The Vacant Casualty Read Online Free Page B

room swivelled their heads to look at him.
    ‘She DOESN’T LIVE HERE!’ bellowed Lord Selvington. ‘Get it? Now, no more talk of wizards!’
    This startling outburst compelled Sam and the detective into silent obedience as the cups of tea were handed to them, and the meeting slowly resumed.
    S ETTING HIS TEA down again, he muttered into Bradley’s ear: ‘This town had better have a fried chicken joint and a kebab shop or I’m
going to have a conniption.’ Let him deal with that, he thought, as he picked up his copy of the minutes. Now, who were all these dusty old freaks?
    First name: ‘Major Simon Ernald Stuyvesant Eldred, MC’. Okay, that one’s easy.
    Second: ‘Eric Barnes (Mayor)’. Also easy: the short, fat bloke who didn’t believe anyone was looking at him, and was picking his nose. Then there was name three: ‘Lord
Selvington of Butterhall (Jimmy)’. Yes, despite Sam’s inherent dislike of people who owned more than a dozen (or quite possibly, several thousand) times more money than he would ever
earn in his life, this guy looked the sort of posho who was sane enough to have the nickname Jimmy. As opposed to, say, Boffles, or Twiddlesticks, or something.
    Next, four and five: ‘Miss E. Quimple and Miss M. Quimple’. Easy again – the two identical ancient old bags on the right of the table, both staring into space.
    Six: this one startled him. ‘Saracene Galaxista, High Church of the Milky Way’. I didn’t notice anyone who looked like Ming the Merciless’s sister when I came in. But
wait – this one was not hard to spot. There she was, clear as day: a dyed-in-the-wool hippy with wild grey hair and a severe expression, wearing a waistcoat decorated with the animals of the
zodiac in gilt.
    The next few were just as straightforward.
    Seven: ‘Rt Revd. Archibald Smallcreak, Rector’. Almost certainly the bored-looking sixty-year-old thin bloke with an androgynous expression.
    ‘It was him,’ thought Sam. ‘It was him, with the lead pipe, in the milking parlour. I bet he’s an old perv.’
    Eight: ‘Miss G. Elvesdon, parish librarian’. The thin, slightly younger (i.e. under fifty) lady in the corner.
    Nine: ‘Mrs Bloodpudding’. Surely the sweet-smiling, permed octogenarian by the major’s side.
    Name number ten: ‘Walerian Exosius’. What the
hell
? Who would be called – oh, but wait. There he was, too. A lanky fellow, almost collapsed over his own chair in a
pretence of exhaustion. Violet neckerchief wrapped thrice around his throat. High cheekbones. Hint of vulnerable disdain, as though he had just smelt a disgusting scent he was unsure was not his
own. Sniffing like he has a cold, and looking around to see if anyone notices. He must be an artist.
    Although there were still a few of the full roster to identify, Sam was distracted out of his reverie as he realized the split infinitive debate was still going on. While he was paying attention
to the grammatical argument, D.I. Bradley got up and handed a short note to Lord Selvington, who read it, then looked up and nodded importantly at the policeman.
    ‘Uhum,’ Sam coughed politely as he interjected. ‘There’s, er . . . nothing wrong . . .’
    One by one the councillors ceased their yelling, or earnest talking, and turned to him. He cleared his throat once more before saying, ‘I apologize for speaking uninvited, but
there’s actually nothing wrong with using a split infinitive. Linguistically. Grammatically. There never was. Avoiding it is like using “serviette” as a posh replacement for
“napkin”, when the Queen herself would use a napkin. A false nicety.
Fowler’s Modern English Usage
has said so for over eighty years; Kingsley Amis agrees. And many others.
In case you were interested.’
    ‘And you are . . .’ asked one.
    ‘A writer,’ he said, and choosing not to meet their eyes, he sank back into the darkness, but secretly hoped they noticed his hoody. After consulting his iPhone in the shaded