HIS OTHER SON Read Free

front
door.
                “I
wouldn’t like to be in his shoes tonight when they get home,” Phil Ryker said under his breath.
                The
noise of the party was spilling out of the ballroom into the hall. There was a
small band playing a competent but soulless rendering of Just the Way You
Are , and someone was crooning a poor imitation of Michael Bublé . A
woman was laughing hysterically and a man’s voice boomed, “Hey, Joe, you old
son of a …where have you been hiding yourself?”
                Edwards
studied Ray for a moment, and then said, “If you’ll accompany me to the
library, sir, I’ll tell Miss Caroline you’ve arrived.”
                “Thanks,
Bert,” Ray said. He’d called Edwards, Bert for as long as he could remember
because it was the only thing that could ruffle the prissy little Englishman’s
feathers. Edwards’s cheeks reddened and Ray knew he’d hit his mark. Accompany
me to the library, my ass , he thought, and wondered if the rest of the
household were going to treat him in the same way. The
wayward son, the black sheep.
    The last time he’d visited
the house it had ended in acrimony. Perhaps now he’d been relegated to persona
non-gratis. To be received in the library was a privilege reserved for trades
people and lesser executives of the Yellow Beach Corporation. Oh well, Ray boy,
just you remember that if Caroline and the rest of them want to play these
kinds of games, then they’re only following your lead and playing to your
rules.
                “Catch
you later, Ray,” Phil Ryker said, and sauntered back
to join Carl Anders at the door.
                “If
you’d be so kind, sir,” Edwards said, making quick little beckoning motions
with his hand. He led the way across the marble floored hallway.
                “I
can find my own way to the library, Bert. Don’t trouble yourself.”
                “It’s
no trouble, sir, I assure you,” Edwards said, his voice heavy with irony.
                “No,
I’m sure it’s not,” Ray said, and started to follow.
                The
main staircase was shaped like a horseshoe with the stairs coming down on
either side of the hall. At the top was a landing with a long corridor leading
from it. As he passed under it Ray glanced up.
                “This
isn’t a fancy dress party, is it?” he said.
                “I’m
not sure what you mean, sir.”
                Stock
shook his head but walked back to the centre of the hall where he could get a
clear view of the landing. The landing was brightly lit and empty, yet just
before he passed under it Ray was sure there had been a figure standing there.
A figure wearing a robe similar to a monk, complete with cowl to cover the
head. He stood for a full minute staring up at the landing but no one appeared.
He shook his head and followed Edwards through to the library.
                The
room was just as he remembered it. A large dark room, the air
pungent with the smell of stale cigar smoke and musty old books. There
was an unlit fire made up in the grate and over in the corner a small bar, a
touch totally out of character with the room. Books covered two walls while a
third was given over to a six-foot by three-foot oil painted portrait of Ray
Stock’s father, Randolph Stock.
                Stock
left Edwards by the door and walked across to the portrait, standing before it,
his hands thrust deeply into the pockets of his Levis in a subconscious gesture
of defiance. “Hello, you callous old bastard,” he said quietly. He heard a
click behind him and turned to see that Edwards had gone and had shut the door.
                Ray
poured himself two fingers of Chivas Regal at the bar
and sat down in one of the two club chairs that flanked the fireplace. On a
side table next to the chair was an ashtray with a half