The Five Gates of Hell by Rupert Thomson Read Free Book Online

the key turn in the lock. He’d been waiting so long, his heart jumped at the sound. Then he froze. She wasn’t alone. He could hear a man’s voice. Pop’s.
    He opened his door and stood in the hall.
    â€˜You could at least offer me a cup of coffee,’ he heard Pop saying. ‘I’ve been waiting two hours.’
    â€˜Nobody asked you to wait, did they?’ She was trying to close the door on him, but he was stronger.
    â€˜Muriel.’ Pop was pleading now. ‘One cup of coffee.’
    She weakened. ‘All right. One cup of coffee and that’s it.’
    Pop stepped into the light. He’d greased his hair back and he was wearing a clean shirt, but it was no good.
    â€˜One cup,’ he said, and winked at Jed. He was like one of those salesmen who stick their feet in the door.
    Don’t you see? Jed wanted to shout. It’s no good.
    â€˜Your mother and I,’ Pop said, ‘we’re just going to have a little talk.’ That wink again. A smirk.
    IT’S NO GOOD.
    When Pop moved towards the kitchen, he trailed this smell behind him, ashes or rust, old worn-down things, things you normally throw out. Jed was sure his mother could smell it too. Though she had different names for it, of course. She called it weakness, failure, regret.
    He went and sat in his room while they had their ‘little talk’. He heard the shouting, he heard a plate break. The smell was everywhere, you wanted to hold your nose. No amount of violence or repentance could freshen the air.
    And he realised, with a slight shock, that Pop didn’t count any more. Pop was just another Adrian. A noise, a pair of feet, an inadequacy. He felt sorry for Pop, but in a distant way, as you might feel sorry for someone on TV. He wanted Pop out of the house, even more than his mother did.
    An hour later the kitchen door opened. Jed opened his own door a crack, and listened.
    â€˜A second chance, that’s all I’m asking.’
    â€˜What do you think this is, some stupid game?’
    The house shook as the front door banged against the inside wall. Through his window Jed saw Pop stamping off up Mackerel Street, clouding the air with empty threats.
    He found his mother standing in the kitchen. Her face had the polished look of a trophy. It was a game, whatever she said, and it looked as if she’d won again. He returned to his room and, leaving the door ajar, turned the tape recorder on. Top volume. And waited.
    The tape had only reached the creaking stage when she came and stood in the doorway. ‘What’s this you’re playing?’ she asked, light, yet tense, as if she had already guessed.
    Jed watched the transparent wheels spin round, one eager, empty, one slow and burdened with knowledge. He watched the slim brown tape unwind, unwind.
    When the whimpering began, he looked up into his mother’s face. He saw the light shrink in her eyes then, without seeming to move, she unleashed herself, the air a blur of red nails and flailing hands, she was hissing and muttering, she seemed to have eight arms, like that statue that he’d seen in Mr Garbett’s store, which Mr Garbett said had come from India. She caught him twice with open-handed blows that made his head buzz like a jam jar of flies, and one of her nails tore the skin at the corner of his mouth, as if he ought to be smiling. He didn’t try to back away, he just wrapped his head in his hands and when the beating stopped he slowly took his hands away and peered up at her. She was panting and her arms were fastened against her sides and herhair had come unpinned and hung in tangled strands across her eyes. She looked more natural now than ever before. She looked like a witch. He wanted her to hold him now, he wanted to burn with her, but he knew it wouldn’t happen. And so it was like TV again. Everything was like TV.
    â€˜How could you do that?’ she was saying in a strange, flat voice. ‘How