Straight Read Free Page B

Pale greenish lines moved across them, some in regular spasms, some uncompromisingly straight.
    I didn’t need to be told, but they explained all the same. The straight lines were the sum of the activity in Greville’s brain. None at all.
    There was no private goodbye. There was no point. I was there, and that was enough. They asked for, and received, my agreement to the disconnection of the machines, and presently the pulsing lines straightened out also, and whatever had been in the quiet body was there no longer.

    It took a long time to get anything done in the morning because it turned out to be Sunday.
    I thought back, having lost count of time. Thursday when I broke my ankle, Friday when the scaffolding fell on Greville, Saturday when Brad drove me to Ipswich. It all seemed a cosmos away: relativity in action.
    There was the possibility, it seemed, of the scaffolding constructors being liable for damages. It was suggested that I should consult a lawyer.
    Plodding through the paperwork, trying to make decisions, I realized that I didn’t know what Greville would want. If he’d left a will somewhere, maybe he had given instructions that I ought to carry out. Maybe no one but I, I thought with a jolt, actually knew he was dead. There had to be people I should notify, and I didn’t know who.
    I asked if I could have the diary the police had found in the rubble, and presently I was given not only the diary but everything else my brother had had with him: keys, watch, handkerchief, signet ring, a small amount of change, shoes, socks, jacket. The rest of his clothes, torn and drenched with blood, had been incinerated, it appeared. I was required to sign for what I was taking, putting a tick against each item.
    Everything had been tipped out of the large brown plastic bag in which they had been stored. The bag said “St. Catherine’s Hospital” in white on the sides. I put the shoes, socks, handkerchief and jacket back into the bag and pulled the strings tight again, then I shoveled the large bunch of keys into my own trouser pocket, along with the watch, the ring and the money, and finally consulted the diary.
    On the front page he had entered his name, his London home telephone number and his office number, but no addresses. It was near the bottom, where there was a space headed “In case of accident please notify” that he had written “Derek Franklin, brother, next of kin.”
    The diary itself was one I had sent him at Christmas: the racing diary put out by the Jockeys’ Association and the Injured Jockeys’ Fund. That he should have chosen to use that particular diary when he must have been given several others I found unexpectedly moving. That he had put my name in it made me wonder what he had really thought of me; whether there was much we might have been to each other, and had missed.
    With regret I put the diary into my other trousers pocket. The next morning, I supposed, I would have to telephone his office with the dire news. I couldn’t forewarn anyone, as I didn’t know the names, let along the phone numbers, of the people who worked for him. I knew only that he had no partners, as he had said several times that the only way he could run his business was by himself. Partners too often came to blows, he said, and he would have none of it.
    When all the signing was completed, I looped the strings of the plastic bag a couple of times round my wrist and took it and myself on the crutches down to the reception area, which was more or less deserted on that Sunday morning. Brad wasn’t there, nor was there any message from him at the desk, so I simply sat down and waited. I had no doubt he would come back in his own good time, glowering as usual, and eventually he did, slouching in through the door with no sign of haste.
    He saw me across the acreage, came to within ten feet, and said, “Shall I fetch the car, then?” and when I nodded, wheeled away and departed. A man of very few words, Brad. I followed