HIS OTHER SON Read Free Page A

smoked Havana cigar,
lying in a small nest of grey ash, and a magazine folded open on an article
about diamond mining in the Transvaal. Evidence that his
father had recently occupied this seat.
                He
shifted uncomfortably then rested his head against the back of the chair and
closed his eyes. The library was far enough away from the ballroom to render
the sounds of the party almost inaudible. If he concentrated he could just pick
out the melody of the tune the band had moved into. Evergreen . He sipped his whisky, put the glass down on the table next to the ashtray, and
let himself drift for a while.
                It
had been a long tiring day. At seven o’clock that morning he’d been out on the
ocean with a group of Minnesota businessmen, schooling them in the art of game
fishing. They’d been slow learners, and poor sailors. Three of them had thrown
up over the side before they’d even left the harbour. He’d brought them back
just after five in the afternoon, collected his money from the leader of the
group, a small skinny man with a receding hairline and a more deeply receding
chin. His name was Herb Whitehead ; the rest of the
group called him Sir, so Ray guessed he was their boss. Whitehead had wanted to book him for the following day and had been very put out when
Stock told him no. It seemed that Herb Whitehead wasn’t used to people saying no to him. He offered Stock double the fee, but
the refusal was the same and they’d parted company on less than amicable terms.
    He went back to the room he
rented above Eddie Meeson’s chandlery and showered,
then went down to the Red Snapper bar and got quickly drunk on a lethal mixture
of bourbon and tequila. He remembered the blonde girl’s approach but remembered
nothing more until the hotel room and the hour of passionate, but slightly
desperate, sex that followed.
                A long tiring day. He hoped the night wouldn’t be so
demanding but that, he knew, was just wishful thinking.

 
 
    “God, you look a mess.”
                He
opened his eyes to see his older sister, Caroline, standing over him. He hadn’t
heard her enter the room; he must have been dozing. He rubbed his eyes with the
heels of his hands and got to his feet. “Hello, Caro ,”
he said yawning.
                She
glared at him. “I thought you could have at least made an effort to look
somewhere near human.”
                “You
know your trouble, Caro , you’re a snob. Always judging people by the cut of their clothes and their Gucci
shoes. I always felt you only married Martin Devereaux because he wore Armani suits and had his toupee trimmed at Vidal Sassoon’s.”
                She
aimed a slap at his face but he caught her wrist mid-flight and lowered her arm
gently. “I think, in the circumstances, we should at least try to be
civil to each other, what do you say?”
                She
wrenched her arm away and turned her back on him. “Christ, you’re impossible. I
knew it was a mistake to invite you back here.”
                “Look
why don’t you go out and come back in, and we can try
again. I don’t want a war with you Caro . It was the
old man I fell out with, not you.”
                “You
turned your back on the family when you walked out of here. Not only father,
but mother and me too. Do you really expect to be welcomed back here with a
laugh and a song?”
                He
picked up his drink and drained the remainder. “No, but I didn’t expect a
re-enactment of world war two either. Why don’t you fix yourself a drink, sit
down and we can talk this thing through.”
                For a
moment more she stood there with her back to him, rigid, stiff and straight,
then her shoulders sagged and began to shake and he realized she was crying. He
reached out and took her arms, turning her to face him, then pulled her