Long Time Coming: A Novel - By Robert Goddard Page 0,3

him on the question of his offence once he’d settled in, but he … dealt with the subject before I could raise it.’

‘How, exactly?’

‘He explained it was a condition of his release that he say nothing about the circumstances leading to his imprisonment.’

‘What?’

‘He explained it was a condition of—’

‘I know. I heard you. I just … don’t believe it.’

‘Really?’ Mum frowned at me in puzzlement. ‘Why on earth not?’

‘Because …’ I broke off and raised two hands in mock surrender. ‘I’m only thinking of you, Mum. How can you trust this man? You know nothing about him.’

‘I know he’s your father’s brother and needs a helping hand. I’ve given him the use of the attic room until Easter. He’s promised to move on by then. I think he’s looking for a flat in Torquay. Meanwhile, he keeps himself to himself and causes me no problem. So, I hope you’re not going to create a problem, dear.’ She gave me a stern look. ‘I really do.’

TWO

I took a long, hot bath that I badly needed and would have found relaxing in normal circumstances. I debated with myself whether I was overreacting and concluded that, even if I was, my mother was certainly underreacting. I’d refrained from asking her whether she thought Dad, if he’d still been alive, would have taken Eldritch in. Pretending he was dead as he had, I seriously doubted it. But maybe Dad had had the advantage of knowing what those mysterious ‘offences against the state’ were. Maybe he’d feigned ignorance on the point because he couldn’t bear to admit to his wife what his own brother had actually done.

While I was soaking in the tub my mother had dug out the letter Eldritch had sent her from prison. It was waiting for me on the bedside cabinet in my room. I read it as I dressed.

It was written in copperplate ballpoint on lined paper, under the printed address Portlaoise Prison.

21st December 1975

Dear Avis (if I may),

You were so good as to write to me when Neville died. I should have acknowledged your letter and offered you my condolences, but, to tell the truth, I have survived these long years of incarceration by ignoring the existence of the outside world, since there appeared to be no prospect of my ever rejoining it.

That state of affairs has now changed. I am told, to my surprise and bewilderment, that I am to be released early in the New Year. This seems only to confirm what a fellow convict who had been here even longer than I have once averred. They free you only when freedom is no longer of any use to you.

I have, to put it plainly, nowhere to go and no one to turn to but your good self. If you could see your way to accommodating me for a few weeks after my release, I would be deeply grateful. You wrote that you run a guesthouse. I wonder therefore if at this time of year you would be able to spare me a room. I could pay you rent, though I should tell you that my means are severely limited.

You should also know that my imprisonment has not been on account of any violent crime committed by me. I did not kill or injure anyone. I can say no more than that. Perhaps Neville acquainted you with the circumstances of my confinement. I am not aware how much or how little he knew.

If you prefer not to reply to this letter, I shall entirely understand your position and will make no further contact. I hope, however, that you may feel able to help me.

Sincerely yours,

Eldritch

The old fellow had a nice line in self-pitying ingratiation. There was no doubt about that. Though he had never met my mother, he had pitched his appeal to her softer instincts perfectly.

I caught my first sight of him while I was unpacking. I passed the window and glimpsed a figure in the street. I knew it was him before I’d even stopped to look down. There was something in his build and posture that reminded me of my father. And surely, yes, the raincoat he was wearing had belonged to my father. Mum must have kept it, though hardly with this contingency in mind. It was another reason to dislike the man, to add to all the other reasons to distrust him.

He was walking slowly towards Zanzibar, one hand thrust into a pocket of the raincoat, the other busy with a cigarette.