Free 10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) by Ian Rankin Page B

John?’
    ‘Four. Maybe a little after.’
    He slid his arm from beneath her and rose to leave the room.
    ‘Do you want anything to drink?’ he said.
    ‘What did you have in mind?’
    ‘Coffee maybe. It’s hardly worth going to sleep now, but if you feel sleepy, don’t mind me.’
    ‘No, I’ll take a cup of coffee.’
    Rebus knew from her voice, from its slurred growliness, that she would be fast asleep by the time he reached the kitchen.
    ‘Okay,’ he said.
    He made himself a cup of dark, sweet coffee and slumped into a chair with it. He turned on the living-room’s small gas fire and began to read one of his books. He was seeing Sammy today, and his mind wandered from the story in front of him, a tale of intrigue which he could not remember having started. Sammy was nearly twelve. She had survived many years of danger, and now, for her, other dangers were imminent. The perverts in watch, the ogling old men, the teenage cock-fighters, would be supplemented by the new urges of boys her age, and boys she already knew as friends would become sudden and forceful hunters. How would she cope with it? If her mother had anything to do with it, she would cope admirably, biting in a clinch and ducking on the ropes. Yes, she would survive without her father’s advice and protection.
    The kids were harder these days. He thought back to his own youth. He had been Mickey’s big brother, fighting battles for the two of them, going home to watch his brother coddled by his father. He had pushed himself further into the cushions on the settee, hoping to disappear one day. Then they’d be sorry. Then they’d be sorry . . .
    At seven-thirty he went through to the musky bedroom, which smelt two parts sex to one part animal lair, and kissed Gill awake.
    ‘It’s time,’ he said. ‘Get up, I’ll run you a bath.’
    She smelt good, like a baby on a fireside towel. He admired the shapes of her twisted body as they awoke to the thin, watery sunlight. She had a good body all right. No realstretch-marks. Her legs unscarred. Her hair just tousled enough to be inviting.
    ‘Thanks.’
    She had to be at HQ by ten in order to co-ordinate the next press release. There could be no rest. The case was still growing like a cancer. Rebus filled the bath, wincing at the rim of grime around it. He needed a cleaning-lady. Perhaps he could get Gill to do it.
    Another unworthy thought, forgive me .
    Which brought him to think of church-going. It was another Sunday, after all, and for weeks he had been promising himself that he would try again, would find another church in the city and would try all over again.
    He hated congregational religion. He hated the smiles and the manners of the Sunday-dressed Scottish Protestant, the emphasis on a communion not with God but with your neighbours. He had tried seven churches of varying denominations in Edinburgh, and had found none to be to his liking. He had tried sitting for two hours at home of a Sunday, reading the Bible and saying a prayer, but somehow that did not work either. He was caught; a believer outwith his belief. Was a personal faith good enough for God? Perhaps, but not his personal faith, which seemed to depend upon guilt and his feelings of hypocrisy whenever he sinned, a guilt assuaged only by public show.
    ‘Is my bath ready, John?’
    She re-tousled her hair, naked and confident, her glasses left behind in the bedroom. John Rebus felt his soul to be imperilled. Sod it, he thought, catching her around the hips. Guilt could wait. Guilt could always wait.
    He had to mop up the bathroom floor afterwards, empirical evidence that Archimedes’ displacement of water had beenproved once again. The bath-water had flowed like milk and honey, and Rebus had nearly drowned.
    Still, he felt better now.
    ‘Lord, I am a poor sinner,’ he whispered, as Gill dressed. She looked stern and efficient when she opened the front-door, almost as if she had been on a twenty-minute official visit.
    ‘Can we