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Authors: Alex Matthews
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man. I tried to help him, Lord knows I tried. I screamed and scratched and kicked, but the man was just too strong to pull off him. And I don’t care what the doctors said; I still think it was that blow, the one that knocked him senseless. It would have floored a full-grown man, never mind a child. That’s what did it. I know. That’s what caused everything. But I couldn’t have prevented it, could I? Could I?
And he didn’t help one bit. She’d detected the animosity in him from the very outset of the journey, in his artificial silences, his clouded expression. So unlike him. So unlike the gentle, caring man of old. She almost thought she detected hate, or the very beginnings of hate. That had unsettled her. She did so love him still, even though he might not think so, and she didn’t want him to hate her. He was the only one she had left, now that…Oh, God, it was so terrible! How could You? Are You punishing me, is that it? For what I’ve done? Yes, that’s got to be it. But that’s not fair, because they deserved it. I don’t deserve any of this. They were evil, and I’m not. Look at me. Do I look evil? Is what I do evil? I save people. Protect them. No-one protected me. Protected us.
She’d made the trip to Overton Hall once a fortnight, every year for as many years as she could remember. Never failing. Her duty. And all she asked of him was one visit a year. One solitary day out of twelve long months. What was that by comparison? Nothing! He owed her that much. He owed them both. What would he be without them?
She rose from the desk and closed the window, a sudden coldness sweeping over her. Perhaps she was getting too old for this. Maybe it was time to hand the reins over. After all, things were running smoothly now, as smoothly as they ever would given the restrictions they were all confronted with. She just had to admit she was getting old. But that thought terrified her. She had never been old, never thought of herself as anything but young and beautiful, even though reality spoke back rudely from her mirror every morning and told her bluntly she was past her physical prime. She was an old woman. The kids sometimes called her Grandma Randolf.
She struck the desk with her fist and uttered a petulant squeal. “What would he be without me?” she muttered beneath her breath. A sheet of paper fluttered to the floor and a pencil rolled over the edge of the desk to follow it. “He knows what,” she said, folding her arms and facing the barred window again. “Yes he does. He knows what.”
He’d be nothing.
* * * *
7
Saturday
Imagine a herd of wildebeest.
You’ve seen the wildlife programmes on TV; muddy-brown bodies stretching in an endless band across a glistening heat-distorted landscape, a number of the animals are galloping around, apparently aimlessly; some walk casually, languidly; others hang around in tight little knots, close to one another; and there is, overall, the constant hum of their calls as they signal to each other, or maybe the odd-cry of alarm.
Now imagine, lurking not very far away, hidden partially by the long butter-coloured grass stems, a massive lion standing stock-still, muscles tensed, sometimes twitching in anticipation and excitement; feral eyes are locked onto the herd, its nose held up slightly and sampling the sweet air. The head moves slowly, majestically, left to right, back again, the movement repeated tirelessly, searching the herd of wildebeest, hot body by hot body. Then the head locks rigid, the eyes frozen and wide. The lion has chosen, singled out a straggler, its prey. This, then, is the unfortunate creature fated to feel the death pressure of its murderous iron-like jaws. This is the unfortunate creature that the lion knows it will kill. And it swallows saliva in anticipation of tasting blood.
Now, imagine that the herd of wildebeest is in fact a crowd of young girls, and that the lion was a ten-year-old boy. For this is how Max
And he didn’t help one bit. She’d detected the animosity in him from the very outset of the journey, in his artificial silences, his clouded expression. So unlike him. So unlike the gentle, caring man of old. She almost thought she detected hate, or the very beginnings of hate. That had unsettled her. She did so love him still, even though he might not think so, and she didn’t want him to hate her. He was the only one she had left, now that…Oh, God, it was so terrible! How could You? Are You punishing me, is that it? For what I’ve done? Yes, that’s got to be it. But that’s not fair, because they deserved it. I don’t deserve any of this. They were evil, and I’m not. Look at me. Do I look evil? Is what I do evil? I save people. Protect them. No-one protected me. Protected us.
She’d made the trip to Overton Hall once a fortnight, every year for as many years as she could remember. Never failing. Her duty. And all she asked of him was one visit a year. One solitary day out of twelve long months. What was that by comparison? Nothing! He owed her that much. He owed them both. What would he be without them?
She rose from the desk and closed the window, a sudden coldness sweeping over her. Perhaps she was getting too old for this. Maybe it was time to hand the reins over. After all, things were running smoothly now, as smoothly as they ever would given the restrictions they were all confronted with. She just had to admit she was getting old. But that thought terrified her. She had never been old, never thought of herself as anything but young and beautiful, even though reality spoke back rudely from her mirror every morning and told her bluntly she was past her physical prime. She was an old woman. The kids sometimes called her Grandma Randolf.
She struck the desk with her fist and uttered a petulant squeal. “What would he be without me?” she muttered beneath her breath. A sheet of paper fluttered to the floor and a pencil rolled over the edge of the desk to follow it. “He knows what,” she said, folding her arms and facing the barred window again. “Yes he does. He knows what.”
He’d be nothing.
* * * *
7
Saturday
Imagine a herd of wildebeest.
You’ve seen the wildlife programmes on TV; muddy-brown bodies stretching in an endless band across a glistening heat-distorted landscape, a number of the animals are galloping around, apparently aimlessly; some walk casually, languidly; others hang around in tight little knots, close to one another; and there is, overall, the constant hum of their calls as they signal to each other, or maybe the odd-cry of alarm.
Now imagine, lurking not very far away, hidden partially by the long butter-coloured grass stems, a massive lion standing stock-still, muscles tensed, sometimes twitching in anticipation and excitement; feral eyes are locked onto the herd, its nose held up slightly and sampling the sweet air. The head moves slowly, majestically, left to right, back again, the movement repeated tirelessly, searching the herd of wildebeest, hot body by hot body. Then the head locks rigid, the eyes frozen and wide. The lion has chosen, singled out a straggler, its prey. This, then, is the unfortunate creature fated to feel the death pressure of its murderous iron-like jaws. This is the unfortunate creature that the lion knows it will kill. And it swallows saliva in anticipation of tasting blood.
Now, imagine that the herd of wildebeest is in fact a crowd of young girls, and that the lion was a ten-year-old boy. For this is how Max
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