The Long Room Read Online Free

a lift. He hopes his descending footsteps sound assertive on the bare concrete. At the bottom of the staircase a security guard is waiting.
    ‘Working late,’ he says. It’s a statement not a question.
    ‘Been a busy week,’ Stephen tells him, looking heroically exhausted.
    ‘Even so, you didn’t ought to spend your nights in here, son. All work and no play …’
    ‘I know, I know,’ Stephen interrupts him, ‘but it’s okay. My girlfriend’s waiting for me; she knew that I’d be late.’
    ‘That’s more like it,’ says the guard, with a leering wink. ‘Reg’s got the late list.’
    Reg is on duty in the guard-post, by the main entrance of the Institute, sheltered by bullet-proof glass. Behind him, flickering screens show what is happening in the corridors and stairwells of the building, and in the street outside. To speak to Stephen, Reg slides open a hatch.
    ‘Working late,’ Reg says. ‘Put your moniker on this.’
    Stephen does as he is told, adding his department and initials to the list. L/III/ SSD. Reg presses a button and the maindoor opens to release Stephen into White Horse Street and the night.
    White Horse Street is dark and empty; Piccadilly, a minute’s walk away, is bustling. It is two weeks before Christmas. People have been at office parties in the upstairs rooms of pubs or at the Ritz. In their twos and threes they flow along the pavements, laughing and talking loudly. Girls in high-heeled shoes. They’re still chattering beneath the harsh lighting of the escalators at Green Park and on the platforms of the station. Those few who are, like Stephen, on their own seem fugitive and embarrassed.
    Dust-metal breath and roar of an approaching train: too bright, too loud, too fast. The doors slide open. To propel himself inside them, to give himself up to those devouring jaws, requires an effort of the will. Within the carriage, when the train plunges back into its tunnel, Stephen’s face reflected in the window looks pale and moon-like, imbecilic. He remains standing and he stares at his reflected self. Mon semblable, mon frère. I never knew death had undone so many.
    At East Acton station he alights. The shop on the corner of the high street will be open; Stephen is in need of food. As he walks past the lit doorway of a pub along the road he considers going in but he has not found it to be a friendly place before and the prospect of the sour eyes of watching strangers puts him off. Safer to drink at home alone.
    Home: the lower half of a small and narrow house, the main entrance shared with the flat upstairs, although both also have their own front doors. Stephen’s door is painted brown. He unlocks it, pushes it open cautiously, leans in to switch the hall light on while still standing on the threshold. When he comeshome to his empty flat he finds at times the waiting silence has an edge to it, as if someone had been there who has only just left, or something was still waiting, with its teeth bared, in the dark.
    The flat is very cold. The convector heater in the sitting room will take time to warm it up. Stephen has bought sausage rolls, baked beans, cheese, bread, chocolate, and a bottle of whisky. He holds the bottle up to the light and savours the amber glow of it, its consoling weight, its seal uncracked. Right now, at this very moment, in the dining room of Helen’s parents-in-law in Oxfordshire, dinner will be almost over. There’ll be guttering candles and silver knives, and dark red wine in crystal goblets; there’ll be firelight and golden labradors and Helen will get up from the table without a word, go to the window, catch sight of her own face in the glass and wonder why she feels so lonely.
    *
    At that time, on that Friday night, Coralie Donaldson was also contemplating food. Food is a topic that often occupies her mind. It is not that she cares about what she puts into her own mouth – it’s her son’s diet that concerns her. It always has, ever since she first