Mothers boys, p.23
Mother's Boys,
p.23
Robert sighed, hesitated another moment then opened his eyes and turned his body towards the door.
‘Ben . . .’
There was a second when the two faced one another in complete immobility, Robert’s swiftly widening eyes against Ben’s staring gaze and gaping mouth. High, high above Ben’s head the axe head hovered at the apex of its swing. Robert made a little sound, a soft Oh, part shock, part hurt and, in its fading breath, part resignation. And then the axe, with all its weight, and all Ben’s strength behind it, was swinging down.
As the sharp corner of the blade cut deep into Robert’s temple, sending his blood up in a slashing spray, his head was rising up off the pillow, as if he was eager to meet his end. His head thumped back onto the pillow while his whole body shuddered. He cried out, one sharp, rasping cry. His back arched, his eyes, popping, feet drumming a tattoo on the counterpane. The axe rose up again, swung down again, this time its blade biting into Robert’s cheek as his bloody head turned on the scarlet pillow. Ben, feeling the blood splash again on his hands, his face, lifted the axe once more.
Lying together on the bed, Michael and Kester had not even been aware of Ben’s departure. Hearing the one faint cry coming from the direction of their father’s room they had sat up, listening. Kester had seen then that the axe was gone.
When they went out onto the landing they met Ben emerging from their father’s room, the bloody axe hanging from his hand. Walking slowly, like a somnambulist, he came to a stop before them, looking up at them and offered up the axe. Kester took it from his hand.
‘We can be together now,’ Ben said. ‘We shall be all right now, for always.’
When the boys were dressed they packed their belongings in cases and bags. Afterwards, while Ben sat and watched, Kester and Michael took what money they could find and then went through the house pulling out the drawers and cupboards and scattering the contents. After that Kester went around the furniture smearing the surfaces – so no one could tell whose fingers had been there, he said. The last thing he did was to go outside and smash the kitchen window.
They left the house then and walked into the village, to the telephone booth. There Kester dialled Jude’s number. When she answered she sounded sleepy. ‘Kester,’ she said, ‘you woke me up. It’s almost one o’clock. Why are you calling at this hour? Is anything the matter?’
‘No, nothing’s the matter,’ Kester said. ‘Everything’s all right. It’s just that – we’re coming home.’
‘What do you mean, you’re coming home?’
‘We’re coming home – to you.’
‘Here? You’re coming here? Who? You and Michael?’
‘Ben as well. Dad and Daisy are – are staying on. It’ll just be us, the boys.’ He smiled. ‘Your boys. We’ll be with you this weekend after all.’
There was a little silence then Judith said with a trace of a sigh, ‘Oh, dear – I’m not quite prepared.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘I mean, it’ll be a bit – difficult right now, I mean. Does your father know about this? Whose idea was this, anyway?’
Kester didn’t answer. After a moment he slowly replaced the receiver in its rest.
‘What did she say?’ Ben asked him.
Kester was pushing past them, thrusting open the door. He didn’t look into their eyes. ‘She’s glad,’ he said. ‘She’s very happy about it. She can’t wait to see us.’
When they had left the booth the three young boys set off on the journey to London.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Bernard Taylor was born in Swindon, Wiltshire, and now lives in London. Following active service in Egypt in the Royal Air Force, he studied Fine Arts in Swindon, then at Chelsea School of Art and Birmingham University. On graduation he worked as a teacher, painter, and book illustrator before going as a teacher to the United States. While there, he took up acting and writing and continued with both after his return to England. He has published ten novels under his own name, including The Godsend (1976), which was adapted for a major film, and Sweetheart, Sweetheart (1977), which Charles L. Grant has hailed as one of the finest ghost stories ever written. He has also written novels under the pseudonym Jess Foley, as well as several works of nonfiction. He has won awards for his true crime writing and also for his work as a playwright.
Bernard Taylor, Mother's Boys
