes to get to Chepstow Villas. If he
was late the guy would just have to wait. Better to get his own
back on Uncle Gib for all those starvation-level meals and the
rat in the toilet and his poxy bedroom and the smoke. He went
back upstairs and watched the minute hand on the imitation
Rolex he had stolen from a man he mugged for his mobile, moving
sluggishly towards six o'clock.
    The grandfather clock chimed and when the sixth stroke died
away Uncle Gib called out, 'Come on, you. Time you was on your
way.'
    Lance winced at that 'you.' This particular usage was the way
Gemma had sometimes addressed him but with a loving or sexy
note in her voice: 'Come on, you' when she was in bed waiting for
him, for instance. Uncle Gib just sounded nasty. 'I'm on my way,'
Lance called out. 'No need to lose your cool.' As he spoke, the
letter box on the front door clattered. There was no bell.
    A deep voice said, 'God bless you, Brother Gilbert,' and heavy
footsteps sounded, making their way into the front room.
    Lance started laughing. He couldn't help himself. Very slowly
he got up off the bed, crossed the landing and paused at the top
of the stairs. Once more, the letter box clattered. Lance descended
two stairs as Uncle Gib came out of the front room to answer the
door and, looking up, shook his fist at him. Another Child of
Zebulun was admitted, this time a very old one with a white beard.
Lance would have liked to say, 'Hi, Santa, how're you doin'?' to
him but didn't dare. He might come back to find the front door
bolted on the inside.
    His mood more cocky than it had been for days, he walked quite
jauntily along Raddington Road and into the Portobello. The block
of the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea social housing
where Gemma lived was a little way south of here. Lance walked
under the Westway and the train bridge, down Westbourne Park
Road and Powis Mews. In Talbot Road he skirted the yellowpainted
concrete wall, thickly defaced with red and blue graffiti,
and, superstitiously, stopped himself looking up until he was directly
under her balcony. If he didn't look she might be there. He closed
his eyes, then opened