left hand, but misjudged the movement. The glass crashed to the floor, splashing his slippers and the bottoms of his trousers. Swearing, Webber returned to the intercom. The man was still there.
‘I’m rather busy at the moment,’ he said. ‘Surely this is something that can be discussed during normal hours.’
‘One would have thought so,’ came the reply, ‘but we seem to be having trouble getting your attention. A number of messages have been left with your service, and at your place of business. If we did not know better, we might have begun to believe that you are deliberately avoiding us.’
‘But what is this about?’
‘Mr. Webber, you’re trying my patience, just as you have tried the patience of the foundation.’
Webber gave in. ‘All right, I’m coming.’
He looked at the wine pooling on the black-and-white tiled floor, carefully avoiding the broken glass. Such a shame, he thought, as he discarded his apron. He made his way to the front door, pausing only to remove the gun from the hall stand and slip it into the back of his trousers beneath his cardigan. The weapon was small and easily concealed. He checked his reflection in the mirror, just to be sure, and opened the door.
The man on the doorstep was smaller than he expected, and dressed in a dark blue suit that might, at one point, have been an expensive purchase, but now looked dated, although it had survived the intervening years with a degree of grace. There was a blue and white spotted handkerchief in the breast pocket that matched the man’s tie. His head was still lowered, but now it was part of the gesture of removing his hat. For a moment, Webber had a strange vision of the hat coming off and taking the top of the visitor’s head with it, like an egg that has been neatly broken, permitting him to peer into the cavity of the skull. Instead, there were only loose strands of white hair like tendrils of cotton candy, and a domed head that came to a discernible point. Then the man looked up at him, and, instinctively, Webber took a small step back.
The face was quite pale, the nostrils slim dark holes cut into the base of the narrow, perfectly straight nose. The skin around the eyes was wrinkled and bruised. It spoke of illness and decay. The eyes themselves were barely visible, obscured as they were by folds of skin that had descended on them from the forehead like wax melting from an impure candle. Below the eyeballs, red flesh was visible, and Webber thought that this individual must have been constantly irritated by grit and dust.
But then the man clearly had other distractions when it came to pain. His upper lip was distorted, reminding Webber of those photographs in Sunday newspapers of children with cleft palates that were used to elicit charitable donations, except this was no cleft palate: it was a wound, an arrowhead incision into the skin exposing white teeth and discolored gums. It was also grossly infected, red raw and speckled in places with purple dots darkening to black. Webber thought that he could almost see the bacteria eating away at the flesh, and wondered at how this man could bear the torment, and what kind of drugs he would have to take just to allow him to sleep. In fact, how could he even bear to look at himself in a mirror and be reminded of his body’s betrayal and his own clearly imminent mortality? His age was impossible to surmise because of his illness, but Webber put him at between fifty and sixty, even allowing for the depredations he was suffering.
‘Mr. Webber,’ he said and, despite his wound, his voice was soft and pleasant. ‘Let me introduce myself. My name is Herod.’ He smiled, and Webber had to force his face to remain still and not register his disgust, for he feared that the movement of the visitor’s facial muscles would tear the wound on his lip still further, opening it to the septum. ‘I am often asked if I am fond of children. I take the question in good spirit.’
Webber
‘I’m rather busy at the moment,’ he said. ‘Surely this is something that can be discussed during normal hours.’
‘One would have thought so,’ came the reply, ‘but we seem to be having trouble getting your attention. A number of messages have been left with your service, and at your place of business. If we did not know better, we might have begun to believe that you are deliberately avoiding us.’
‘But what is this about?’
‘Mr. Webber, you’re trying my patience, just as you have tried the patience of the foundation.’
Webber gave in. ‘All right, I’m coming.’
He looked at the wine pooling on the black-and-white tiled floor, carefully avoiding the broken glass. Such a shame, he thought, as he discarded his apron. He made his way to the front door, pausing only to remove the gun from the hall stand and slip it into the back of his trousers beneath his cardigan. The weapon was small and easily concealed. He checked his reflection in the mirror, just to be sure, and opened the door.
The man on the doorstep was smaller than he expected, and dressed in a dark blue suit that might, at one point, have been an expensive purchase, but now looked dated, although it had survived the intervening years with a degree of grace. There was a blue and white spotted handkerchief in the breast pocket that matched the man’s tie. His head was still lowered, but now it was part of the gesture of removing his hat. For a moment, Webber had a strange vision of the hat coming off and taking the top of the visitor’s head with it, like an egg that has been neatly broken, permitting him to peer into the cavity of the skull. Instead, there were only loose strands of white hair like tendrils of cotton candy, and a domed head that came to a discernible point. Then the man looked up at him, and, instinctively, Webber took a small step back.
The face was quite pale, the nostrils slim dark holes cut into the base of the narrow, perfectly straight nose. The skin around the eyes was wrinkled and bruised. It spoke of illness and decay. The eyes themselves were barely visible, obscured as they were by folds of skin that had descended on them from the forehead like wax melting from an impure candle. Below the eyeballs, red flesh was visible, and Webber thought that this individual must have been constantly irritated by grit and dust.
But then the man clearly had other distractions when it came to pain. His upper lip was distorted, reminding Webber of those photographs in Sunday newspapers of children with cleft palates that were used to elicit charitable donations, except this was no cleft palate: it was a wound, an arrowhead incision into the skin exposing white teeth and discolored gums. It was also grossly infected, red raw and speckled in places with purple dots darkening to black. Webber thought that he could almost see the bacteria eating away at the flesh, and wondered at how this man could bear the torment, and what kind of drugs he would have to take just to allow him to sleep. In fact, how could he even bear to look at himself in a mirror and be reminded of his body’s betrayal and his own clearly imminent mortality? His age was impossible to surmise because of his illness, but Webber put him at between fifty and sixty, even allowing for the depredations he was suffering.
‘Mr. Webber,’ he said and, despite his wound, his voice was soft and pleasant. ‘Let me introduce myself. My name is Herod.’ He smiled, and Webber had to force his face to remain still and not register his disgust, for he feared that the movement of the visitor’s facial muscles would tear the wound on his lip still further, opening it to the septum. ‘I am often asked if I am fond of children. I take the question in good spirit.’
Webber
Similar Books
