The Dinner Guest by B Walter (best short books to read txt) 📕

‘Not today, thanks,’ I said, keeping my tone polite and business-like, as if I were the type of person who regularly had to deal with the likes of him. ‘Right, Titus, you got all your things?’

The boy gaped at me, then gave a little nod.

‘Good. Let’s be off then. Lovely to meet you all.’ I then took Titus by the shoulder and led him across the street and away from the boys, back in the direction of the Royal Albert Hall. ‘Keep walking,’ I murmured into his ear. I didn’t stop until we got to the entrance of the concert hall. ‘OK, I think we’re safe now,’ I said. ‘Let me see your face.’

He raised his chin and let me look at him. ‘Only cuts and grazes. You’ll be OK.’

I took my phone out and started to dial.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked in a small voice.

‘Reporting this to the police.’

He stared back in shock. ‘What…? I mean, do we…?’

‘Of course we have to,’ I said in response. ‘This needs to be reported. If they’re still in the area, the boys could still be arrested. This is a crime, an attack – and they may do it to someone else if we don’t.’

He listened, his eyes swimming with tears. They fell down his cheek as he nodded. I wrapped my arms around him and pulled him into a hug.

‘Thank you,’ he said, sobbing quietly into my shoulder. ‘I … I was scared.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘But it’s over now.’

Chapter Thirteen Charlie

Ten months to go

The morning after our row with Titus was tense and … well, it was weird.

Usually – in fact, on every single occasion previous to this one – any rows we’d had with him over the years had dissipated, as if by magic, by the next morning, and we all got to start again afresh. A new day, a new world, everything good. This time it was different. Titus was different. Usually, on a Saturday morning, Titus would go down to the kitchen at around 7.30 or 8am, already fully showered and dressed, and do an hour of studying. ‘Start the day as you mean to go on,’ was a motto Matthew had instilled in him. I’d spent most of our married life thinking how clever this all was – making sure Titus’s first go-to task on a Saturday involved keeping himself occupied downstairs alone, giving us time to have a lazy lie in, enjoying not having to rush out of bed for work. Then, at 9ish, we would wander downstairs to find him laying the table for breakfast, which he would cook for us – not as some put-upon child, forced to make his parents meals. No, not one bit; he enjoyed doing it. His hazelnut chocolate loaf would put most artisan bakeries to shame. Then we would all talk about our plans for the weekend, whether they involved us all going somewhere as a family, or splitting up to do separate things. We weren’t dictatorial and regimented, but that routine on Saturdays was our thing. Something that laid the foundations for a good weekend. Put us in a good mood. Kept us all happy as a family. On the morning after the whole fuss with the attempted mugging of Titus, followed by the revelation that he was apparently happily banging an older fellow student, all of this went out the window.

When I woke at 8.45am, with Matthew reading a book next to me, there was no smell of baked muffins or warm bread. The house was completely silent.

‘Something’s odd,’ I said straightaway, leaning up.

‘Good morning to you too,’ Matthew replied, closing his book and laying it on the bedside table. ‘Shall we go down to breakfast?’

‘It’s … it’s late. I’ve slept in.’ I rubbed my head. I felt wrecked, as if I’d had a night out with the boys. ‘We should go down and see Titus,’ I muttered, getting out of bed and pulling on some tracksuit bottoms.

Matthew didn’t say anything at first, just opened the door, poked his head round, then said, ‘I don’t think he’s up yet. His door’s closed.’

This was not a good sign. Usually it would signal a bad bout of flu or something equally debilitating. The two of us went down the stairs and looked around. Sure enough, no Titus, no cooking. Nothing laid out for breakfast. Our housekeeper Jane had weekends off, so the plates and glasses and pizza boxes from the night before were all still out.

Matthew wandered over to the coffee machine, and I poured myself a large tumbler of water. ‘He’s definitely here?’ I said, slightly worried the boy had absconded to meet his illegal lover off in the depths of Kensington Gore. As if on cue, a thudding down the stairs heralded Titus’s arrival. Although it wasn’t the perfectly turned-out, sunny, happy Titus we were normally used to on Saturday mornings. He was wearing only a pair of white Ralph Lauren boxer-briefs, his hair was all messed up, and his grazed jaw gave him a devil-may-care look. He’d obviously just arisen from his bed. It was like a completely different person had arrived in our kitchen.

‘Oh, hi,’ he said, in a low monotone, and moved past me in order to get to the fridge. He pulled a can of Coke Zero from it – another bizarre change, since Titus usually only drank mineral water or a small glass of orange juice in the mornings – and then turned to leave.

‘Good morning,’ Matthew said to him, making him pause on his way out of the kitchen. ‘It would be good if we could talk.’

He turned around, his face impassive, then he gave a lazy shrug. ‘Maybe later. Going to go back to bed for a bit.’

He then turned his back on us and walked out of the kitchen. Further thuds from the stairs then the slam of a door suggested this was exactly what he was doing.

‘What