Pinprick Read Online Free Page B
Author: Matthew Cash
the flowers to arrange.”
“Don’t worry. Where’s the shop? I’ll take a cheque over.”
She pursed her lips. He didn’t really know what the problem was. If there was something he could do to take the pressure of off her, shouldn’t he do it?
“Sure,” She looked up at him with a hard look in her eyes. “Anyway, enough of that,” she cleared her throat, “how’s work? Is it still to do with the housing projects and running around the House of Lords?”
“Yes it is, and it’s dull too; apart from the travelling of course.”
Catherine’s eyes sparkled at him once more.
“Ah yes, the travelling. I must admit to being quite touched by the postcards we receive from all the different exotic locations, Dubai, Rome and even Sydney. And it’s nice for Angela and Jennifer to read the trials and tribulations of their famous uncle, the politician, I must say.”
Shane smiled. At least his postcards surprised her. It was his way of showing he hadn’t totally forgotten them. Maybe he was a bit confused with her husband’s name, but the postcards still proved he cared.
“Yeah, the kids really look forward to receiving them and hearing about what you’ve been up to, even though I’m not sure they understand exactly what it is you do,” Catherine sipped her water and giggled gently, “and they get really excited when Mrs Davis, the lady who lives down the road, brings the cards round. She tells them the basic gist of what you’ve actually written,” Catherine raised an eyebrow at Shane.
The realisation of what she had said hit home and Shane sighed yet again.
“I’m sorry, what can I say? I’m a shit uncle; I forget your husband’s name and the number of your house. The house I once lived in. I’m sorry okay?”
Catherine smiled politely at the waiter who arrived at the table to take their order. She lowered her eyes to the menu and pointed at the ‘Aceitunas Mixtas’. Shane snatched a brief glimpse at the menu before saying, “Filetes de lubina con arroz de gambas” with ease.
They sat in silence for a few moments avoiding one another’s gaze. Shane felt uncomfortable; the closer he got back to his home town, the more the memories came flooding back. His tinnitus, something he had had since his car crash, was playing up; almost as though it knew he had returned to the place it happened. But that, Shane told himself, was ridiculous.
The whistling had been inside his head for so long now that it had become a part of him. Usually, in order to hear it, he would have to sit in total silence and concentrate hard. Now he could hear it despite the talking diners and the clink of glass and china. It made his head throb.
He watched as his sister drummed her fingers on the table in a repetitive pattern.
God my head hurts , he thought as he watched her three fingers tapping up and down individually, in the same rhythm; the same annoying little habit that she had always had, ‘tap tap tap, tap tap tap,’ over and over again, ‘tap tap tap…
July 1986
‘…Tap tap tap, tap tap tap.’
Catherine’s chipped, hot-pink lacquered fingernails rapped on the arm of the chair. She sat with her legs curled up under her by the side of his hospital bed. The hand that was not doing its perpetual tapping was holding a thick creased paperback book. Her thin legs hung over the arm of the chair, her knees poking through her scuffed jeans, her red hair hung in ringlets over her face.
A big round clock ticked ominously, its sound the only noise in the quiet room. Shane’s mother sat in a chair to his left. Every now and then she shot him a concerned look. Shane sat propped up by pillows as he looked at the door. They had been sat in silence for the last twenty minutes.
Shane’s mother eyed the clock and occasionally shot a concerned glance at her son. They were waiting for the results of his scan.
He had been in hospital for two weeks and had started to make a speedy recovery. The only thing
“Don’t worry. Where’s the shop? I’ll take a cheque over.”
She pursed her lips. He didn’t really know what the problem was. If there was something he could do to take the pressure of off her, shouldn’t he do it?
“Sure,” She looked up at him with a hard look in her eyes. “Anyway, enough of that,” she cleared her throat, “how’s work? Is it still to do with the housing projects and running around the House of Lords?”
“Yes it is, and it’s dull too; apart from the travelling of course.”
Catherine’s eyes sparkled at him once more.
“Ah yes, the travelling. I must admit to being quite touched by the postcards we receive from all the different exotic locations, Dubai, Rome and even Sydney. And it’s nice for Angela and Jennifer to read the trials and tribulations of their famous uncle, the politician, I must say.”
Shane smiled. At least his postcards surprised her. It was his way of showing he hadn’t totally forgotten them. Maybe he was a bit confused with her husband’s name, but the postcards still proved he cared.
“Yeah, the kids really look forward to receiving them and hearing about what you’ve been up to, even though I’m not sure they understand exactly what it is you do,” Catherine sipped her water and giggled gently, “and they get really excited when Mrs Davis, the lady who lives down the road, brings the cards round. She tells them the basic gist of what you’ve actually written,” Catherine raised an eyebrow at Shane.
The realisation of what she had said hit home and Shane sighed yet again.
“I’m sorry, what can I say? I’m a shit uncle; I forget your husband’s name and the number of your house. The house I once lived in. I’m sorry okay?”
Catherine smiled politely at the waiter who arrived at the table to take their order. She lowered her eyes to the menu and pointed at the ‘Aceitunas Mixtas’. Shane snatched a brief glimpse at the menu before saying, “Filetes de lubina con arroz de gambas” with ease.
They sat in silence for a few moments avoiding one another’s gaze. Shane felt uncomfortable; the closer he got back to his home town, the more the memories came flooding back. His tinnitus, something he had had since his car crash, was playing up; almost as though it knew he had returned to the place it happened. But that, Shane told himself, was ridiculous.
The whistling had been inside his head for so long now that it had become a part of him. Usually, in order to hear it, he would have to sit in total silence and concentrate hard. Now he could hear it despite the talking diners and the clink of glass and china. It made his head throb.
He watched as his sister drummed her fingers on the table in a repetitive pattern.
God my head hurts , he thought as he watched her three fingers tapping up and down individually, in the same rhythm; the same annoying little habit that she had always had, ‘tap tap tap, tap tap tap,’ over and over again, ‘tap tap tap…
July 1986
‘…Tap tap tap, tap tap tap.’
Catherine’s chipped, hot-pink lacquered fingernails rapped on the arm of the chair. She sat with her legs curled up under her by the side of his hospital bed. The hand that was not doing its perpetual tapping was holding a thick creased paperback book. Her thin legs hung over the arm of the chair, her knees poking through her scuffed jeans, her red hair hung in ringlets over her face.
A big round clock ticked ominously, its sound the only noise in the quiet room. Shane’s mother sat in a chair to his left. Every now and then she shot him a concerned look. Shane sat propped up by pillows as he looked at the door. They had been sat in silence for the last twenty minutes.
Shane’s mother eyed the clock and occasionally shot a concerned glance at her son. They were waiting for the results of his scan.
He had been in hospital for two weeks and had started to make a speedy recovery. The only thing