Roots of Evil(67)

‘Yes, of course,’ said Edmund surprised.

‘I’d like that. Will she grow up to be like her grandmother, d’you think?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Edmund.



Just before the inquest Edmund said to Lucy that it would be better not to tell anyone about the oil lamp.

Lucy had regarded him with solemn eyes, a little too large for her small face. ‘Not ever?’

‘No,’ said Edmund. ‘Not ever.’

She frowned, and Edmund realized that she was going to say something about it having been Edmund himself who had overturned the lamp – he could feel the thoughts forming in Lucy’s bewildered mind. So, not giving her time to frame the words, he said, ‘Lucy, listen. People might not understand about – about you being up there that night.’ A pause. ‘They might even decide the fire was your fault.’

It was rather dreadful to see the child’s expression change, but it could not be helped. Lucy was a truthful, intelligent child, and anything she said might be believed. No matter how badly Edmund’s plan to get revenge from that condescending bitch Mariana Trent had gone wrong – no matter how appalled he might be at what had happened – he had to cover his tracks.

‘Might I be punished?’ said Lucy after a moment.

‘No. No. I don’t really think anyone would do that,’ said Edmund, making it sound as if he was not absolutely sure. ‘But just in case, it would be better never to tell anyone about being in the attics.’

‘Yes, I see. I won’t ever say anything,’ said Lucy. ‘I promise.’

‘Good girl.’

‘But I thought,’ said Lucy, speaking very carefully as if she was determined not to cry, ‘that the rain would put the fire out. Didn’t you think that, Edmund?’

‘Yes. Yes, I did.’

‘I used to like night rain,’ said Lucy wistfully. ‘Didn’t you? It makes you feel all safe and cosy. And then in the morning everything’s all clean and sparkly and fresh. But I don’t like it now.’

‘I don’t like night rain at all,’ said Edmund.





CHAPTER TWENTY




There was night rain when Edmund’s father died a few weeks later – a ceaseless downpour that spattered against the windowpanes like bony fingers tapping to get in.

Edmund had spent his early childhood in this house, and he would have said he knew all its moods. He thought he knew the pace at which Time moved through the rooms, although he was already aware that when you were nineteen Time moved at a difference pace than when you were nine. But it would not matter if he lived to be ninety, or a hundred and ninety, the night on which his father died would always be the longest night in the world.

Since the fire his father had slipped further and further away from the normal world. ‘Well, we knew the condition was likely to worsen,’ said the GP when Edmund tentatively pointed this out. ‘And now he’s picked up this bronchial infection, probably because of his low physical state. We’re having a bit of trouble shifting that, in fact I suspect that he’s not taking the antibiotics I’ve prescribed. In view of his mental condition that’s very likely.’

‘Shouldn’t he be in hospital?’

But hospitals, it seemed, were full to brimming with people who were about to die, or who needed urgent operations. Edmund’s father was a comparatively young man – barely past his middle fifties – and he did not need to be carted off to hospital just for a chest infection. But because of the – well, the other problem, he needed to have someone with him, just for the next few days, said the GP. Just to make sure he took his pills, and stayed in bed. It would not be a problem for Edmund to do that?

‘No,’ said Edmund, wondering how many lectures he would miss, and whether he would eventually manage to catch up.

‘Isn’t there anyone you could ask to stay with you to share things a bit? Family, perhaps. Or there are these medical organizations who supply nurses.’

But Edmund did not want any of the family there. Aunt Deborah would certainly come rushing over to help, but Edmund did not want her hearing his father’s wild ramblings, seeing the run-down state of the house, seeing the run-down state of his father. He did not want some gossipy busybody of a nurse there, either. So he said there was no one and that he could manage quite well by himself.

‘All right. Try to get the antibiotics down him – one tablet every four hours – and keep him warm,’ said the GP, preparing to leave. ‘And give him whatever fluids you can. Sweet tea, glucose drinks, fruit juice, anything. He’s quite dehydrated. Oh, and don’t leave him alone, will you?’

‘He’s not violent, is he?’

‘No, but I think his mental state is deteriorating, although that’s not my field. We might need to call one of the on-duty psychiatrists in if he doesn’t improve.’

‘Might he have to be taken to a – a mental hospital?’


‘Let’s not look that far ahead.’ But the GP frowned, as if reassessing Edmund’s comparative youth, and said, ‘Are you sure there’s no one you could contact?’

‘I don’t need anyone. I can cope perfectly well on my own.’



He made up a bed in his old room, and he tried to persuade his father to take the pills left by the GP, and to eat and drink. He was horrified at how much his father had changed in the last few weeks, and how the once tall, once well-built figure had become shrunken and wasted. He’s given up, thought Edmund. He’s given up the fight to remain in the sane world, and I don’t think there’s any way of bringing him back. He realized with sudden surprise that his father was tired of fighting, and that he was grateful to the darkness that was at last pulling him into its deep oblivion.