James Jenkins - The Valancourt Book of World Horror Stories. Volume 1

He waited for her to set the juice and ham down before clearing his throat. ‘Listen, we’re going to have to ask you to go.’

The boy looked up at him. ‘Why?’

‘Why? Because you can’t just go into the homes of people you don’t know and expect to be waited on. We gave you permission to use our bathroom, but that was it. You must be able to understand that?’

‘Not really,’ said the boy. ‘You seem to have tons of food.’

‘Okay, party’s over.’ He leaned over the boy and sensed how she was holding her breath in the background. ‘If you don’t understand it in the normal way, then let’s try this: What’s your name, and where do you live? I’ll call your parents and have them come get you.’

The boy shrugged his shoulders. ‘If that’s your plan, then why should I tell you?’

‘Fine, then I’ll call the police instead. No doubt they can convince you better than I can.’

‘And what do you plan to tell them?’

‘That a boy has forced his way into our home and won’t leave.’

‘You invited me in yourselves,’ the boy pointed out.

‘Yes, but under false pretenses. Is there even a national collection drive today, and does Neglected Victims even exist? It’s illegal to make fake collections.’

‘I don’t know what collection you’re talking about.’

‘But – ’ He looked around for the boy’s collection box, but he couldn’t catch sight of it. ‘We gave you money,’ he said.

‘I don’t know anything about that.’

‘You’ve stolen from us!’

The boy frowned. ‘I still don’t know what you’re talking about. But it can’t possibly be theft, if you yourself gave the money away.’

He had never been closer to hitting a child before and had to find hitherto unknown strength to restrain himself. He took a deep breath and counted slowly to twenty. Backwards.

‘For the last time,’ he said. ‘Give us our money back and leave our home. Then we’ll forget the rest.’

The boy shook his head. ‘I haven’t taken your money. Check for yourself.’

He looked at her.

‘Just a second,’ she said and went out to the hall. He heard her rummage around out there and open first one door and then another and finally the front door. Then she came back. From her astonished facial expression he already knew what she was going to say before she opened her mouth.

‘All the bills were there?’ he said.

She nodded.

‘What about the box?’

‘I didn’t see it anywhere.’

He gaped and stared at the boy, who looked back at him with an innocent expression.

‘How?’

‘You know, the food’s getting cold,’ said the boy.

The boy wiped his mouth with the back side of his hand.

‘Thanks for the food,’ he said. ‘It tasted delicious.’

‘You’re welcome,’ she said automatically.

They all three sat at the table, but only the boy had eaten. He had launched himself at the food with an appetite that had almost frightened them and for a moment made them consider whether he really had been starving. Their compassion evaporated, though, just as quickly as it had come, when he began to smack loudly and dip his fingers in the strawberry jam. Not once had he used the cutlery, with the result that he had bits of food around his mouth and there was a flood of crumbs, blobs, crusts, and peels on the table and the floor. That was enough to make them lose their own appetites.

The whole time he had sat and stared the boy down, but apparently without effect.

‘Now you’ve got what you came for. Will you be so good as to go home to your parents?’

The boy belched. ‘I can’t do that.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t have parents or a home.’

‘You must live somewhere.’

‘Yes, but it’s not home to me.’

‘All right, then bugger off back to the institution you escaped from, and don’t bother us anymore.’

‘Honey,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘You can’t talk like that. He’s only a child.’

He blinked. ‘What do you mean?’ Then it dawned on him. ‘Oh no, say it’s not true . . . you couldn’t possibly.’

‘What?’ she said.

‘You’re starting to feel sorry for him again, aren’t you? Even after all this bullshit . . . it’s so typically you.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Dear, I love you, but you’ve got this thing about letting other people take advantage of you.’

‘What nonsense. I do not.’

‘No? Just look over there.’ He pointed over to the sofa table. ‘Why do we have three copies of the new issue of Street News lying there? Who the hell buys the same issue three times, and what’s more, twice from the same homeless guy?’

‘It’s not like it cost very much.’

‘No, but it’s the principle of the thing. Like how you always choose to donate the refund on the bottle deposits.’

‘And what’s wrong with that?’

‘Nothing, but you just do it without us ever talking about it.’

‘You’ve never complained about it.’

‘No, but you’ve never asked either.’

‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘There’s a word for this kind of thing: empathy. Ever heard of it, dear?’

He shook his head. ‘Drop it. You know better than anyone that I always give to a good cause when someone asks.’

‘And this coming from someone who only signed up for Unicef to get out of talking to their street fundraisers. Super, dear.’

‘So you’re calling me a hypocrite?’

‘Come on, we all are. We pay so that we can feel saintly and not have to think too much about the unpleasant reality. I’m just honest about it, unlike you. And didn’t you say that you loved me because of my, quote, “big heart”? Or was that just a pick-­up line?’

‘Of course it wasn’t. I meant it, and I mean it still. That is one of the things I love about you, but frankly, your IQ drops several points when you have somebody disadvantaged standing in front of you.’

‘You should know all about that, since I said yes to you yesterday.’

‘Are you saying you’ve changed your mind?’

‘No, but sometimes you are just so . . .’

‘Yeah? I’m waiting anxiously to hear the end of that sentence.’

She made a dismissive gesture. ‘Forget it. I won’t bother.’

‘No? You were just about to tell me some vital new information about myself.’

‘Honey, stop it now.’

He could see she was on the verge of crying, and all at once it was like all the anger seeped out of him. That was the effect her tears usually had. They might have their arguments, but they were seldom mad at each other for long. He stood up and walked over to her. He pulled her to him as he kissed her on the back of her head.

‘Sorry, baby,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I’m a big idiot.’

She laughed and kissed him in return. ‘And I’m looking forward to being Mrs. Big Idiot.’

The boy cleared his throat. Until that moment he had kept silent during their whole discussion. They both turned towards him.

‘Might I make a suggestion?’ he said.

‘I understand that you’re getting married?’ the boy said, sounding as though he’d just laid his eyes on all the presents under the Christmas tree.

‘Yes, and . . . ?’ he said.

‘Convince me.’

‘Of what?’

‘Convince me that it really should be the two of you till death do you part. That you’re made for each other. The perfect couple. Soulmates. Each other’s best friends. If you can do that, then I’ll leave.’

‘But what for?’ she said.

‘Just because,’ said the boy.

He had had just about enough. He stood beside the boy and looked down at him. ‘Listen here, my little friend. I can’t really see what our relationship has to do with you. So my suggestion is that you get up quickly from that seat and find your way out of here. Otherwise I’ll help you out the door.’