The Gilded Madonna by Garrick Jones (ebook reader for comics TXT) 📕

the ferocity of retribution and savagery of those who’d been betrayed. Locals had been given the go-ahead by the leader of my “unit”. The butchery performed by women and youngsters who’d been either raped or whose menfolk had been lined up against the wall and shot by fascists, and then later on by Nazis, had not been bearable to watch. My fellow partisans had stood by, their rifles slung over their shoulders, passively observing their mothers and sisters hacking away at traitors with knives, or shooting them in the legs, even cutting off their genitals. I couldn’t. I went away into the olive groves until the worst was over. I didn’t judge, I just couldn’t bring myself to see what went on.

“Maybe one day I’ll be able to tell you,” I said, as I heard Tom climbing the stairs.

“Maybe one day soon?”

*****

The Wiener schnitzel sandwiches were truly delicious. After one bite I knew it wasn’t veal but chicken, deliciously coated with breadcrumbs that had been mixed with the slightest amount of dill, which helped cut the taste of the fat. The mayonnaise was homemade too. I could have eaten another three just by myself.

After lunch, we sat down to work out how to proceed with the rest of the day. I ticked off a few of the jobs that I’d put on the backburner before we’d left to go to Melbourne, mainly because I didn’t want to do them, but at five quid a shot, I was prepared to give Tom a commission of fifteen shillings for each of them. He was as happy as Larry, and as they were mainly paper-trail jobs, he said he could start this afternoon after he’d gone to pick up his new private investigator licence, which was ready for collection.

I threw him my car keys and told him to drive carefully and not to use it to pick up girls on his way there and back. “You think I need a flash car like yours to pick up girls, Clyde?” he asked, to which I replied that I hadn’t seen him with one yet, so I had no idea.

He winked at me and then said goodbye, telling Harry as he left that he’d check with the printer on the way back to the office to see if the new leaflets for the next adventure tour were ready yet.

“What are you doing?” I asked. Harry had closed his office door. He picked up the phone and pressed a few buttons on the front—I still hadn’t got the hang of it.

“Putting all incoming calls through to Brenda Brighteyes,” he said.

“Uh huh?”

“No, Clyde, as much as I find it hard to resist you, I think it’s time to talk.”

“About?”

“About our fight on Sunday night, and about me coming to live with you on weekends.”

“What makes you think I want you to come live with me?”

He ran his hands around the small of my back and wiggled his hips against mine.

“Something down there’s telling me you don’t mind the idea one little bit.”

I didn’t want to spoil the moment, but there was a certain tone in his voice or a look on his face that had me putty in his hands and incredibly aroused at the same time. Perhaps after we’d sorted out our argument and our new flat-sharing arrangements it might be time for me to tell him about what it had been like for me in the prison camp.

The fact that he’d told his parents he was going away with me for the new year, and also that he wanted to spend three days a week living together, hadn’t gone unnoticed. Maybe the feeling that this was really it, and that I wasn’t living a fool’s dream, made me want to share the darkest parts of my life. He deserved to know what had made me who I was.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Not only was the luxury of Union, University & Schools Club unexpected, so was Howard Farrell, who was nothing like the very few photographs I’d seen of him.

The dining room was longer than it was wide, but wonderfully proportioned, with windows all along one side, each a yard apart, and on the spaces between them a beautiful Australian landscape painting. Even from a distance, while standing at the doorway, waiting for the maître d’ to escort us to the bar where Farrell was sitting, I recognised two Albert Namatjiras, an Arthur Boyd, and a Streeton.

He rose from his stool as we approached and held out his hand to say hello. I could see why he always had some famous athlete or actor at his side—the man was too handsome for words. I found it hard to believe he was seven years older than I. He could have passed for a late twenties-something sportsman himself.

“Clyde, Harry,” he said to each of us in turn as he shook our hands. His handshake was firm and his smile very friendly. I didn’t know what I’d expected, but certainly not the charming well-groomed man wearing a tailored suit that looked like it would have cost a year’s salary for someone like me.

“Drink at the bar first, or would you like to have an aperitif at our table while we peruse the menu?”

“Your call, Clyde,” Harry said.

“Table?” I was mindful of my promise not to drink too much. I’d have one pre-dinner drink and then two glasses of wine over our meal.

The conversation was mainly small-talk over dinner, a wonderful à la carte selection of dishes, presented in a handwritten menu, with suggestions of which entrée might complement a main course, or a dessert. I’d never seen such a thing and had been very impressed when the chef had arrived at our table to talk through the menu. The one thing that didn’t surprise me was the wine selection. Howard Farrell’s own vintages, both red and white, featured prominently. I felt a small pang of nostalgia and guilt when I caught sight of the familiar label—its black diamond shape with a