Fate Worse Than Death Read Online Free Page B

himself heard above the noise of pounding hooves. ‘I’ll have a pint of your best.’
    Lois closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. She knew by heart how the conversation would proceed. It was always the same, every day of the week, every week of the interminable year.
    â€˜Only if you pay cash.’
    He affected not to hear. When she repeated it he blustered, ‘Haven’t been to the bank today. Just put it on the slate.’
    His tone of command never failed to infuriate her, but she kept her dignity. ‘You know perfectly well that we don’t give credit.’
    â€˜And why not, hey? Are you implyin’that my credit isn’t good? Now see here, m’family used to own this village, and most of Breckland as well. My credit’s good throughout Suffolk. Just you pull me a pint, and let’s have no more of this bloody nonsense.’
    â€˜Not until you pay for it in cash.’
    â€˜For God’s sake …’ He tugged a chequebook from the pocket on his bulging hip. ‘Change one of these for me, then. Twenty pounds’ll do to be going on with.’
    Lois took a second deep breath. Charley Horrocks had owed them money for over a year. Phil frequently demanded repayment, and every so often Charley would condescend to write him a cheque; but the cheques always bounced.
    â€˜You know we don’t change cheques without a bank guarantee card,’ she said.
    Charley huffed and puffed, attempting to blow down her defences. No gentleman, he asserted, could be expected to carry pieces of plastic about his person. ‘Fetch me your employer, m’good woman,’ he commanded, waving his chequebook. Lois’s hamster cheeks quivered but she said nothing, knowing that he would eventually discover that he had just enough cash in his pockets for his immediate needs.
    When credit was refused him Charley Horrocks could always produce a small amount of cash, although never enough to pay his debts. His demand for credit was a daily routine, no longer a serious try-on but a form of conversation. He never allowed silence to fall. When he wasn’t giving commands and making assertions (‘This beer’s orf,’ was one of his favourites, though he never hesitated to drain his glass), he reminisced to her about ‘M’grandfather the third Earl.’
    Initially, Lois had felt some sympathy for Charley Horrocks. She had seen him as a mountainous toddler, abandoned in Fodderstone by his family and making infantile demands for attention. No one seemed to know or care about him: he lived alone, did no work, had no friends. Lois was a good listener and would at first have been prepared to lend him an ear, but now that she had been forced into his company more often she had changed her mind. She found him highly objectionable, not merely an ill-mannered snob but a thorough-going pig.
    Charley always took to the pub his favourite newspaper, the Sun . As soon as the other regulars – the ones Phil Goodwin referred to as ‘the trogs’ – came in, Charley would open the paper at the page 3 nude photograph, lay it flat on the bar under Lois’s eye and discuss the merits of the girl of the day in loud agricultural terms.
    Then he would comb through the newspaper and read out any items that he could relate in a derogatory way to women. All women who had been murdered, raped or battered had, according to Charley, ‘arsked for it’. Any women who spoke out in public, for whatever cause and however reasonably, in his opinion deserved ‘a good thrashin”.
    â€˜A bloody good thrashin’,’ he would add with relish, and the trogs would snigger their support, glancing sideways at Lois to see how she was reacting. She hated them all for it. Separately, Charley and the trogs were disagreeable enough; together, egging each other on, they were abominable.
    The doorway darkened as two of his drinking companions slouched in, hot and