Free Neil Gaiman & Caitlin R. Kiernan & Laird Barron by The Book of Cthulhu Page A

Kirby adduced as evidence of the corruption which this cult wrought, its bringing of four respectable tradesmen to the state of common robbers. Had they not felt the shame of the beliefs they professed, he continued, they had but to petition Mr. Radcliffe for the return of their mislaid property.

    But what beliefs? Ingels demanded. He riffled onward, crumbling yellow fragments from the pages. The tube buzzed like a bright trapped insect. He almost missed the page.

    FOILED ROBBERS AT “THE VARIETY”.
    FIFTH MAN YIELDS HIMSELF TO JUSTICE.

    What fifth man? Ingels searched:

Mr. Poole condemned the cult of which the accused were adherents as conclusive proof of the iniquity of those religions which presume to rival Christianity. He described the cult as “unworthy of the lowest breed of mulatto.”
At this juncture a commotion ensued, as a man entered precipitately and begged leave to address the Court. Some few minutes later Mr. Radcliffe also entered, wearing a resolute expression. When he saw the latecomer, however, he appeared to relinquish his purpose, and took a place in the gallery. The man, meanwhile, sought to throw himself on the Court’s mercy, declaring himself to be the fifth of the robbers. He had been prompted to confess, he affirmed, by a sense of his injustice in allowing his friends to take full blame. His name, he said, was Joseph Ingels

    Who had received a lighter sentence in acknowledgement of his gesture, Ingels saw in a blur at the foot of the column. He hardly noticed. He was still staring at his grandfather’s name.

    “Nice of you to come,” his father said ambiguously. They’d finished decorating, Ingels saw; the flowers on the hall wallpaper had grown and turned bright orange. But the light was still dim, and the walls settled about his eyes like night around a feeble lamp. Next to the coat rack he saw the mirror in which he’d made sure of himself before teenage dates, the crack in one corner where he’d driven his fist, caged by fury and by their incomprehension of his adolescent restlessness. An ugly socket of plaster gaped through the wallpaper next to the supporting nail’s less treacherous home. “I could have hung the mirror for you,” Ingels said, not meaning to disparage his father, who frowned and said “No need.”
    They went into the dining-room, where his mother was setting out the best tablecloth and cutlery. “Wash hands,” she said. “Tea’s nearly ready.”
    They ate and talked. Ingels watched the conversation as if it were a pocket maze into which he had to slip a ball when the opening tilted towards him. “How’s your girlfriend?” his mother said.
    Don’t you know her name? Ingels didn’t say. “Fine,” he said. They didn’t mention Hilary again. His mother produced infant photographs of him they’d discovered in the sideboard drawer. “You were a lovely little boy,” she said. “Speaking of memories,” Ingels said, “do you remember the old Variety theatre?”
    His father was moving his shirt along the fireguard to give himself a glimpse of the fire, his back to Ingels. “The old Variety,” his mother said. “We wanted to take you to a pantomime there once. But,” she glanced at her husband’s back, “when your father got there all the tickets were sold. Then there was the Gaiety,” and she produced a list of theatres and anecdotes.
    Ingels sat opposite his father, whose pipe smoke was pouring up the chimney. “I was looking through our old newspapers,” he said. “I came across a case that involved the Variety.”
    “Don’t you ever work at that paper?” his father said.
    “This was research. It seems there was a robbery at the theatre. Before you were born, it was, but I wonder if you remember hearing about it.”
    “Now, we aren’t all as clever as you,” his mother said. “We don’t remember what we heard in our cradle.”
    Ingels laughed, tightening inside; the opening was turning away from him. “You might have heard