So Much Blood by Simon Brett Read Free Book Online Page B

of the Lawnmarket. He thought of Anna’s brown body with its bikini streaks of white, and felt good. The cynicism which normally attended his sex life was not there. An exceptional girl. Willy Mariello’s death became less important.
    Rehearsal for an opening in four days’ time, on the other hand, was important. He finished the coffee and set out for Coates Gardens.
    Martin Warburton was sprawled over a camp-bed in the men’s dormitory, reading. Reading So Much Comic . . . , Charles noticed with annoyance. The boy looked up as he entered. His expression was calmer than usual and he was even polite. ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t be reading this. But it was on your bed. I started it and got interested.’
    Given such a compliment, however unintentional, Charles could not really complain. ‘There’s more to Hood than many people think.’
    â€˜I don’t know. Is there? I mean he’s clever, there’s a lot of apparent feeling, but when you get down to it, there’s not much there. No certainty. All those puns. It’s because he doesn’t want to define things exactly. Doesn’t want anything to define him. There’s nothing you can identify with.’
    It was a surprisingly perceptive judgement. ‘You think that’s important, identifying?’
    â€˜It must be. You can only respond to art if you identify with the artist. That’s how I worked. I’d read into everything someone had written, until I felt the person there at the centre. And then I’d identify. I’d become that person and know how to react to their work.’
    â€˜You’re reading English, I assume.’
    â€˜No, History.’
    â€˜Ah.’
    â€˜Just taken my degree.’
    â€˜O.K.?’
    â€˜Yes, got a First.’
    â€˜Congratulations.’
    â€˜Not that it means anything.’ Martin’s mood suddenly gave way to gloom. ‘Nothing much does mean anything. I criticise Hood for not believing in things and there’s me . . .’ He looked up sharply. ‘Have you read my play?’
    â€˜No, I’m sorry. I will get round to it, but—’
    â€˜Wouldn’t bother. It’s rubbish. Nothing in the middle.’
    â€˜I’m sure it’s going to be very interesting.’ Charles tried not to sound patronising, but was still greeted by a despairing snort. Martin rose suddenly. ‘I must go. I’m late. Got to rehearse Mary . The composer’s body not yet decomposed and we rehearse.’
    â€˜You’re punning yourself, like Hood,’ said Charles, trying to lighten the conversation.
    â€˜Oh yes. I’m a punster. A jolly funny punster.’ Martin let out one of his abrupt laughs. ‘A jolly punster and a murderer. I killed him, you know.’
    â€˜No. You were the instrument that killed him.’
    This struck Martin as uproariously funny. ‘An instrument. Do you want to get into a great discussion about Free Will? Am I guilty? Or is the knife guilty perhaps? Where did the will come from? The knife has no will. I have no will.’
    â€˜Martin, calm down. You mustn’t think you killed him.’
    â€˜Why not? The police think I did.’
    â€˜They don’t.’
    â€˜They asked so many questions.’
    â€˜It’s the police’s job to ask questions.’
    â€˜Oh yes, I know.’
    â€˜Why? Have you been in trouble with them before?’
    â€˜Only a motoring offence, sah!’ Martin dropped suddenly into an Irish accent.
    â€˜What was it?’
    â€˜Planting a car bomb, sah!’ He burst into laughter. Charles, feeling foolish for setting up the feed-line so perfectly, joined him. Martin’s laughter went on too long.
    But Charles took advantage of the slight relaxation of tension. ‘Listen, the police can’t think you did it. No one in their right mind would commit murder in front of a large audience.’
    â€˜No,’ said Martin slyly,