That Summer He Died by Emlyn Rees Read Free Book Online

gone.
    James found the room, but not the sheets. He undressed and briefly entertained the idea of going to the bathroom for a wash. But immediately a vision of a blocked toilet and a grime-encrusted basin assailed his mind.
    He closed the bedroom door, deciding it was probably wiser to stick with his own germs for the night. He checked out what the room had to offer. An antique writing bureau and a simple wooden chair. A leather-covered armchair and a footstool.
    A bookcase rose from the carpeted floor to the papered ceiling, stacked with regiments of paper-covered spines. All of them Alan’s. All written by him. Ten published books. Every edition of each. Hardback. Paperback. Large print. Braille. Along with a babel of translations, covering the major languages of the globe.
    James trailed his fingertips across them and – there – he felt it, something he’d not felt for a long time: excitement, intent, the desire to do something, to create, to write.
    He thought of the laptop in his bag and of his notebook too. He thought of the last decent stories he’d written, months ago now, at school. He remembered how writing them had made him feel, as if he could be anywhere and anyone, as if he had the power to change. He thought about reading them, or adding to them, or even starting something new.
    But he told himself to wait. He was tired. Tomorrow. He could begin something tomorrow. He could begin his new life then.
    Shivering, he opened his bag. The neck of a new whisky bottle glinted darkly there in the embrace of his clothes. He took it out, a thirst stretching inside him, a tightening sensation spreading right across his scalp.
    No.
    A part of him resisted. He took the bottle out but did not open it. He pictured Alan crouching by the sink, and took the stool and climbed up on to it and put the bottle up high on top of the bookcase. When he climbed down, it was out of reach.
    He pulled a jumper on and took the dusty duvet from the floor and climbed on to the bare mattress. Wrapping the duvet around him, he switched off the light. He gazed out of the window through the gap in the curtains. Stars sparked in the black sky like silver studs on a leather jacket. The moon hung low on the horizon, cold and distant.
    He could get better here.
    He might not drown.
    He might save Alan too.
    Together they might rise up.
    When he closed his eyes, he felt like he was drifting on the seabed. He let imaginary ocean currents wash over him, soothing his aching limbs. He pictured the bookcase drifting alongside him. Ten novels. He conjured the books’ pages fanning before him. He watched the lettering of Alan’s name which adorned their spines flickering like the dials of a fruit machine, rearranging themselves into the letters which made up his own name.
    One day. One day when Alan was sober. One day Alan would teach and James would learn. One day.
    One day soon.

CHAPTER THREE
assignment
    ‘How did he die?’ James asked, staring across the desk at Adam McCullock. The lawyer had avoided telling him over the phone when James had called him after reading the letter that morning.
    ‘I need to know,’ James added.
    McCullock couldn’t have been more than thirty, and now the conversation had reached this point, it showed. He avoided James’s stare and stared through the window, took up the offer of the view across Green Park, adjusted his tie.
    It was the first time during the meeting that he’d showed signs of discomfort. Up until now he’d explained the terms of the will to James with professional ease, discussed the subject as innocuously as he might have mentioned the weather. He’d kept things impersonal, consistently referred to Alan as ‘the deceased’, relayed the facts of the case, outlined the various paperwork that needed to be done.
    ‘Mr McCullock?’ James prompted.
    The lawyer turned back to him. He removed his glasses and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. His hand stayed there, hovering over his mouth as he