Free Requiem by Graham Joyce Page B

coloured pills
was laid out on his bedside cabinet, beside a bottle of blackcurrant juice.
    He was
dozing, but he blinked open his eyes. Seeing Tom, he groped weakly for his
spectacles.
    'Someone
been poisoning you again?' Tom settled uncomfortably on the edge of the bed.
    David raised
his limp arms. 'You won't let me forget.' His voice was feeble. The whites of
his eyes were stained yellow.
    'Have you seen a doctor?'
    'I have. A most unpleasant old friend of
mine.'
    'And? What are you suffering from?'
    'From
surfeit of life, monsieur. Surfeit of life. Are there many cups in the
kitchen?'
    'One or two.'
    'Can
you tell me, please, when people are given a cup, why is it that they cannot
rinse it out after using it? Why? I am forever rinsing out cups.'
    Uncertain
whether a smile was required, Tom offered one. I’ll have a look at them on my
way out.'
    'Humouring
me, is that it? What brings this visit?'
    'I
wanted to ask you something. But you don't look well enough to be bothered.’
    'Ask.'
    Tom produced
a scrap of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. Taking an age to hook his
spectacles around each ear, David finally, carefully, adjusted them on the
bridge of his nose. Though there were only three words inscribed there, he read
the note over like a letter from home. Then he refolded the paper, taking off
his glasses before handing it back.
    'Well? What is it? What does it mean?'
    'It
is Latin. I know enough to tell you what it says. It says: Out of the
depths. Or perhaps it could be rendered: Up from the depths?
    ‘ Up from the depths? But what does
that mean?'
    'Mean?
That's another question. You asked me what it says. I've told you. What
it might mean is another matter entirely.'
    David
closed his eyes and dozed again. He looked peaceful enough. He wasn't a man
who'd been poisoned. Old age had him, and had sprinkled on him a layer of
frost. His chest rose and fell under the blankets, a slight movement.
    Tom decided to
leave him alone. He got up to go, but as his fingers touched the door handle,
he was summoned back to the bedside. 'Tom. Could I ask a small favour in
return?'
    'Of course.'
    'Go to my
wardrobe. There is a jacket I need altering. I want to wear it when I am well
again. I've decided to step outside, for the first time in years.'
    'That's good, David. A fine idea. Is it
this one?'
    'No. The
Harris Tweed, at the back of the wardrobe. Yes, that's it. I bought it in
England a long time ago. Quality. I will wear the Harris Tweed. But you must
take it to the tailor's and have it altered.'
    He
insisted Tom should take it to a friend who'd been in the tailoring business
and who would carry out the alterations for a very modest fee. Concerned that
he should incur no extra expense, he made Tom write down the name of the
tailor, who lived only a few streets away. He knew, David assured all his
measurements.
    The
jacket was old but barely worn. There was a Savile Row label. It smelled of something Tom associated with old men and more than a
trace of naphthalene from the wardrobe. Folding it across his arm, Tom was
about to ask when he should return with the altered jacket, but David had
fallen asleep.
    On his way
out he rang the supervisor's bell. The boy appeared. 'The hotel owner should be
told about the old man in room seven.'
    The boy looked puzzled. 'What is it?'
    'He's very frail.'
    'I know. But he's seen a doctor. What else
can we do?'
    'I
don't know,' Tom said. 'It's just that I don't think he's going to be alive
much longer. He needs proper attention.'
    'He refuses to go to hospital.'
    'But
shouldn't the hotel owner know about his condition?'
    'You
misunderstand,' said the boy. 'He is the owner of the hotel.'
    'What? David Feldberg owns this place?'
    'That's right.'
    Tom
was astonished. 'But he's always complaining about the coffee!'
    'Yes.'
    Tom
went directly from the hotel to the tailor's shop that afternoon. He should
have noticed before reaching the address that all was closed for Shabbat. He'd
forgotten it