y functioning vampire.”
Rowan looks down at the crumbs and smal pieces of uneaten egg on his plate. Is it anger or fear pumping the blood so fast through him now? Somehow he manages to say what is in his head. “What about . . . like . . . moral values?”
His uncle sighs, as if disappointed. “Which ones to go for, that’s the trouble. It’s a crowded market out there, these days. Gives me a headache just thinking about it. I stick to blood. Blood is simpler. With blood, you know exactly where you are.”
“So, you just go around murdering people? That’s what you do?”
Wil says nothing, just looks bemused.
Rowan quivers, like the earth above a living corpse.
Peter enters the room, looking uncomfortable. No , thinks Rowan, Will is definitely the older brother .
“Wil , could we talk?”
“Peter, we could.”
Rowan watches them leave the room. His rash is getting worse, and he gouges at his arm with hard, angry scratches. For the second time in less than twelve hours he wishes he were dead.
Wil eyes the tasteful, muted artwork on the hal way wal . A semiabstract watercolor of an apple tree, with a smal brown H in the bottom corner.
It is Wil whom Peter is looking at, though. He looks good, it has to be said. He has hardly changed at al and must be living the same life he always lived. His older brother, looking at least ten years younger than him, with that roguish glint in his eyes and that air of something— freedom?
danger? life? —Peter lost a long time ago.
“Look, Wil ,” he struggles to say, “I know you’ve made the effort to come here, and it’s real y, real y appreciated, but the thing is . . .”
Wil nods. “An apple tree. You can’t get enough apple trees.”
“What?”
“You know, it’s always the apples, isn’t it, that get al the glory?” says Wil , as if they are having the same conversation. “Always the fucking apples. But no, go for the whole tree. Go for good old father tree.”
Peter realizes what Wil is referring to. “Oh yes, it’s one of Helen’s.”
“But I must admit— watercolor ? I used to like those oil paintings she did. The nudes. She real y used to get her teeth into them.”
“Look, the thing is . . . ,” says Peter, finding it hard to say what Helen wants him to say. His brother, whom he hasn’t seen for the best part of two decades, has been invited here. And uninviting vampires, let alone blood relatives, is never that easy.
“Petey, this is great, but can we do the whole catch-up later?”
“What?”
A theatrical yawn from Wil . “Hard day’s night,” he says. “And way past my bedtime. Don’t worry, though. Don’t get the airbed out. I can puncture those things in my sleep, you know, if I’m having the wrong sort of dream. Get a lot of those nowadays.” Wil puts his sunglasses on and kisses his brother again on the cheek. “I missed you, bro.”
He strides confidently out of the house.
“But—,” says Peter, knowing it is too late.
The door shuts.
Peter remembers how it used to be. His brother always was one step ahead. He stares at the green fuzzy cloud of leaves and the little red dots signifying apples.
“What did he say?” Helen’s voice punctures his thoughts. She sounds tense and expectant.
“He wasn’t listening. He just walked out.”
Helen seems upset at this information rather than cross. “Oh Peter, he’s got to go.”
He nods, wondering how that’s going to be achieved and why for Helen this seems to be the biggest problem they wil face this weekend. Bigger than a dead boy and gossiping vil agers and the police.
She’s there, no more than a meter away from him, yet she might as wel be a dot on the horizon.
He tries to put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, but before it can reach her she has turned back toward the kitchen to load the dishwasher.
A Tantric Diagram of a Right Foot
Next door to the Radleys, in 19 Orchard Lane, everything is quiet.
Lorna Felt is lying in bed next to her
Rowan looks down at the crumbs and smal pieces of uneaten egg on his plate. Is it anger or fear pumping the blood so fast through him now? Somehow he manages to say what is in his head. “What about . . . like . . . moral values?”
His uncle sighs, as if disappointed. “Which ones to go for, that’s the trouble. It’s a crowded market out there, these days. Gives me a headache just thinking about it. I stick to blood. Blood is simpler. With blood, you know exactly where you are.”
“So, you just go around murdering people? That’s what you do?”
Wil says nothing, just looks bemused.
Rowan quivers, like the earth above a living corpse.
Peter enters the room, looking uncomfortable. No , thinks Rowan, Will is definitely the older brother .
“Wil , could we talk?”
“Peter, we could.”
Rowan watches them leave the room. His rash is getting worse, and he gouges at his arm with hard, angry scratches. For the second time in less than twelve hours he wishes he were dead.
Wil eyes the tasteful, muted artwork on the hal way wal . A semiabstract watercolor of an apple tree, with a smal brown H in the bottom corner.
It is Wil whom Peter is looking at, though. He looks good, it has to be said. He has hardly changed at al and must be living the same life he always lived. His older brother, looking at least ten years younger than him, with that roguish glint in his eyes and that air of something— freedom?
danger? life? —Peter lost a long time ago.
“Look, Wil ,” he struggles to say, “I know you’ve made the effort to come here, and it’s real y, real y appreciated, but the thing is . . .”
Wil nods. “An apple tree. You can’t get enough apple trees.”
“What?”
“You know, it’s always the apples, isn’t it, that get al the glory?” says Wil , as if they are having the same conversation. “Always the fucking apples. But no, go for the whole tree. Go for good old father tree.”
Peter realizes what Wil is referring to. “Oh yes, it’s one of Helen’s.”
“But I must admit— watercolor ? I used to like those oil paintings she did. The nudes. She real y used to get her teeth into them.”
“Look, the thing is . . . ,” says Peter, finding it hard to say what Helen wants him to say. His brother, whom he hasn’t seen for the best part of two decades, has been invited here. And uninviting vampires, let alone blood relatives, is never that easy.
“Petey, this is great, but can we do the whole catch-up later?”
“What?”
A theatrical yawn from Wil . “Hard day’s night,” he says. “And way past my bedtime. Don’t worry, though. Don’t get the airbed out. I can puncture those things in my sleep, you know, if I’m having the wrong sort of dream. Get a lot of those nowadays.” Wil puts his sunglasses on and kisses his brother again on the cheek. “I missed you, bro.”
He strides confidently out of the house.
“But—,” says Peter, knowing it is too late.
The door shuts.
Peter remembers how it used to be. His brother always was one step ahead. He stares at the green fuzzy cloud of leaves and the little red dots signifying apples.
“What did he say?” Helen’s voice punctures his thoughts. She sounds tense and expectant.
“He wasn’t listening. He just walked out.”
Helen seems upset at this information rather than cross. “Oh Peter, he’s got to go.”
He nods, wondering how that’s going to be achieved and why for Helen this seems to be the biggest problem they wil face this weekend. Bigger than a dead boy and gossiping vil agers and the police.
She’s there, no more than a meter away from him, yet she might as wel be a dot on the horizon.
He tries to put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, but before it can reach her she has turned back toward the kitchen to load the dishwasher.
A Tantric Diagram of a Right Foot
Next door to the Radleys, in 19 Orchard Lane, everything is quiet.
Lorna Felt is lying in bed next to her
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