Heavy Water: And Other Stories Read Online Free

his second wife’s psychiatrist, took their leave after no more than ninety minutes. Others, like the VAT man and the probation officer, stayed almost as long as Alistair. But by six forty-five he was alone.
    He approached the impossible haystack of Sixsmith’s desk. Very hurriedly he started searching through the unopened mail. It was in Alistair’s mind that he might locate and intercept his own letter. But all the envelopes, of which there were a great many, proved to be brown, windowed, and registered. Turning to leave, he saw a Jiffy bag of formidable bulk addressed to himself in Sixsmith’s tremulous hand. There seemed no reason not to take it. The old office boy, Alistair soon saw, was curled up in a sleeping bag under a worktable in the outer room.
    On the street he unseamed his package in a ferment of gray fluff. It contained two of his screenplays, Valley of the Stratocasters and, confusingly, Decimator . There was also a note:
I have been called away, as they say. Personal ups and downs. I shall ring you this week and we’ll have—what? Lunch?
    Enclosed, too, was Alistair’s aggrieved letter—unopened. He moved on. The traffic, human and mechanical, lurched past his quickened face. He felt his eyes widen to an obvious and solving truth: Hugh Sixsmith was a screenplay writer. He understood.
    After an inconclusive day spent discussing the caesura of “Sonnet” ’s opening line, Luke and his colleagues went for cocktails at Strabismus. They were given the big round table near the piano.
    Jane said, “TCT is doing a sequel to ‘’Tis.’ ”
    Joan said, “Actually it’s a prequel.”
    “Title?” said Joe.
    “Undecided. At TCT they’re calling it ‘ ’Twas.’ ”
    “My son,” said Joe thoughtfully, after the waiter had delivered their drinks, “called me an asshole this morning. For the first time.”
    “That’s incredible,” said Bo. “My son called me an asshole this morning. For the first time.”
    “So?” said Mo.
    Joe said, “He’s six years old, for Christ’s sake.”
    Phil said, “My son called me an asshole when he was five.”
    “My son hasn’t called me an asshole yet,” said Jim. “And he’s nine.”
    Luke sipped his Bloody Mary. Its hue and texture made him wonder whether he could risk blowing his nose without making yet another visit to the bathroom. He hadn’t called Suki for three days. Things were getting compellingly out of hand with Henna Mickiewicz. He hadn’t actually promised her a part in the poem, not on paper. Henna was great, except you kept thinking she was going to suddenly sue you anyway.
    Mo was saying that each child progresses at his own rate, and that later lulls regularly offset the apparent advances of the early years.
    Jim said, “Still, it’s a cause of concern.”
    Mo said, “My son’s three. And he calls me an asshole all the time.”
    Everybody looked suitably impressed.
    The trees were in leaf, and the rumps of the tourist buses were thick and fat in the traffic, and all the farmers wanted fertilizer admixes rather than storehouse insulation when Sixsmith finally made his call. In the interim, Alistair had convinced himself of the following: before returning his aggrieved letter, Sixsmith had steamed it open and then resealed it . During this period, also, Alistair had grimly got engaged to Hazel. But the call came.
    He was pretty sure he had come to the right restaurant. Except that it wasn’t a restaurant, not quite. The place took no bookings, and knew of no Mr. Sixsmith, and was serving many midday breakfasts to swearing persons whose eyes bulged over mugs of flesh-colored tea. On the other hand, there was alcohol. All kinds of people were drinking it. Fine, thought Alistair. Fine. What better place, really, for a couple of screenplay writers to …
    “Alistair?”
    Confidently Sixsmith bent his long body into the booth. As he settled, he looked well pleased with the maneuver. He contemplated Alistair with peculiar