Free An End and a Beginning by James Hanley Page A

way back to the room. He sat down on the cane chair under the window. He watched the traffic below, the people passing by. He stared up at the clock of a neighbouring church. “Yes, I’ll clear out of the place.”
    It was the phrase that came easiest to his tongue, though he never knew to which place he really wanted to go.
    He sat on, heard the clock strike eight, and nine. Then he lay on the bed and fell asleep. At ten o’clock somebody was calling his name. But there was no answer. The voice called again. The man who would answer it was deeply asleep.
    Mrs. Talon was shaking him. “Wake up, somebody wants you,” she said.
    Peter opened his eyes. “Who wants me?”
    â€œSomeone what says he’s your brother.”
    â€œBrother?”
    â€œThat’s right, mister.”
    â€œWhat’s he want?”
    â€œAsk him yourself, he’s coming up now.”
    When Desmond Fury came into the room and saw the man lying on the bed, he could not speak. Nor for a moment or two did he recognise him. He stood there, taking in the surroundings. It had been an awkward position for him. It still was. The door-knob, which was broken, fell to the floor as he closed the door. The man on the bed never turned his head, he seemed not to have noticed the man in the room. He stared upwards. He might be a man fast asleep with his eyes open. Desmond Fury approached the bed and looked at his brother. He held out a big hand. He thought quickly, “This is terrible, I can’t smile.” “Hello,” he said, after fifteen years, then he sat down gingerly on the bed. He was speechless again.
    A candle spluttered, the air was stale. He saw the barred window. The green carpet at his feet had a sickly shine to it. He looked at the ugly mahogany dressing-table, at which giant women must surely have sat. The top of it was a pattern of grease marks made by candles. There was the soapless soap tray, the towel-less rail, the wash-basin and the stone jug, both broken, both a riotous blue. The chair balanced on three legs. He saw the bricked-up grate, the faded photograph on the tiny green-painted mantelpiece. He looked closely at this, it was a diversion from the awkward moment. It showed a seated gentleman, a dog on his knee, doggy eyes staring up into a doggy face, a knowing face. He saw the five-year-old newspaper that had covered the window, and a heavy black headline attracted him. “Greatest heat wave in a quarter of a century. England swelters.”
    Suddenly, quietly, almost without realizing it, he was looking at the man on the bed.
    â€œI’m glad you’re out,” he said, “that’s over anyhow, thank heaven. Will you shake hands?”
    Peter drew up his knees, he took the proffered hand, held it for a moment, then dropped it. He put his arms under the bedclothes. He stretched once more in the bed.
    â€œHe’s changed. I don’t really know him. Hard to believe he’s my brother. Fifteen years is a long time. And all the way here I told myself there would be lots of things to say, many things to discuss, and now I can’t find two words to put together.” The old saying leapt up again. “It’s awkward.”
    He was shocked to notice the grey in his brother’s hair, the lined face, the sunken cheeks, the pallor, the unhealthy look.
    The man on the bed looked straight at him. “You never came.”
    â€œI know. I’m damned sorry about that, Peter, damned sorry. So many things to think of. It hasn’t been easy for me, sometimes——”
    â€œYou never wrote.”
    â€œI know—I hate myself for that, God’s truth I do——”
    â€œKilkey wrote.”
    â€œI admit that. Yes, I’m really sorry about it,” Desmond said, “but you know me, never any good at letters,” and he stopped quickly as he saw the other’s head turn towards the window.
    â€œDid you go to Mother’s