The Other Son Read Online Free

mind. It’s amazing how tenacious lost dreams can be. Incredible really, that such a simple memory like that, a simple memory of a sensation of uncomplicated happiness, can still feel haunting fifty years later.
    “Look at that idiot,” Ken says as one of those new over-sized cars squeezes itself into the tiny gap between themselves and the car in front.
    “Everyone is driving too fast anyway,” Alice says, pointedly.
    “Bloody wankers in their Porsches,” Ken says.
    And it’s true, Alice thinks, that the people in the big expensive cars are always a bit worse than everyone else. They’re always a little more pushy. They probably consider themselves invincible in their big steel boxes.
    “Is that really a Porsche?” Alice asks. She always thought Porsche’s were little sports cars designed for insecure, middle-aged men with shrivelled up todgers.
    “Yep. It’s basically the same car as a VW Touareg ,” Ken informs, as if that’s supposed to mean something to her. “They’re made in the same factory.”
    “Right,” Alice says. “Well, it’s very big. It’s like a lorry almost.”
    “Awful in an accident,” Ken says. “It would flatten that little Panda in a pile-up.”
    From the corner of his eye, Ken sees Alice gripping the handle. “Just relax will you?” he says. “You’re making me nervous.”
    “You’re just a bit close, that’s all.”
    “It’s not my fault if that idiot’s inserted himself bang in the middle of my braking distance.”
    “No. But you can still slow down. That is allowed, I believe. Even when it’s not your fault.”
    Just as Alice says this, the Porsche lurches back out into the fast lane and accelerates away. “There,” Ken says. “Better?”
    “Yes,” Alice says, forcing herself to breathe. She looks at the little boxy car in front. It’s the same type of car that she and Dot had rented in Spain six years ago. It had been such fun driving that little car around those winding Spanish roads. She’d been nervous at first, of course – driving on the wrong side of the road and everything. And she had kept searching for the gearstick and the handbrake in the door-pocket – that had been embarrassing. But once she had got used to it, it had been lovely. The car had a leaky exhaust pipe too, she remembers now. It had made it sound like a sports car.
    They’d had too much fun on that holiday, really. Dot had had a fling with... Alice can’t remember his name now... anyway, he had been the father of the young man who ran the hotel bar. Now there’s a story never to be told! Imagine if Dot’s husband ever found out about that! And while Dot had been otherwise occupied with Jorge – that was his name, pronounced hor-hey – Alice had been wined and dined by Jorge’s best friend Esteban. Esteban had not been Alice’s type at all, thank god. He had been way too hairy, way too... what’s that word? Ugh! It’s so annoying the way, when you get older, the words start to hide from you. Sometimes, as she tries to explain one word, she can’t think of the other similar word either. It happens more and more with people and places too. “She looks like that actress,” Alice will tell Ken. “You know... the one who’s in that film. The film made by... oh, gosh... by that actor who’s also a film director. The one who made...” And of course, she can’t remember the film that he made either. Sometimes she has to dig down three or four levels before she can start digging her way back out again.
    Anyway, Esteban had been too hirsute , that’s the term. No one says hirsute anymore. It’s strange the way words go out of fashion. Alice always preferred clean-shaven men. And the mere thought of a hairy back has always been enough to make her shudder. Beards and moustaches look a bit sinister, don’t they? But the attention – Esteban’s attention – had been lovely. So she had let him believe. She had led him on a little. She had allowed poor Esteban to take her