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The Casual Vacancy

The Casual Vacancy

Titel: The Casual Vacancy Kostenlos Bücher Online Lesen
Autoren: J.K. Rowling
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lately decided that questioning your own motives was inauthentic; a refinement of his personal philosophy that had made it altogether easier to follow.
    As he headed into the Fields, Fats thought about what had happened at home the previous evening, when his mother had entered his bedroom for the first time since Cubby had punched him.
    (‘That message about your father on the Parish Council website,’ she had said. ‘I’ve got to ask you this, Stuart, and I wish – Stuart, did you write it?’
    It had taken her a few days to summon the courage to accuse him, and he was prepared.
    ‘No,’ he said.
    Perhaps it would have been more authentic to say yes, but he had preferred not to, and he did not see why he should have to justify himself.
    ‘You didn’t?’ she repeated, with no change of tone or expression.
    ‘No,’ he repeated.
    ‘Because very, very few people know what Dad … what he worries about.’
    ‘Well, it wasn’t me.’
    ‘The post went up the same evening that Dad and you had the row, and Dad hit—’
    ‘I’ve told you, I didn’t do it.’
    ‘You know he’s ill, Stuart.’
    ‘Yeah, so you keep telling me.’
    ‘I keep telling you because it’s true! He can’t help it – he’s got a serious mental illness that causes him untold distress and misery.’
    Fats’ mobile had beeped, and he had glanced down at a text from Andrew. He read it and experienced an air punch to the midriff: Arf leaving for good.
    ‘I’m talking to you, Stuart—’
    ‘I know – what?’
    ‘All these posts – Simon Price, Parminder, Dad – these are all people you know. If you’re behind all this—’
    ‘I’ve told you, I’m not.’
    ‘—you’re causing untold damage. Serious, awful damage, Stuart, to people’s lives.’
    Fats was trying to imagine life without Andrew. They had known each other since they were four.
    ‘It’s not me,’ he had said.)
    Serious, awful damage to people’s lives.
    They had made their lives, Fats thought scornfully as he turned into Foley Road. The victims of the Ghost of Barry Fairbrother were mired in hypocrisy and lies, and they didn’t like the exposure. They were stupid bugs running from bright light. They knew nothing about real life.
    He could see a house ahead that had a bald tyre lying on the grass in front of it. He had a strong suspicion that that was Krystal’s, and when he saw the number, he knew he was right. He had never been here before. He would never have agreed to meet her at her home during the lunch hour a couple of weeks ago, but things changed. He had changed.
    They said that her mother was a prostitute. She was certainly a junkie. Krystal had told him that the house would be empty because her mother would be at Bellchapel Addiction Clinic, receiving her allotted amount of methadone. Fats walked up the garden path without slowing, but with unexpected trepidation.
    Krystal had been on the watch for him, from her bedroomwindow. She had closed the doors of every room downstairs, so that all he would see was the hall; she had thrown everything that had spilt into it back into the sitting room and kitchen. The carpet was gritty and burnt in places, and the wallpaper stained, but she could do nothing about that. There had been none of the pine-scented disinfectant left, but she had found some bleach and sloshed that around the kitchen and bathroom, both of them sources of the worst smells in the house.
    When he knocked, she ran downstairs. They did not have long; Terri would probably be back with Robbie at one. Not long to make a baby.
    ‘Hiya,’ she said, when she opened the door.
    ‘All right?’ said Fats, blowing out smoke through his nostrils.
    He did not know what he had expected. His first glimpse of the interior of the house was of a grimy bare box. There was no furniture. The closed doors to his left and ahead were strangely ominous.
    ‘Are we the only ones here?’ he asked as he crossed the threshold.
    ‘Yeah,’ said Krystal. ‘We c’n go upstairs. My room.’
    She led the way. The deeper inside they went, the worse the smell became: mingled bleach and filth. Fats tried not to care. All doors were closed on the landing, except one. Krystal went inside.
    Fats did not want to be shocked, but there was nothing in the room except a mattress, which was covered with a sheet and a bare duvet, and a small pile of clothes heaped up in a corner. A few pictures ripped from tabloid newspapers were sellotaped to the wall; a mixture of pop

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