Savage - By Richard Laymon Page 0,1

fell, but he took a keen delight in regailing me (when Mother wasn’t about) with gory descriptions of what he’d seen. Oh, his eyes merrily flashed with mischief and relish! I’ve no doubt he was quite amused at how I must’ve blanched. However, I was always eager to hear more.

Tonight, awaiting Mother’s return, I wished I knew nothing of the Ripper.

I told myself there was no reason to fear that he might strike her down. After all, one-legged Liz’s flat was no closer to the East End than our own. The Ripper would have to roam far from his usual hunting grounds before coming into our neighborhoods. Besides, it was still too early in the night for him to be out stalking. And he only killed whores.

Mother certainly ought to be safe from him.

But I made my head sore with worrying. By and by, I set the book aside and took to pacing the floor, all in a bother. I’d been at this a while before a door shut down below. That was followed by heavy, staggering footfalls on the stairway. Mother’s step was usually quick and light. Curious, I hurried out and peered down the stairs.

There, struggling beneath the weight of Rolfe Barnes, was Mother.

“Mum!”

“Give us a hand.”

I rushed down and took the other side of the rascal. He was soaked to the bone and stank of rum. Though he hardly seemed able to keep his legs beneath him as we wrestled him up the stairs, he mumbled and growled, deep in his cups.

“We aren’t taking him in, are we now?”

“We most certainly are. Mind your tongue, young man. He might’ve perished in the street.”

And such a shame that would’ve been, I thought. But I held my tongue. Barnes had a habit of turning into a brutish lout after he’d taken a few sips, going foul of mouth and mean of temper. However, he’d fought at my father’s side in the second Afghan war. The way he told it, they’d been great chums to the bitter end. I always reckoned him a liar on that score, but Mother wasn’t about to find fault with the man. From the very start, she’d treated him like a regular member of the family.

Not that she was gone over him. She had the good sense, at least, to reject his amorous advances (so far as I know). Even after declining his marriage proposal some years ago, however, she’d never turned him away from our door.

And tonight, by all appearances, she had dragged him through it.

“Where did you find him?” I asked as we fought our way up the stairs.

“He’d fallen in a heap in front of the Boar’s Head.”

“Ah,” said I. The pub was just at the corner. “He was likely waiting in ambuscade, and fell in his heap when he saw you coming along.”

“Trevor!”

With that, I concentrated on the job at hand.

Barnes grumbled and cursed all the while as we helped him into our flat. Mother responded with murmurs of “Poor fellow” and “You’re soaked through” and “You’ll catch your death for sure” and “What shall we do with you?”

What we did with him was remove his coat and settle him down on the sofa. It fell upon me to remove his sodden boots while Mother took off her own coat, then hurried off to make tea.

I reckon it was her mistake, leaving me alone with him.

My mistake, speaking up.

I spoke up mostly to myself. Muttering, really. I didn’t expect a chap in his condition to hear me, much less comprehend.

What I said was, “Bloody cur.”

Quick as the words left my lips, his fist met my nose and sent me reeling backward. I dropped to the floor. In the next few moments, Barnes proved himself quite lively for a fellow far gone with drink. He bounded over to me, dropped onto my chest, and pounded me nearly senseless before Mother came running to my aid.

“Rolfe!” she shouted.

He clubbed my face once more with his huge fist. Then he tumbled off as Mother tugged his hair. My mind all a fog, I tried to muster the strength to rise. But I could only lie there and watch while Barnes grabbed Mother’s wrist and scurried up. He pulled her to him and struck her face such a blow that it rocked her head sideways and sent spittle flying from her lips. Then he flung her across the room. She fell against an armchair with such force that she rammed it into the wall. On