The Sin Eater Read Free

draw aside and see sunshine beyond and his parents still alive and everything ordinary again.
    But it was real rain, of course – a ceaseless grey downpour. When the cars drew up outside Holly Lodge it dripped from the dark gloomy trees surrounding the house and lay in black puddles on the gravel drive.
    Benedict had not known what to expect from this house, but his father had talked about something being in there that he, Benedict, must never meet. Clearly it was something really bad, so it would not be surprising to find Holly Lodge looked like the terrible castles in
Jack the Giant Killer
, although he supposed you did not get many castles in East London and you certainly did not get any giants, or, if you did, people kept very quiet about them.
    When they got to it, he saw it was an ordinary house in an ordinary street. But as they went inside, he had the feeling it had never been a happy house; he thought quite bad things might have happened here, or – what was worse – might be waiting to happen in the future. It was quite a big house, though, which was good because a lot of people were here. Aunt Lyn had arranged for tea or coffee and sherry to be offered, and people wandered around sipping their drinks, eyeing the furniture and the pictures and ornaments. It appeared that hardly anyone had been to the house before; aunts murmured that it was all in better condition than they would have expected; uncles peered dubiously at paintings, and a bookish cousin, with whom Nina tried unsuccessfully to flirt, discovered a collection of works on Irish folklore, and was seated on a window sill reading about creatures with unpronounceable names and sinister traditions, who had apparently haunted Ireland’s west coast.
    There were a few framed photographs on the walls which must be pretty old, because they were all black and white and some were even a kind of dusty brown like the faded bodies of dead flies on a hot window-sill. The older aunts inspected these photos with curiosity.
    â€˜None of Declan Doyle,’ said the one who had fainted in the church. ‘Pity. I’d be interested to see what he looked like.’
    â€˜I think there are some of him upstairs,’ said someone else.
    â€˜Are there? Then I might have a look presently. My grandmother said he was one of the handsomest men she ever met.’
    â€˜Handsome’s all very well,’ said one of the uncles. ‘
I
heard you couldn’t trust him from here to that door.’
    â€˜Declan Doyle was your great-grandfather,’ said Aunt Lyn to Benedict. She was handing round sandwiches and she looked flustered. Benedict wondered if he was supposed to help her.
    He felt a bit lost. Everyone seemed to be huddled in little groups, all talking very seriously. He still did not like the house, but he was curious about it, mostly because of what his father had said that time.
    â€˜
It’s still there . . .
’
    Whatever ‘it’ was, his father had seemed to find it frightening, but his mother had not believed in it.
    Benedict slipped out of the room, wondering if he dare explore. But if it would be his house one day, surely he was allowed to see the rest of it.
    But to begin with, the rooms were not especially interesting. Benedict looked into what must be a dining room and into a big stone-floored kitchen. The nicest room was on the other side of the hall: there was a view over the gardens and bookshelves lining the walls. A big leather-topped desk stood under the window. It could have been his grandfather’s study; people who had big houses like this did have studies. Benedict tried to picture his grandfather sitting in one of the deep armchairs reading, or writing letters at the desk. Old people often wrote letters. They did not text like Benedict and his friends did, or email, because there had not been texting or computers in their day. Benedict thought it must have been pretty fascinating to have lived in that