Hairy London Read Free Page B

are banished from the chateau in Lyon. You are banished, forever, do you hear!”
    His father woke up, glanced across the parlour, then waved with one hand and said, “Don’t come back, there’s a good lad. We prefer not to see you again, don’t you know.”
    His mother made the final pronouncement. “You have one night to collect your personal belongings, which I shall be checking before you leave. You are a common thief, Velvene, though God told you thou shalt not steal. You are a wastrel and a fool. I hope never to see you again. Now get out of here and go to your room!”
    Velvene did not simply go to his room: he ran.
    Words reverberated around his brain... banished... forever... entire Scottish estate. He collapsed into a chair as full realisation hit. How would he survive? Where would he go? Suddenly he felt rage inside him. He hated his parents. He hoped they would die soon – they were old enough, they should be pushing up the daisies in a decade or so, perhaps he should help them along–
    No! That way was madness. And there was quite enough madness in his family. But he had one night to plan his exit; he could take a few things yet. Nothing obvious – none of the gold icons for instance, though they were worth a fortune and could sustain a lifetime of gallivanting – but enough to keep him alive for a few years. And of course he could stay in rooms at the Suicide Club.
    Midnight did not lie too far away. He undressed and prepared for bed, deciding that he would pack in the morning, after a good breakfast and a decent shave... and a bath, of course.
    Sleep came, and then the dreams.
    He twisted in his bed, the sheets winding themselves around his body. Climbing up the steps of Orchardtide Manor: running in terror through valleys of fur: playing shove-badminton with his mother in the pear garden: shaving himself until his skin was as pink as a strawberry blancmange: looping the loop in an implausible Archimedean floating system: showing Lily-Bette Spoonworthy his chest hairs: unbuttoning his waistcoat, buttoning it again, unbuttoning, buttoning, unbutton, button, unbutton, Jesus there was blood on his fingers–
    “Zigizmund!”
    He jumped into the air as the nightmare halted and he awoke. Sweat poured from his body, all the sheets damp, an odour of smoke in the air from a cigarist that had gone out... and it was already five in the morning.
    He dozed... woke... dozed... and the clock struck seven.
    Somebody hammered on his door. “Velvene! You have one hour!”
    His mother. Wide awake, he panicked, throwing clothes, shoes, oddments, papers into a leather rucksack that he had bought in Catmandu.
    He dressed in hiking gear. No time for breakfast. No time for a bath, even! He had to shave, though.
    But in his bathroom stood a figure.
    It did not move. It seemed to be made of clay. Lumpy legs, lumpy arms, barrel body and a lump of a head. No features, nor even any way to determine if it was a man or a woman. What on earth was it?
    No time to investigate. He prepared his soap, brush and razor, then shaved, dropping the implements into a bag once he had finished. He glanced into the mirror: pale face, definitely going a bit thin on top; was he losing his looks? He was almost forty.
    No time to dawdle. He turned, to face the figure. It commanded him, stared without face, without expression, without eyes, as if demanding an explanation, forcing questions and answers. He grabbed it, found that it was not too heavy to carry, and placed it beside his rucksack.
    Now for the escape.
    He opened the door and listened. Voices and clinking cutlery downstairs, the sounds of his parents having breakfast. Both his brothers away, one in Ely Cathedral, one in Lincoln Cathedral. No servants upstairs, two maids in the kitchen. Effectively, he stood alone.
    He crept along the corridor to the skylight, grabbing the stepladder, setting it up, then opening the skylight and poking his head through, to see, lying in its frost-limned