The Misremembered Man by Christina McKenna Read Free Book Online Page B

books, greeting the same people all day long. She should have been a hotel manager, or perhaps a hospital matron; the sort of position that would match her practical, problem-solving nature. But what could she have meant by “the answer?” What on earth could it be?
    Lydia didn’t have to puzzle for long. In a couple of minutes Daphne was back, thrusting a copy of the Mid-Ulster Vindicator into her hands and urging her to turn to the second-last page.
    “Lonely Hearts?” asked Lydia incredulously. “Honestly, Daphne!”
    “Why not? I just noticed it the other day. There’s nothing wrong with it. You’re a lonely heart and you want to meet another lonely heart. Put an ad in and see what happens. Can’t do any harm. And you never know who you might meet.”
    Lydia toyed with the idea. Daphne was challenging her to do something audacious for a change. It was an exciting prospect: stepping into the light of this new possibility. But still she hesitated, throwing up a protective arm against the glare.
    “But it’s all so tawdry…not natural somehow.”
    “Nonsense! When you’re living in a backwater like Killoran and you want results quickly, sometimes practical measures are needed. Besides, it’ll be a bit of fun and you just never know who you might meet. Go on, be a devil.”
    There was a knock.
    “Can I have my lunch break now?” Sean looked from Daphne to Lydia. They both chuckled.
    “Yes, of course you can.”
    “Oh God, is that the time? Mother’s hair! I’ve got to dash.” Lydia waved the newspaper. “Can I hold on to this?”
    “That’s the spirit. You know, that humble paper could be the start of a whole new life for you.”
    Lydia smiled. “We shall see, Daphne. We shall see.”

Chapter six
     
    “ C ome here, Eighty-Six.”
    The voice, orotund, heavy with menace and dark design, rolled like thunder above the boy. He dared not look up but stared down glumly at his bare, dirt-caked feet, and shuffled forward. He could hear the rain streeling the mullioned window and the snapping, muttering flames in the grate behind him. The dreaded command tensed his stomach muscles tight against the blow that was bound to follow at some point.
    He made his way to the voice’s source as slowly as possible, over the rug of sun-faded hummingbirds and peacocks.
    He knew the room well, had been dragged into its musty confines too often; knew the position of all its gloomy appointments: the somber, claw-footed sideboard with the silver service that chittered every time the door was shut; the lumpy, velour sofa with the balding armrests; the copper-potted fern on the windowsill.
    But he knew, better than anything else, the bed in the far corner behind the velvet drapes. He had felt every dip and swell of its mattress, could count every ridge in the blue chenille quilt, knew the suffocating stench of the striped bolster that reeked of sweat and night hair, so often had his face been pushed into it.
    “Closer.”
    The voice had raised itself a notch higher, just a notch—and the boy knew, even then in his innocence, that this was all part of the adult’s cruel game. He was the cornered mouse for the cat to paw and play with for a while. He inched his feet onto the second peacock’s head. Still a whole bird and a half to go.
    “I hear you’ve been wicked again, Eighty-Six. And after all that the good Sisters of this school have done for you.”
    The boy began to cry. The peacock dissolved into a wash of blue and began swirling round and round as his weeping became more intense. He coughed out great salty sobs and hoped that this pathetic display might wring some pity, and perhaps a rare reprieve, from the owner of the voice. He cried on and on, trying desperately to communicate his pain, until he had no tears left, until his throat was hoarse. But still nothing happened; the voice remained silent. The room shook with his grief and there was no one listening but him. It was useless, he knew.
    After a time he