Robert Goddard - Out of the sun

Out of the Sun by Robert Godddard

Also by Robert Goddard

PAST CARING

IN PALE BATTALIONS

PAINTING THE DARKNESS

INTO THE BLUE

TAKE NO FAREWELL

HAND IN GLOVE

CLOSED CIRCLE

BORROWED TIME

Robert Goddard

OUT OF THE SUN

BANTAM PRESS

LONDON NEW YORK TORONTO SYDNEY AUCKLAND

TRANS WORLD PUBLISHERS LTD

61-63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA

TRANS WORLD PUBLISHERS (AUSTRALIA) PTY LTD 15-23 Helles Avenue, Moorebank, NSW 2170

TRANS WORLD PUBLISHERS (NZ) LTD 3 William Pickering Drive, Albany, Auckland

Published 1996 by Bantam Press a division of Transworld Publishers Ltd

Copyright Robert Goddard 1996

The right of Robert Goddard to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents

Act 1988.

All of the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

is purely coincidental.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 0593 03614X

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means,

electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording,

or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Typeset in 11/12 '/ipt Linotype Times by Kestrel Data, Exeter, Devon.

Printed in Great Britain by Mackays of Chatham plc, Chatham, Kent.

OUT OF THE SUN

ONE

If he left now, of course, or even five minutes from now, it would still be all right. The only problem was that he was not going to leave. He knew that. And so did she.

Top up?"

"Better not. I won't be able to see to paint straight."

Then don't try."

"What about Claude? He won't be pleased if the job's not finished by the weekend."

"I'll tell him it rained."

"Will he believe you?"

"Who cares? Now, what about that drink?"

"You shouldn't tempt me."

"Who says I'm trying to?" She tipped the bottle and gin fizzed into his glass.

Trying or not," he said, raising the glass to his lips and swallowing some of the strengthened mixture with deliberate relish, 'you do."

"Do I?"

"Oh yes. Very much. And I've never been any good at resisting temptation."

"Haven't you?"

"No."

That's funny."

"Why?"

"Because neither have I, Harry."

Thirty-four years, three months and several days later, Harry Barnett's thoughts found nothing to tempt him as he trudged south along Scrubs Lane into a stiff autumnal breeze soured by traffic fumes and an ammoniated cocktail of industrial pollution. A top up was definitely not in order. Glancing from the crest of the railway bridge out across the pale expanse of Kensal Green Cemetery, its sepulchred ranks an even colder shade of grey than the grimy London sky, Harry would have agreed that just about the last thing his life needed at the moment was an extra dose of any one of its dismal ingredients.

Not the least dismal of those ingredients was his part-time job at the Mitre Bridge Service Station, which lay halfway down Scrubs Lane towards the A40 fly over He was already late for his five-hour stint of cash-counting and card-swiping, but his right ankle was giving him such gyp following a stumble on the way home from the Stonemasons' Arms last night that acceleration was out of the question. Besides, Shafiq was an understanding fellow. For a Muslim, he was really amazingly tolerant of the scrapes a chap could get into after a few too many. He would complain, of course. That was only to be expected. That was, in a sense, how both of them retained their sanity.

Strangely, however, when Harry turned into the forecourt at Mitre Bridge a few minutes later and made his way none too quickly through the petrol-marbled puddles towards the shop, Shafiq looked up from behind the counter with an expression of puzzled sympathy rather than the over-rehearsed scowl Harry had expected. As a result, before he had even pushed open the door, he was worried. Though not, as it was to turn out, half as worried as he should have been.

"Harry, my friend," said Shafiq, 'it is good to see you." There's no need to be sarcastic. I got here as soon as "I am not being sarcastic, Harry. How could you think such a thing?"

"Easily. But never mind. I'm here now. You can beetle off home." "In the circumstances, I would not dream of it." Harry stopped in his tracks, anorak half on and half off. "What are you on about?"

"Mr. Crowther would not object if you went straight to the hospital, I feel sure."

Shrugging his anorak back on, Harry moved to the counter and leant across it, staring into Shafiq's plump and frowning face. "Have you been sniffing the anti-freeze, Shafiq? What the hell are you talking about?"

"I am sorry, Harry. I am not explaining properly. But it was a surprise. A shock, actually. I had no idea you even had a son."

Now it was Harry's turn to frown. "Son?"

"Yes. They phoned about twenty minutes ago. Your son is in the National Neurological Hospital. I have the room number."

Birdsong and the scent of fresh paint drifted through the net-curtained window as Harry's breathing returned to normal. From the corner of his eye, he could see the trail of discarded clothes leading from the door to the bed they lay on. In his mind, every tug and twist of their removal was already a delicious memory. Though not as delicious as what had followed. Nor as headily alluring as the pleasures that might still be his to savour.

She was lying on her side, her back turned to him. Ashamed already, perhaps? Regretting, now the spasm was past, the desire she had succumbed to? He reached out and ran his fingers slowly down her spine, then let his hand fan out to cradle her bottom and slide in between her legs. And from the throaty chuckle she gave in response, he knew shame and regret were not going to be a problem. Not for her. And certainly not for him.

"Do it to me again, Harry," she murmured, parting her thighs in invitation.

"Are you sure you want me to?"

"Didn't my husband tell you to do whatever I asked?"

"Yes, Mrs. Yenning. He did."

Then what are you waiting for?" Her breath was quickening again as he stroked her. "Once is never enough for a proper finish."

"How many times would be?"

"I'll tell you later," she replied, giving way to a moan. "Much later."

"I don't have a son, Shafiq. Or a daughter. I don't have any children at all. I'm the last of the Barnetts. Chingachgook without Uncas. The end of the line. The absolute dead end. OK?"

"If you say so, Harry."

"I do. This bloke who phoned you '

"It could have been a woman, you know? One of those strange voices you can't pin down."

"Whoever. Whatever. They've got it wrong. It's some other poor sod's son in that hospital."

"But they had your name. Harry Barnett."

There must be dozens of Harry Barnetts around. Hundreds, probably."

"Only one of them works here."

"Very amusing. Now shove off, will you? I'm busy." He nodded towards the forecourt, where three cars had pulled in more or less simultaneously.

"All right. If you're sure."

"I'm sure."

Shafiq fondled his moustache for a moment, then sighed to no particular purpose and sloped away. Harry was glad to see him go, hoping that in his absence he could forget the strangely disturbing notion that he might somewhere have a son. Given the kind of life he had led, it was difficult to be as certain on the point as he had claimed to be for Shafiq's benefit. Difficult, if not impossible. On the other hand, the last ten or twelve years had been so predominantly celibate, despite encompassing his only experience of matrimony, that any unwitting paternity on his part must lie so far in the past that it would surely have caught up with him long ago if it was ever going to.