Читать книгу Miss Lamp - Christopher Ewart - Страница 8

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Squeak Goes the Wagon.

Delano always hit Paper Boy with a pewter-tipped walking stick. It never occurred to Paper Boy to run away. He didn’t run, scream or argue when he saw the heavy walking stick. Sparks flew when that walking stick hit the sidewalk.

‘Stand still! I’m talking to you, boy! Stop leafing about!’ Delano said, poking him with the cold tip of the walking stick. ‘Do you understand the importance of time, boy? Do you know what it means to be on time? Oh, I’m not finished here yet.’

Delano coughed and spat feebly to the ground. A string of milky spittle joined his chin to the lapel of his loose-fitting mauve satin housecoat. Another jab bruised the pulp behind Paper Boy’s sternum. The spit swung like a chain. ‘We people rely on you for the facts of the day, boy. What would happen if everyone’s facts of the day were late? Huh? I’ll bet you never minded the global implications there, did you, boy? So don’t start it now and don’t start it here.’

He pushed hard on ‘now’ and ‘here.’

‘There would be chaos. Lots and lots of chaos, boy. Do you know what chaos is?’

Paper Boy uncrinkled his shirt.

‘That’s why I got a peephole in my door. And I use it too, so people like you don’t start making chaos for people like me.’

Delano coughed again, swinging a hand into the calm, damp air as if to balance himself. ‘Now give me my damn paper, you imbecile, and don’t waste any more of my time. It’s getting late and I have teeth to pull. Facts is facts, boy.’

Paper Boy thought the smelly, spitty man should use his walking stick properly – to help himself stand up. A walking stick did not belong in the middle of Paper Boy’s paper-thin chest.

‘You be on time tomorrow. Got it?’

Paper Boy’s twelve-year-old legs lost their balance, crunching into the gravel driveway.

‘Get up and give me my paper.’

He handed it over with ink-stained fingers.

‘Stop shaking, boy. Why the hell are you twitching, anyway? Suck it up. I’m not going to tear you limb from limb.’

Paper Boy squeezed the rusty black handle of his red paper wagon, squeaking it away from the smelly, spitty man.

‘Now get off my property, and don’t forget to be on time, Paper Boy.’

Chirps from the trees turned the purple sky to red. Paper Boy checked his watch. The paper wasn’t late at all.