Read The Piper's Son for Free Online

what to say to you, Georgie.”
    Behind him, Callum’s standing by the door, clutching a book in his hand.
    “Your son wants you to read to him,” she says, turning around and walking away.
    To: [email protected]
    From: [email protected]
    Date: 10 July 2007
    I end my day, Joe, the way it begins. Listing items of clothing. Because that time when I traveled to London to try to bring you back home to Mummy and Bill and Dominic, your Ana Vanquez told us every detail of your last couple of hours.
    That you wore brown corduroy pants.
    A blue cotton shirt.
    Your fake Rolex from some marketplace in Morocco.
    A black band around your wrist.
    Black leather boots that you bought when you guys traveled to Spain to meet her family.
    And I can’t stop thinking of that woman I interviewed. How she told me that she cries when she thinks that her husband and son and father and uncle and cousin knew where they were heading that day in Srebrenica. Because they had those hours on that bus, Joe, understanding the inevitable and it makes her sick to the stomach to think of their fear. Of her boy’s fear.
    But did you, Joe? Did you have a moment to fear? Or were you thinking of your beautiful Ana Vanquez? Or me, your sister? Were you thinking of the table your brother, Dominic, was making for Mum and Bill so we could all fit round it when you came visiting with your girl? Were you thinking of your nephew, Tommy, hogging your space up in my attic and your niece, Anabel, being the only person apart from Mum who has your father eating out of her hands? Was there a tune in your head? Were you listening to a song? Thinking of those kids you were off to teach? Were you smiling, Joe? Looking the world in the eye?

He gets a part-time job at some data-entry place near Central Station, working from ten to three every day. To his left sits a guy called Mohsin. Mohsin the Ignorer, Tom calls him. Tom speaks; Mohsin taps away at his computer as if he hasn’t heard a thing. Language isn’t an issue because he’s heard Mohsin speak to the guy on his other side who persists in talking cricket all day and it’s clear to anyone with intelligence that Mohsin is a rugby league man and cricket talk annoys him. Tom can tell by the amount of sighs he hears during those five hours at work whenever the cricket freak opens his mouth and talks LBWs and all-rounders. Once or twice he’s seen Mohsin read the league pages, but each time Tom offers his opinion, total silence ensues. So now when Mohsin the Ignorer turns his way, Tom gives him a “talk to the hand” look and pretends he can type a hundred words a minute.
    Today he’s restless and checks his e-mail. Before he can stop himself, he types Uncle Joe’s name in the search space and retrieves one of his e-mails. And for the first time in a long while, Tom laughs.
    To: [email protected]
    From: [email protected]
    Date: 28 June 2005
    Subject: Nothing Comes of Nothing
    My delusional, numbskulled nephew,
    How long is this going to go on, mate? This obsession with the psycho Tara Finke — your words, not mine — whose name you haven’t stopped saying since you were sixteen. Conquer this passion. Do something about it! Yeats it, Tom. STD.
    My advice? Get out the
Norton
I left you, and you better bloody still have it because if you lost it like you did my
Slade Alive!
LP, I will hunt you down, son. Page 1902. “Japan.” Not about the Japanese, but about moments of perfection. Commit it to memory and make good use of it. Because if I come home and you’re still pining over this little girl without having given her a chance, I will call you a chicken shit for the rest of your life. C. S. Tom, for short.
    And can you please clear your crap out of Georgie’s attic? She reckons you use her place like it’s a hotel. Don’t expect me to bring my girl to a hovel.
    With much love and affection,
    Joe
    P.S. Tell your father to get stuffed about the Roosters getting beaten by the Tigers. One text