Crybbe (AKA Curfew) Read Online Free Page A

Mr. Kettle. Hey, we still
on the line?'
        'I suppose we must be. Aye, see
the little marker by there?'
        A stone no more than a foot
high, not much more than a bump in the cobbles. Goff squatted next to it and
held his palms over it, as though he expected it to be hot or to light up or
something. The dog, Arnold, watched, his head on one side as if puzzled by a
human being who went down on all fours to sniff the places where dogs had
pissed.
        Two middle-aged women walked
across the square talking in low voices. They stopped talking as they walked
past Goff, but didn't look at him, nor Mr. Kettle, nor each other.
        Then they went rigid, because
suddenly Arnold's head was back and he was howling.
        'Jeez!' Goff sprang up. The two
women turned, and Mr. Kettle felt he was getting a very dark, warning look, the
women's faces shadowed almost to black.
        'Arnold!' With some difficulty
- beginning to think he must have a bad spring under his own house, the way his
rheumatism had been playing up lately - Mr. Kettle got down on his knees and
pulled the dog to him. 'Sorry, ladies.'
        The women didn't speak, stood
there a moment then turned and walked away quickly as the howling subsided,
because Mr. Kettle had a hand clamped around Arnold's jaws. 'Daft bugger, Arnold.'
        'Why'd it do that?' Goff asked,
without much interest.
    'I wish I knew, Mr. Goff.'
        Mr. Kettle wanted some time to
think about this. Because for a long time he'd thought it was just a drab
little town, full of uninspired, interbred old families and misfits from Off.
And now, he thought, it's more than that. More than inbreeding and apathy.
        He unclamped the dog's jaws,
and Arnold gave him a reproachful glance and then shook his head.
        There were lights in some town
houses now. They lit the rooms behind the curtains but not the square, not even
a little, folk in this town had never thrown their light around.
        'OK?' Goff said, feet planted
firmly on the cobbles, legs splayed, quite relaxed. Wasn't getting it, was he?
Wasn't feeling the resistance? Didn't realize he was among the descendants of
the people who'd pulled up the stones.
        Mr. Kettle was getting to his
feet, one hand against the wall, like his old bones, the brick seemed infirm.
The people here, they cared nothing for their heritage.
        And their ancestors had torn up
the stones.
        Goff was just a big white blob
in the dim square. Mr. Kettle walked to where their cars were parked in a
little bay behind the church overhung with yew trees. His own car was a dusty VW
Estate. Goff had a Ferrari.
        'Come to dinner, OK?' Goff
said. 'When I've moved into the Court.'
        'You're going through with it,
then?'
    'Try and stop me.'
        'Can I say something?' Henry
Kettle had been thinking about this for the past fifteen minutes or so. He
didn't much like Goff, but he was a kindly old chap, who wanted at least to put
out a steadying hand.
    'Of course.'
        Mr. Kettle stood uneasily in
the semi-dark. 'These places . . .' he began, and sucked in his lips, trying to
concentrate. Trying to get it right.
        'I suppose what I'm trying to
say is places like this, they - how can I put it? - they invites a kind of obsession .' He fell silent, watching the
buildings in the square hunching together as the night took over.
        A harsh laugh came out of Goff.
'Is that it?' he asked rudely.
        Mr. Kettle unlocked his car
door and opened it for Arnold 'Yes,' he said, half-surprised because he'd thought
he was going to say more. 'Yes, I suppose that is it.'
        He couldn't see the dog anywhere.
'Arnie!' he called out sharply. He'd had this problem before, the dog slinking
silent away, clearly not at ease, whimpering sometimes.
        He hadn't gone far this time,
though. Mr. Kettle found him pressed into the churchyard wall, ears down flat,
panting with anxiety. 'All right, Arn, we're leaving