Buku Matlock’s System by Reginald Hill
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Matlock’s System by Reginald Hill

Author:Reginald Hill

Language: eng

Format: epub

ISBN: 9781504057936

Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road

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Matlock’s System by Reginald Hill

7

You “must be tired, Mr. Matlock,” said the Abbot.

“Not too tired to talk, Abbot,” said Matlock, determined to take an early initiative. But in fact great waves of exhaustion were swelling over his eyes and nothing seemed more attractive than sleep.

 

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Mystery, Thriller & Suspense

Matlock’s System by Reginald Hill

Author:Reginald Hill , Date: June 11, 2019

,Views: 21

Author:Reginald Hill

Language: eng

Format: epub

ISBN: 9781504057936

Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road
7

You “must be tired, Mr. Matlock,” said the Abbot.

“Not too tired to talk, Abbot,” said Matlock, determined to take an early initiative. But in fact great waves of exhaustion were swelling over his eyes and nothing seemed more attractive than sleep.

The old wrinkled face looked at him kindly and there were the beginnings of a smile round the mouth.

“Yes, I think to talk. There is much to talk about, Mr. Matlock, and I would not have you feel that you were at any disadvantage. A few hours’ sleep first. You have had a trying time.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” yawned Matlock.

“I hope you will be comfortable. We pay more attention to comfort here in the Strangers’ House than in our own cells, but our store is not great, and the demands on it are many.”

Matlock looked round the simply furnished room. A narrow bed, a chair, a cupboard.

“This is fine,” he said, sitting on the bed.

“I will see you later then, Mr. Matlock.”

“Of course.”

Matlock drew his legs up on to the bed then allowed his head to sink back on the pillow.

“Till later then,” said the Abbot as he closed the door.

Matlock was already asleep.

He awoke from a dream of Lizzie so real that he was physically excited and put out his hand to seek her beside him. Then he sat up and looked around the darkened room, taking a second or two to realize where he was.

His excitement quickly faded and he lay back, staring sightlessly at the changing dapples of light on the ceiling. Outside, the river which threw the light bubbled and hissed over the stones. It must be running low. It had been a hot summer. Mingled with it were other noises, separable only after many minutes’ quiet listening. A fragment of birdsong. The long hoot of an owl (not very merry in spite of Shakespeare). Occasional water noises which were more than just the flow of the stream. Small things plunging.

If there weren’t so many of us, more of us could hope to hear this, he thought. Then he smiled at the old familiar paradox of the words.

What is the answer then? Compulsory birth control? Surely it’s better to control death than love? But we would not control love only the begetting of children. Then you have an old man’s world, a world in which a man cannot hope to achieve anything worthwhile till he’s seventy or eighty.

The Long Adolescence.

One of my phrases that. Good of its kind.

Was I right?

No matter, thought Matlock as he turned on his side and stared at the old-fashioned curtained window. No matter. What I have seen these past years is nothing of my begetting. It is not what I started.

It is not what I intended.

“It is no matter!” cried Matlock, sitting upright on the narrow, hard bed.

The window drank up his words, diluted them with the river, and washed them away as though unspoken.

He realized that a new sound had joined the noises of pure nature which filled the room. Yet in its way it too was river-like, flowing, swelling, ebbing, sinking.

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