Flood by Ian Rankin Page A

in an evil moment, so are you.

    '. .. so does that make you the better man?' Mr Patterson, lost in his thoughts, had missed some part of the minister's argument vital to its understanding. He smiled and shook his head.

    'You've got me beat there, Mr Davidson. What do you want me to do? Sell my livelihood?' The minister laughed and shook his head.
    He took George Patterson's hand and patted it lightly. His clasp was soft and dry.

    'Indeed no, George, I was only joking with you. You better away and get your lunch now. Don't be disheartened by the jabberings of an old man. Will we see you in church again soon?' The minister's eyes suddenly stopped their survey of the houses around them and concentrated themselves on those of Mr Patterson, who felt the blood tingling responsively in his cheeks.

    *Yes indeed,' he said as keenly as he could, 'probably this weekend in fact. I've been rather busy, you see . . .' This time the minister patted his shoulder.

    'No need for excuses, George. Only too glad to have you come when you can manage. I look forward to seeing you.
    Maybe I'll drop in for some of your pandrops sometime.'

    'Please do,' said Mr Patterson, walking away. Old bugger, he thought to himself. He'll want them on the house if he does. Still, the old minister wasn't a bad sort. Quite wicked in his own way, always berating people for their occupations or preoccupations or sins of indulgence. He was in a right nest of vipers here. Carsden stank of corruption. Mr Patterson remembered it as it had been, or at least had seemed, when he had been young. Times had been hard, yes, but the people had been honest and generous. People, after all, were all that towns had going for them. Mr Patterson had fallen as far as anyone, and further than many. No one knew the sins he had committed. People thought him the salt of the earth. He smiled bitterly as he walked the rest of the way home. If only he could die. He could not commit suicide: he was too much of a coward for that. He wanted needed - to die naturally, but quickly. Let him die quickly.

    The very next morning, Mr Patterson learned from his first customer that the old minister had died in his sleep. He shook his head in disbelief. So this was the world. The bitter irony overtook any idea of immediate mourning. It was as if a malevolent creator had decided to show him something of its truly impersonal power. He stood behind the old wooden counter all day and heard nothing but good spoken of the man. He dipped his hand into many glass jars of coloured sweets and guiltily filled many paper bags. No one bought pandrops. Pandrops were for the kirk on a Sunday.

    Sandy came in at four o'clock for a haircut. Mr Patterson was silent much of the time, forgetting about the sweets he had promised the boy. He made a good job of his fringe, however. Afterwards, Sandy asked for a quarter of pandrops for his mother. Mr Patterson stared hard at him. It was like staring at his own conscience magnified many times. He should have said something more to the old man. Too late now, too late. He should have said much, much more to the old minister. He gave Sandy the mints and would not take the proffered money.

7

    For over a week he had not seen her. It was like something gnawing inside his stomach. He thought that he might have an ulcer or something, but did nothing about it, afraid that it would be true. He sat in his bedroom much of the time and scribbled on pieces of paper and in old jotters. He read a lot of books from the library. When his mother told him off mildly for sitting indoors when it was so warm outside, he would silently pick up his books and switch off his record player and trot downstairs. He would sit sullenly on the doorstep with a book held close to his face while his mother watched his protest in mounting frustration. He was becoming a zombie to her. She was worried, naturally, but could think of no way to ask him what the trouble was without him clamming up even more