Free The Disappearance Boy by Neil Bartlett Page A

afternoon in the library, ploughing a solitary furrow through all the papers. He read (among other things) about how a florist in Kensington was preparing to fly eighteen boxes of white orchids in from the South of France to meet the extravagance of the anticipated demand during the pre-Coronation Season . I’d like to see that, he thought. On the Wednesday, he went back and went upstairs to the reference section, and looked up the entry headed ‘Coronation’ in his favourite encyclopedia – he’d been too young for the last one, after all, and wanted to get a better idea of what was actually going to happen on the day. On Thursday he did what he always did on Thursday, which was to check his mantelpiece money-tin. He reluctantly agreed with himself that he’d probably better not trek over to the Broadway that evening to treat himself to a ticket for the Rigolettos, and just went out for a good pavement-pounding walk instead. On Friday and Saturday he caught up with his darning, found a cake shop with a window display of special-occasion icing which he promised himself he’d return to after Mr Brookes had got their next booking, and had tinned fish for his dinner, twice. On the Sunday he walked to Clapham High Street to save the fare and only got the bus to his cemetery from there.
    It was rather crowded that morning, because the sun was properly out now, and the woman with the daffodils reappeared and unsettled him further by speaking to him, so he didn’t stay long, spending barely half an hour on his bench. On the way home he treated himself to a saccharine-glazed bun from the Gipsy Hill Station buffet by way of compensation, but when he got back to his room he looked in his savings tin again and reminded himself that the second week of resting between bookings was never quite so much fun as the first, and that he needed to pull in his horns.
    The next week passed slowly; the weather improved, but not much else. At six o’clock on the Saturday, there was a knock on his door.

    He could hear Mr Brookes’s voice buzzing out of the receiver on the hall table even before he picked it up. Apparently – Reg didn’t get quite all of this, because Mr Brookes was in a pub, and having to shout – apparently something had turned up. The spot was third on the bill at the Brighton Grand, starting on Monday week – there’d been an accident – second-act only, and the management was hoping to string out the bill for three weeks, God help them. He’d have to find a new girl of course, and there was nothing much that could be done in that department on a Saturday night, but he’d keep Reg posted, and with any luck they’d be able to –
    At this point, Mr Brookes was cut off by someone saying they needed to use the fucking telephone, if he didn’t fucking mind. Reg explained to his landlady as best he could what the situation was – she’d stayed to listen – then had his tea, and then went to bed early. At ten o’clock, he was woken by another knock at his door – an angry one, this time.

    Mr Brookes, still shouting, said that he’d struck lucky, and wanted to know if Reg could meet him at Victoria Station in time for the five nineteen train – yes, Reg, the five nineteen on Monday – because they’d be rehearsing in Brighton, on bloody stage, would you bloody believe? Then he rang off, laughing and shouting that something needed taking care of straight away, and that he’d explain everything else on the train.
    He’d have to forget the cemetery tomorrow morning, was Reg’s first thought – there’d be too much to do. Why did everything with Mr Brookes have to be so bloody last minute?

    What with a rush-hour jam on the way to Victoria, a forgotten valise and a final limping dash to check that the skip and apparatus had been loaded safely together in the same luggage car, the phrase turned out to be literal for once. Reg barely had time to get a word in with Mr Brookes at the station, and it wasn’t