Murdo's War Read Online Free

salmon that packed the sandwiches. They tasted good, he was very hungry.
    Hector had other calls to make before his main business of the evening at the Captain Ivy Inn. Murdo left him at the crossroads and turned up the hill towards the house where his aunt and uncle lived.
    It was an old manse, no longer attached to the church, tall and dark against the sky. Until a few months previously, when he had moved out to stay with Hector, Murdo had lived there with his brother. Returning now, in the late evening, he hoped to avoid a confrontation with his aunt.
    Faint light shone at the edges of the blackout curtains in the sitting room and from the upstairs bedroom now occupied by Lachlan. Very quietly Murdo checked the kitchen door at the back of the house, but it was locked. He returned to the road and let himself into the front garden. Standing by the wall he emptied his trouser pockets, removed his jacket and boots, and hid them in a corner where the moon cast its deepest shadows. The earth struck cold through the gaping holes in his socks.
    Briefly he checked up and down the road. All was clear. Swiftly then he climbed on to the garden wall and reached for the bracket on the drainpipe. Hands clutching, feet braced against the wall, he scrambled upwards. Soon he was able to grasp the roof guttering. His fingers were frozen and the edge was sharp. Closing his mind as far as he was able to the hurt, he began to traverse the front of the house, swinging from hand to hand, resting briefly as he reached the upstairs window ledges. A car passed but otherwise the road remained empty.
    He had covered threequarters of the distance when from behind the house came the noise of a door opening and closing. He recognised his aunt’s footsteps. Milk bottles clinked. Murdo froze, feet hanging in space. Shining over the edge of the roof, the moonlight caught his head and shoulders.
    She appeared at the end of the house, descended the track by the wall, and set the bottles in a crate at the roadside. For a moment she stood, arms wrapped about her thin chest, looking down the glen towards the village. She lifted her face to regard the moon.
    Murdo felt his fingers cramping. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, fighting himself to remain still. The second she was gone, he writhed to ease the cramp and quickly struggled the last six or eight feet.
    With relief he set his feet on his brother’s window sill and took the weight off his arms. First one and then the other he let them hang at his side and thrust frost-nipped fingers into his trouser pockets.
    The window was locked. Softly Murdo tapped on the glass, but there was no response. He tapped again.
    Brother Lachlan! Where was he – at the bathroom, or downstairs eating supper? He rapped more sharply – two, three times.
    Within the room a door shut. The glow vanished. The blinds were drawn back and his brother stood at the window, clad in rumpled pyjamas. He pressed back the catch and pushed the window down. A breath of warm air brushed Murdo’s face and was gone. Carefully he transferred his grasp to the window frame and ducked through into the dark room.
    Having for the greater part of his life slept in the same bedroom, Murdo knew the position of every object: it was the sort of house where even in your own room a chair was not moved without consultation. As soon as the curtains had been drawn again, he felt for the box of matches on the end of the mantlepiece and touched a light to the oil lamp. The wick burned up in a smoky flare which settled as he replaced the glass chimney. Carefully he turned it down a fraction, and looked across at his brother.
    Lachlan had been sound asleep. Flushed and tousled he stood by the curtains, blinking in the lamplight. The room had turned cold. Half in a daze he passed Murdo, climbed back into bed and pulled the blankets to his chin.
    Murdo tucked in his shirt tails and sat on the foot of the bed. He picked up the book his brother had been reading