The Vatican Rip Read Online Free Page A

was lost on her.
    ‘Please leave, or I shall call the police.’
    I said, ‘Lady. Prod me again with your toe and I’ll break it.
Off
.’
    She withdrew a yard. ‘Why have you no socks on?’
    ‘Drying.’ I got them off the radiator and felt. Still damp, but I started to put them on. All I could do now was tell Arcellano I’d tried and they’d threatened to have me run in.
    ‘And shoes?’
    ‘Give me a sec.’ I’d sloped them on the pipe, heels down, in an attempt to dry the cardboard which covered the holes.
    She was watching. ‘Do you have far to go?’
    You can’t help staring at some people. There ought to be Oscars or something for hypocrisy. Today’s message from this luscious bird: piss off or I’ll call the police, and have a pleasant journey strolling through the blizzard. People amaze me.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Oh. Well. Where’s your overcoat?’
    ‘Still at my tailor’s.’
    She flushed then and developed the injured look of a woman wanting some man to take up this particularly cumbersome crucifix. I didn’t help by spinning out my dressing process. She stood her ground, though.
    ‘One thing, love.’ I stood and stamped my cardboard inners flat. ‘Swap that painting to the other wall.’
    ‘I beg your pardon?’
    I stepped across and lifted the watercolour down.
Never
over a radiator.
Never
in a centrally heated hallway if you can help it.
Never
facing what sun we get. And
never
where people smoke.’
    The little watercolour sketch was a Thomas Robins, the sort of thing he did before doing the proper Dutch fishing-boat scene. He liked storms in harbours. I’m not all that old, but I can remember the time four years ago when his best paintings could be got for an average monthly wage.
    ‘Take your hands off our property—’
    She came at me so I cuffed her and yelled, ‘You could have made me drop it, you silly bitch! Look.’ I dragged her near to the modern photorepro of ‘The Stag at Bay’ which I’d just taken down. ‘
That
,’ I explained into her stunned eyes, ‘will stand anything.
This
original watercolour is vulnerable.’ I spelled the word to give her cortex time to adjust to the learning process. ‘So we put your repro picture anywhere, see? It’ll not warp, change or fade in the sun. On the other hand, love, original paintings by Thomas Sewell Robins need care.’ I spelled that too, mounted the watercolour, then walked to the door.
    ‘You hit me.’ She was still preoccupied with being annoyed.
    ‘I’ll come back next week, love, to check you’ve not swapped the pictures back. And I’ll accept no crappy excuses about your painting being school property.’ I wagged a finger to emphasize the threat. ‘A genuine antique is everybody’s, no matter who owns it. Remember, now.’
    She suddenly said, ‘You’re Lovejoy.’
    ‘True,’ I said, opening the door to the kinder world of winter. ‘And goodbye.’
    She suddenly became a supplicant. The abrupt transformation was really weird. ‘Please. Don’t go.’ She even tried a winning smile. I’d never see a quicker – or more desperate – conversion. ‘I’m – I’m your special instruction counsellor assignment.’
    ‘You’re my what?’ Nowadays everything sounds like the UN.
    She gave in and used language. ‘Teacher. Please come back in.’
    I hesitated between the blizzard and the deep blue sea. Normally I’d have stormed out in a temper, though I’m usually very mild. The reason I didn’t was the sheer desperation in her eyes. Somehow I’d annoyed her at first, but now there she was full of frantic appeasement. I could have sworn she was afraid. Maybe she needed the money or lived in terror of mighty Miss McKim.
    ‘Can I dry my shoes on your radiator?’
    ‘If you wish.’
    ‘And socks?’ I added shrewdly.
    ‘Of course.’ She moved past me and pushed the door to.
    ‘And I’m not in trouble for, erm, telling you about the pictures?’
    ‘You mean hitting me,’ she said evenly. ‘No.’
    It