Old Filth Read Free Page B

Filth said something very odd. “Better than us, I always thought. Better than me, anyway. And Betty never talked about it. She was very Scotch, you know.”
    â€œPlenty of Scots in Hong Kong,” said Veneering. “You two seemed absolutely welded, melded, into the place. Betty and her Chinese jewellery.”
    â€œOh, she tried,” said Filth sadly. “She was very faithful.”
    â€œAnother?”
    â€œI should be getting home.”
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    It dawned on Old Filth that he would have to ask a favour of Veneering. He had already lost a good point to him by calling round wet to the skin. Veneering was still no fool. He’d spotted the telephone business. It would be difficult to regain his position. Maybe make something out of being the first to break the silence? Maturity. Magnanimity. Water under the bridge. Christmas Day. Hint at a larger spirit?
    He wouldn’t mention locking himself out.
    But how was he to get home? Mrs. Thing’s key was three miles off and she wasn’t coming in again until New Year’s Day. He could hardly stay here—Good God! With Veneering!
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    â€œI’ve thought of coming to see you,” said Veneering. “Several times as a matter of fact, this past year. Getting on, both of us.”
    Old Filth was silent. He himself had not thought of doing anything of the sort, and could not pretend.
    â€œCouldn’t think of a good excuse,” said Veneering. “Bit afraid of the reception. Bloody hot-tempered type, I used to be. We weren’t exactly similar.”
    â€œI’ve forgotten what type I was,” said Filth, again surprising himself. “Not much of anything, I expect.”
    â€œBloody good advocate,” said Veneering.
    â€œYou made a damn good judge,” said Filth, remembering that this was true. “Better than I was.”
    â€œOnly excuse I could think of was a feeble one,” said Veneering. “There’s a key of yours here hanging in my pantry. Front door. Chubb. Your address is on the label. Must have been here for years. Neighbours being neighbourly long ago, I expect. Maybe you have one of mine?”
    â€œNo,” said Filth. “No, I’ve not seen one.”
    â€œCould have let myself in, any time,” said Veneering. “Murdered you in your bed.” There was a flash of the old black mischief. “Must you go? I don’t think there’s going to be a taxi. It would never make the hill. I’ll get that key—unless you want me to hold on to it. For an emergency?” (Another hard look.)
    â€œNo,” said Filth with Court decorum. “No, I’ll take it and see if it works.”
    On Veneering’s porch, wearing Veneering’s (ghastly) over-coat, Filth paused. The snow was easing. He heard himself say, “Boxing Day tomorrow. If you’re on your own, I’ve a ham shank and some decent claret.”
    â€œPleasure,” said Veneering.
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    On his own doorstep Filth thought: Will it turn?
    It did.
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    The house was beautifully warm but he made up the fire. The water would be hot, thank God. Get out of these clothes. Hello? What?
    He thought he heard something in the kitchen. Hello? Yes?
    He went through and found it empty. The snow had stopped at last and the windows were squares of black light. He thought, peering forward into the gloaming: Someone is looking in. But he could see no signs of footprints anywhere, and drew the curtains. He peeped into cupboards to make sure of things for tomorrow. Didn’t want to look a fool. There was a can of shark’s fin soup. Tin of crab-meat. Good rice. Package of parmesan. Avocado. Fine. Fine.
    Behind him in the hall he heard something like a chuckle.
    â€œWho the hell is that? Hello?” (Had the fellow had two keys? Murdered you in your bed .)
    â€œEdward, Edward, stop these fantasies! You are too old. You are no longer seven.” A man’s voice. Good God, I’m