Death Row - Mark Pearson [12]
‘Only me and Archie.’
Rosemary Woods was a tall strident red-haired woman in her forties. She came into the room, tugging an eight-year-old boy behind her. While her hair was a tamed auburn, hanging straight to her shoulders, her son Archie’s hair was wild and curly, such a dark brown that it was almost black. He had hazel, impish eyes, and was tugging on his mother’s hand, clearly not happy to be there. Rosemary shook his hand angrily and glared at him and Archie let go. Rosemary took off his padded coat.
‘Now you just behave for your grandfather.’
Beneath the coat Archie was wearing the brand-new Chelsea strip, bright blue with SAMSUNG written in bold white letters across it, over a pair of jeans and black and white trainers. ‘I want to go to Johnny’s house,’ he said. But he quietened as his mother turned to him with another exasperated look.
‘Well, for the hundredth time, you’re not! You’re staying here with Grandpa this morning like we arranged.’ Rosemary reached into her bag and brought out a coloured jumper with a large cartoon giraffe on the front. ‘If you get cold, put this on.’
She handed him the jumper and stepped smartly over to her father’s chair, whipping the cigarette out of his trembling hand and stubbing it out forcefully in an old pub ashtray he kept on the table by his side.
‘Rosemary …’ He started to object.
‘Don’t “Rosemary” me. You know what the doctors have said.’
‘Doctors. What do they know?’
‘They know what an X-ray is. And they know how to read them. What are you trying to do, kill yourself?’
‘Well, it would make you happy, wouldn’t it?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Dad!’
‘And your husband. Maybe he wouldn’t have to be away from home so much. Sell the house and he could cut back on all those trips to the Continent. Maybe sell the truck and open a little café. That’s what you want, isn’t it?’
‘What I want has got nothing to do with it.’
‘See me in my grave and you’d be frying eggs and flipping bacon before the sod’s even settled.’ Graham let out another hacking cough.
Rosemary shook her head as she crossed to the wall and turned the dial on the thermostat up. ‘Daft old sod, more like.’ She turned to her son. ‘Sit quietly on the couch and Grandpa will let you watch your cartoons in a minute.’
The boy hopped up on the sofa, crossing his arms resentfully. ‘I could have just gone to Johnny’s.’
‘Stop looking like that,’ she said, looking at her watch. ‘I told you it’s too early. I’ll be back by eleven and you can see him then.’ She picked up the ashtray from the side table and emptied it into the fireplace that had been set but not lit. ‘And what would happen if you fell asleep and dropped a cigarette?’ she snapped at her father. ‘Do you want the whole house to go up in flames with you in it?’
Graham shared a sympathetic look with his grandson. ‘We’re all going to hell. It’s just a question of when.’
Rosemary buttoned up her coat. ‘Why don’t you take him down to the allotment if the weather improves? But make him wear his jumper – it’s cold out!’
‘Maybe.’
‘Though why you have still got it is beyond me. You don’t grow anything on it any more.’
‘I keep it neat, don’t I?’
‘Well, if it gets you out in the fresh air it can’t hurt, I suppose.’
‘It’s what the doctors said.’
‘If it’s not cold or raining is what they said! And just so long as you don’t just sit in that filthy shed smoking your lungs to ruination.’ Rosemary picked up his packet of cigarettes and put them in her pocket. ‘Why don’t I take these with me, just to be sure?’
She turned to the TV as the news came back on. A picture of Peter Garnier filled the screen and Rosemary shuddered. ‘Can’t you turn that over? Just the thought of it makes my blood run cold.’ She looked over at her son and back at her dad. ‘Put the cartoons on for him.’
Graham Harper fumbled the remote control into his hand and changed the channel.
‘That’s better. I’ll be back for eleven