Hell Is Always Today Read Free

manner of Henry Moore’s early work had no individual identity. They possessed a curious group menace that made him feel decidedly uneasy.
    “I see you’ve added another figure,” he said. “I thought you’d decided that three was enough?”
    Faulkner shrugged. “When I started five weeks ago I thought one would do and then it started to grow. The damned thing just won’t stop.”
    Morgan moved closer. “It’s magnificent, Bruno. The best thing you’ve ever done.”
    Faulkner shook his head. “I’m not sure. There’s still something missing. A group’s got to have balance…perfect balance. Maybe it needs another figure.”
    “Surely not?”
    “When it’s right, I’ll know. I’ll feel it and it’s not right yet. Still, that can wait. I’d better get dressed.”
    He went into the bedroom and Morgan lit a cigarette and called to him, “What do you think of the latest Rainlover affair?”
    “Don’t tell me he’s chopped another one? How many is that—four?”
    Morgan picked up a newspaper that was lying on a chair by the fire. “Should be in the paper.” He leafed through it quickly and shook his head. “No, this is no good. It’s yesterday evening’s and she wasn’t found till nine o’clock.”
    “Where did it happen?” Faulkner said as he emerged from the bedroom, pulling on a corduroy jacket over a polo neck sweater.
    “Not far from Jubilee Park.” Morgan looked up and frowned. “Aren’t you dressing?”
    “What do you call this?”
    “You know what I mean.”
    “Who for, that bunch of stuffed shirts? Not on your life. When Joanna and I got engaged she agreed to take me exactly as I am and this is me, son.” He picked up a trenchcoat and draped it over his shoulders. “I know one thing, I need a drink before I can face that lot.”
    “There isn’t time,” Morgan said flatly.
    “Rubbish. We have to pass The King’s Arms don’t we? There’s always time.”
    “All right, all right,” Morgan said. “I surrender, but just one. Remember that.”
    Faulkner grinned, looking suddenly young and amiable and quite different. “Scouts’ honour. Now let’s get moving.”
    He switched off the light and they went out.
     
    When Faulkner and Morgan entered the saloon bar of The King’s Arms it was deserted except for the landlord, Harry Meadows, a genial bearded man in his mid-fifties, who leaned on the bar reading a newspaper. He glanced up, then folded the newspaper and put it down.
    “’Evening, Mr. Faulkner…Mr. Morgan.”
    “’Evening, Harry,” Faulkner said. “Two double brandies.”
    Morgan cut in quickly. “Better make mine a single, Harry. I’m driving.”
    Faulkner took out a cigarette and lit it as Meadows gave two glasses a wipe and filled them. “Quiet tonight.”
    “It’s early yet,” Morgan said.
    Meadows pushed the drinks across. “I won’t see many tonight, you mark my words.” He turned the newspaper towards them so that they could read the headline Rainlover strikes again . “Not with this bastard still on the loose. Every time it rains he’s at it. I’d like to know what the bloody police are supposed to be doing.”
    Faulkner swallowed some of his brandy and looked down at the newspaper. “The Rainlover—I wonder which bright boy dreamed that one up.”
    “I bet his editor gave him a fifty-pound bonus on the spot.”
    “He’s probably creeping out at night every time it rains and adding to the score personally, just to keep the story going.” Faulkner chuckled and emptied his glass.
    Meadows shook his head. “It gives me the shakes, I can tell you. I know one thing…you won’t find many women on the streets tonight.”
    Behind them the door swung open unexpectedly and a young woman came in. She was perhaps nineteen or twenty and well made with the sort of arrogant boldness about the features that many men like, but which soon turns to coarseness. She wore a black plastic mac, a red mini-skirt and knee-length leather boots. She looked