The Breaking Point Read Online Free

said. ‘They like a north light, don’t they?’
    His relief was tremendous. An artist. But of course. Here was the excuse he needed. Here was a way out of all difficulty.
    ‘I see you’ve guessed my secret,’ he answered slyly, and his laugh rang so true that it surprised even himself. He began to speak very rapidly. ‘Part-time only,’ he said. ‘That’s the reason I can only get away for certain hours. My mornings are tied down to business, but later in the day I’m a free man. Then my real work begins. It’s not just a casual hobby, it’s a passion. I intend to hold my own exhibition later in the year. So you understand how essential it is for me to find somewhere . . . like this.’
    He waved his hand at the surroundings, which could offer no inducement to anyone but the cat. His confidence was infectious and disarmed the still doubtful, puzzled inquiry in her eyes.
    ‘Chelsea’s full of artists, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘At least they say so, I don’t know. But I thought studios had to be high up for getting the light?’
    ‘Not necessarily,’ he answered. ‘Those fads don’t affect me. And late in the day the light will have gone anyway. I suppose there is electricity?’
    ‘Yes . . .’ She moved to the door and touched a switch. A naked bulb from the ceiling glared through its dust.
    ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘That’s all I shall need.’
    He smiled down at the blank, unhappy face. The poor soul would be so much happier asleep. Like the cat. A kindness, really, to put her out of her misery.
    ‘Can I move in tomorrow?’ he asked.
    Again the look of hope that he had noticed when he first stood at the front door inquiring for rooms, and then - was it embarrassment, just the faintest trace of discomfort, in her expression?
    ‘You haven’t asked about . . . the cost of the room,’ she said.
    ‘Whatever you care to charge,’ he replied, and waved his hand again to show that money was no object. She swallowed, evidently at a loss to know what to say, and then, a flush creeping into the pallid face, ventured, ‘It would be best if I said nothing to the landlord. I will say you are a friend. You could give me a pound or two in cash every week, what you think fair.’
    She watched him anxiously. Certainly, he decided, there must be no third party interfering in any arrangement. It might defeat his plan.
    ‘I’ll give you five pounds in notes each week, starting today,’ he said.
    He felt for his wallet and drew out the crisp, new notes. She put out a timid hand, and her eyes never left the notes as he counted them.
    ‘Not a word to the landlord,’ he said, ‘and if any questions are asked about your lodger say your cousin, an artist, has arrived for a visit.’
    She looked up and for the first time smiled, as though his joking words, with the giving of the notes, somehow sealed a bond between them.
    ‘You don’t look like my cousin,’ she said, ‘nor much like the artists I have seen, either. What is your name?’
    ‘Sims,’ he said instantly, ‘Marcus Sims,’ and wondered why he had instinctively uttered the name of his wife’s father, a solicitor dead these many years, whom he had heartily disliked.
    ‘Thank you, Mr Sims,’ she said. ‘I’ll give your room a clean-up in the morning.’Then, as a first gesture towards this intention, she lifted the cat from the packing-case and shooed it through the window.
    ‘You will bring your things tomorrow afternoon?’ she asked.
    ‘My things?’ he repeated.
    ‘What you need for your work,’ she said. ‘Don’t you have paints and so on?’
    ‘Oh, yes . . . yes, naturally,’ he said, ‘yes, I must bring my gear.’ He glanced round the room again. But there was to be no question of butchery. No blood. No mess. The answer would be to stifle them both in sleep, the woman and her child. It was much the kindest way.
    ‘You won’t have far to go when you need tubes of paint,’ she said. ‘There are shops for artists in the