Free Touched by Angels by Alan Watts Page A

however much she endeavoured to change things, or make him read the Bible.
    She sighed long and hard as she looked at the book too, sitting next to the bag, as if God himself had placed it there, as a pious reminder.
    That little voice was back. ‘Honesty won’t pay the bills,’ it whispered slyly. ‘It won’t clothe or feed you. It won’t pay your ticket to a street without whooping cough and consumption.’
    She exhaled long and hard as her gaze turned back to the money. She looked at the body too, and the same question popped up in her head. What was she to do about him? She closed her eyes, put her elbows on the table and put her face in her hands, as her brain raced.
    She knew she had no choice. He would have to go and the money would have to stay.
    More than an hour had passed since King had arrived, and she knew, as she threw a blanket over him, that his disposal would be difficult.
    If she started digging in the back yard, she was likely to attract attention, because there were too many windows and too many people used the back alley, as well as the stray dogs that might try and dig him up. It would also have to be done during the hours of darkness, which would fuel any suspicion.
    She considered dumping him in the stinking canal that took the sewage from Canary Wharf into the Thames, knowing the rats would dismember him in no time, as they did the tramps and drunks who sometimes fell in, but again, there was the risk of him being found.
    Robert asked again, “What are we going to do?”
    “There is only one thing we can do. In the morning, we will lift the floor boards, put him under them and put them back.”
    ‘There, you’ve said it,’ the little voice purred. ‘No going back now.’
    Robert was silent for a few moments, before adding with hope in his eyes, “Then, will we leave here forever?”
    “No! That would be the stupidest thing we could do. King was a rich man and rich people have many friends. If they suddenly go missing, questions are asked. Nobody cares about the poor, people like us, so nobody asks. That is a sad fact of life we can turn to our advantage for when we do disappear.”
     
    ***
     
    Hours later, daylight was vague and muted through the curtains as she asked, yawning, “What do you want to eat?”
    “I’m not hungry.”
    “Rubbish! You’re a growing boy. You must.”
    She dragged herself up, blinking away both sleep and the horrible dreams that had plagued her, while Robert looked wearily at the body again, and whispered, “We won’t go to Heaven now, will we?”
    He flinched as she gripped his forearms tightly and stared into his eyes.
    “Now you jolly well listen to me! What’s done is done. It was a genuine accident, not murder. That is the difference, added to which, he was not here on some errand of mercy. He was threatening us and didn’t care one hoot who murdered his father, or what would become of us. If we know that, then come the day of reckoning, God will know it too, all right?”
    He nodded.
    She prepared them some bread and cheese, with milk to wash it down.
    Later she sent him down the garden to get the jemmy from the outside toilet that his father had used in the past to prize up the floorboards, to stash bootleg alcohol.
     
    ***
     
    The toilet backed onto their neighbour’s and he could hear old Mr Digweed, a grouchy, miserable character with a limp, the other side, cursing as he pulled the chain for about the eighth time, before walking out and slamming the door, which bounced back open with a juddering noise.
    Robert had enough sense to wait until he had made his way back down the path, before venturing out, taking the time to relieve himself while he waited. He didn’t bother pulling the chain, because theirs had never worked. His mother had always tipped a pail of water down at the end of every day, from the kitchen tap.
    He thought of his father as he made his way back, the jemmy concealed under his coat. He could see him very clearly in