AllFreeNovel
Share Us
George noticed the reaction. It proved Owen was listening and one thing hadn’t changed. Owen was still the master of the sardonic expression. Was that progress?
‘Fancy going out?’ he asked.
Owen sighed.
‘I guess that’s a no then.’
George dropped his heavy textbook on the floor and flopped back against the pillow, staring at the model aircraft suspended on an invisible thread from the ceiling above his bed. Was it a Spitfire? His uncle Tom, his mum’s older brother, who’d fathered a paramedic, had helped him make it at a Christmas a few years ago. One of the better Christmases, when Dad had been in prison.
George’s thoughts flitted to another consideration. Perhaps the modern history course would have suited him better. Then he’d have studied the two world wars and be sure of the plane and the source material wouldn’t have been so difficult to read. Too late now to change. Only two more terms left for him at university. He was well and truly locked into the medieval period with its obscure language, a plethora of warring monarchs including possibly the worst of them all, Henry VIII, a wife murdering bastard who looked uncannily like a fatter version of his dad.
Randomly, George remembered something Millie had found when reading the textbook he’d just chucked on the floor. ‘Is it right?’ he asked, echoing her question, knowing that Owen would have the answer. ‘Was Henry VIII Welsh, like you?’
Owen coughed slightly. ‘Welsh yes. Like me? No.’
George’s thoughts drifted on, and he asked, ‘How many Tudor monarchs were there, anyway?’
‘Three kings and two queens–three if you count Lady Jane Grey the nine-day queen.’
‘Smart arse.’ George hid a smile, secretly congratulating himself on getting another complete sentence out of Owen.
Owen replied with something unintelligible (possibly Welsh) under his breath.
‘Moody bugger,’ George muttered, then immediately wanted to take it back. Given what had happened, Owen had every right to be depressed–poor sod.
He shifted on his bed again and asked, ‘What you reading?’
‘The Visitor by Lee Child.’
‘Any good?’
‘Very.’
‘Liar.’
Owen sat up. ‘Eh? Why am I a liar?’
‘Cos you’ve not been reading. You’ve been staring at the same page for the last hour. Even I can read faster than that.’
‘If you must know, I was analysing the writing. Trying to work out why it’s so good. That’s the reason I’ve been a long time on each page.’
‘All right, bookworm.’ George allowed himself a proper smile. He’d got Owen talking, and this time he would not let it stop. ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘What’s it about?’
‘A serial killer, murdering women.’
‘Not unlike my book, then.’ George stretched over and picked up his textbook. ‘I suppose you’ve read this as well?’ He waved it at Owen.
‘I have, yes. It’s on the course list. And you should try this.’ Owen flapped his paperback at George.
‘Maybe I will when I’ve caught up with the rest of my reading list.’
‘Less time in the pub might help.’
‘Not enough time if you ask me…’ George sat up in triumph. This was it! He’d broken the silence barrier. Owen had mentioned the pub and now it was time to go there. ‘Come on. You’ve made me thirsty.’
Shivering slightlyfrom lack of a coat, hands tucked in under arms, shoulders hunched, and breath condensing in the night air, Owen asked, ‘Where’re we going?’
‘I thought maybe the Fig & Firkin.’ George replied, trying to sound casual.
