The Ecliptic by Benjamin Wood Read Free Book Online

because he said sharply to the boy,
‘This isn’t a conservatoire. If you’ve come here for other people’s input, you might want to try a different crowd.’
    Fullerton turned and pushed up his sleeves. ‘It’s OK. I’m not the sharing type.’ There was still a pale disc of skin on his left wrist where a watch used to be.
‘I’ve got something I need to finish, yes, but I won’t bore you with the details.’
    ‘I saw a guitar in your studio,’ I said. ‘It’s been a while since we had a musician here.’
    ‘Oh, I wouldn’t call myself a musician.’
    ‘What are you then?’
    He backed away from my samples now, eyes slatted. ‘Jacqueline du Pré—she’s a
proper
musician; Glenn Gould, Miles Davis. I can bash out a folk song when
I’m in the mood. But I haven’t felt much like it recently.’
    Pettifer stood up. ‘All sounds rather simple when you put it like that.’
    ‘I’m sure it’s more complicated than he’s making out,’ Quickman said, ‘or he wouldn’t be here, would he?’
    ‘The boy gave a wan little smile. ‘Stop me if I’m sharing too much.’
    ‘Well, I always wished I could play an instrument,’ I said. ‘Somehow I just can’t get the knack for it. A bit like backgammon.’ As a child, I had often sneaked my
mother’s squeezebox from its case and tried to draw a tune from it, but all it ever gave me were wheezes of complaint.
    ‘I taught myself from a picture book,’ the boy replied. ‘It’s not that hard.’
    Quickman folded up the game board and shoved it under his armpit. ‘The last musician we had played the bloody flute all night. It was like having swallows in the loft. I was
this
close to throttling him.’
    ‘Then I should probably keep the noise down.’
    ‘If you know what’s good for you.’
    The boy did not answer. He stooped to examine the samples again. ‘There’s something really peaceful about this wall of yours, Knell. Not that you want my opinion.’
    ‘It’s a far cry from anything right now,’ I said. ‘But thank you.’ I did not ask him to clarify what he meant by ‘peaceful’, as he had said the word
with such a tone of admiration.
    He side-stepped an easel to get to my workbench and started looking through the jumble there, too, picking up a palette knife, examining the crusted blade.
    ‘Oi! Hands to yourself!’ Pettifer said.
    ‘Sorry.’ The boy put down the knife and moved away.
    ‘We don’t mean to be fussy,’ I said, ‘but we’ve got used to things being in a certain order.’ In truth, it would not have mattered if he had upturned the
entire workbench and trampled it. Nothing it held was worth protecting any more, only the kind of effluvium that all painters accrue over the course of a long project: dirty turps in peach cans;
oils hardening in tubes; rags and palettes congealed with colour; brushes standing in jars of grey water like forgotten flowers. Such ordinary things had lost all meaning for me. I kept them there
because I had nowhere else to store them, and they served as a reminder of my limitations. My real work was in those samples on the wall, and I would have cut off the boy’s arm before he
touched a single square. But he did not try.
    He zipped up his cagoule. The trophies of a hard night’s backgammon distended the front pockets. ‘Well, I’m going to hit the sack. Thanks for the game,’ he said. ‘I
thought I would’ve forgotten all my moves by now.’
    ‘I knew it!’ Quickman slumped into his chair. ‘Hustled!’
    ‘Blimey. How good
are
you, exactly?’ Pettifer said.
    ‘I might’ve played a tournament or two, after hours. You know, backroom games.’
    ‘For money?’
    ‘Don’t see the point otherwise.’
    Quickman said, ‘I’ve seen those backroom games. They’d never let a kid like you at the table.’
    ‘Well, they don’t exactly check your age in the places I’m talking about. Not hard to find a cash game in Green Lanes—all the Cypriots round there. You pick things up