Книга Thicker Than Water — читать онлайн бесплатно полностью

From London to Liverpool is three hours or so with good traffic: in America people drive further than that to pick up a carton of milk."

"So I brought her up to speed on my life, going light on the succubi, zombies and were-beasts and heavy on my recent wanderings after Pen kicked me out of her house. I know my audience, you see: Mum favours Matt because he went to God and I went to the devil. So when she asked me if I was seeing anyone, I ducked the whole story of my infatuation with Juliet, and how a demon from Hell had ditched me for a Sapphic fling with a church warden.

‘I’ve been seeing a nurse,’ I told her, which was unassailable truth and could be said without blushing.

All of this was really just a way of not talking about Matt, and when I ran out of anecdotes that were fit to print, I found I still wasn’t ready to go there.

‘You getting out much?’ I asked, throwing the ball of procrastination into her court.

Mum shook her head emphatically. ‘What for, Fix? I’ve got everything I need here in this room.

I watch the telly, listen to the radio. Put a bet on, when it’s the flat season. You know me and my accumulators. Three cross doubles . . .’ ‘. . . And a treble,’ I finished. ‘The mini-Yankee. Yeah, I remember. Still listening to Sing Something Simple?’

‘It’s not on any more,’ she said. ‘But there’s still Billy Butler on a Saturday.’

Billy Butler, and his Sony bronze award-winning show, Hold Your Plums. It used to have Matt and me giggling our heads off when we were kids.

Only Scousers could come up with a radio quiz based on a fruit machine, with a robotic voice telling you what was showing on each reel.

‘Billy Butler,’ I said. ‘Christ.’ It was the only comment that seemed to fit.

‘Oh aye,’ Mum agreed. ‘I never change, me. I’ve had enough changes in my life, Fix. I’m happy with what I’ve got, these days.’

What you’ve got is nothing, Mum, I thought but didn’t say. Everyone you used to know is dead or somewhere else.

And you’re stuck here in Walton like a fly caught in amber. Although pale ale doesn’t quite have that golden-brown lustre to it. It’s more the colour of piss.

‘Ever see anyone from Arthur Street?’ I asked.

This time Mum didn’t answer. She looked at me thoughtfully, waiting for more. ‘Anyone from the old days, I mean,’ I clarified.

Still nothing. She took another long swig from her glass.

‘I know a lot of people moved to the Triangle,’ I went on.