Mary did to him, but he remains entirely clear about what he's going to do to her. He's going to turn her inside out. 'Let's go,' said Trev.
Time is a race, a race that gets faster all the time. If you listen hard you can hear each second gasping with the strain of keeping up. Do it! Listen. Time is a relay, sixty after sixty, each moment passing on its baton and dropping back exhausted, its race run. Time will end too, one day. Time will end too, one day, you know, thank God. Everything, your bones, the air itself, all of it will end in time.
• • •
The moment she heard the door make its signal, Mary felt the tranquil advance of change. It was late. Mr and Mrs Botham straightened their backs in unison, and Gavin stirred gruffly, lifting his eyes from the page. To Mary's eyes the room became stark and exemplary, fugitive and yet eternalized in her gaze. She knew that she had lost it then, the room and all it contained.
'If that's that Sharon...' said Mrs Botham tightly as her husband rose to his feet. 'I'll bloody murder her, so help me God.'
Mr Botham moved past Mary towards the door. It was clear from his face that he had nothing on his mind. He walked slowly down the passage. He knew he would get there in time ... They heard the door open. They heard Mr Botham's smothered rising shout, and then a double-thud, a thud in two stages, the second somehow more abrupt than the first. There was only time for Mrs Botham to start screaming before the men were in the room.
Mary saw it all.
To his palpable confusion and distress, Jock found himself in the lead. Trev had lingered to do some more loud stomping in the hall. Egged on by time, Jock dashed miserably across the room and started doing one or two things to Mrs Botham. Instantly and galvanically her reinforced foot shot up in hair-trigger self-protection, catching Jock a mighty blow between the legs with its heavy black brick. Jock gasped, clutched himself, and wandered dreamily away before subsiding slowly to his knees. By this time Trev himself stood in the doorway, already past his best, half-winded by all that stomping. But then he saw Mary and lumbered hungrily forward, seeming to have no time for Gavin, who stood up and with a short arc of the arm drove a muscular fist into the lower half of Trev's face. Trev paused, glanced sideways with a vexed, put-upon expression, before being snatched backwards flailing through the air to land upside down and motionless by the passage doorway. Jock, meanwhile, was on his hands and knees, vomiting (by some last courteous reflex) into the ornamental coal-scuttle. Mrs Botham screamed so much the louder. Gavin rubbed his knuckles, frowning, and stepped over Trev into the passage. Mary never moved.
She did the next day: she had to—there was no choice. The next day she found herself alone again. Mary always knew a thing like this would happen to her some time.
'I said if I saw you again there'd be trouble. Didn't I.'
'Yes you did,' said Mary.
'And now I'm seeing you again.'
'That's right.'
'And there's trouble.'
'I know.'
'How old are you... Mary Lamb? Do your parents know what you get up to?'
'I'm in my twenty-fifth year,' said Mary carefully. 'My parents died.'
'Of what?'
Mary hesitated. 'One of consumption,' she said, 'the other of a broken heart.'
'People don't die of those things any more. Well they do, but we call it something else these days ... What did they die of, Mary—if of course this isn't too painful?'
But it was. More out of a desire to change the subject than from any real indignation, Mary said, 'I'm not sure you're allowed to talk to me like this.'
'Oh I am, I am. You ought to know that I am.'
'Why?'
'You've broken the law.'
Mary didn't know what this meant. Her first instinct, understandable in the circumstances, was to ask if the law would ever get better again. But she said, 'I'm sorry. I didn't know. What do you get when you break the law?'
'Time,' he said.
His room was like his
Time is a race, a race that gets faster all the time. If you listen hard you can hear each second gasping with the strain of keeping up. Do it! Listen. Time is a relay, sixty after sixty, each moment passing on its baton and dropping back exhausted, its race run. Time will end too, one day. Time will end too, one day, you know, thank God. Everything, your bones, the air itself, all of it will end in time.
• • •
The moment she heard the door make its signal, Mary felt the tranquil advance of change. It was late. Mr and Mrs Botham straightened their backs in unison, and Gavin stirred gruffly, lifting his eyes from the page. To Mary's eyes the room became stark and exemplary, fugitive and yet eternalized in her gaze. She knew that she had lost it then, the room and all it contained.
'If that's that Sharon...' said Mrs Botham tightly as her husband rose to his feet. 'I'll bloody murder her, so help me God.'
Mr Botham moved past Mary towards the door. It was clear from his face that he had nothing on his mind. He walked slowly down the passage. He knew he would get there in time ... They heard the door open. They heard Mr Botham's smothered rising shout, and then a double-thud, a thud in two stages, the second somehow more abrupt than the first. There was only time for Mrs Botham to start screaming before the men were in the room.
Mary saw it all.
To his palpable confusion and distress, Jock found himself in the lead. Trev had lingered to do some more loud stomping in the hall. Egged on by time, Jock dashed miserably across the room and started doing one or two things to Mrs Botham. Instantly and galvanically her reinforced foot shot up in hair-trigger self-protection, catching Jock a mighty blow between the legs with its heavy black brick. Jock gasped, clutched himself, and wandered dreamily away before subsiding slowly to his knees. By this time Trev himself stood in the doorway, already past his best, half-winded by all that stomping. But then he saw Mary and lumbered hungrily forward, seeming to have no time for Gavin, who stood up and with a short arc of the arm drove a muscular fist into the lower half of Trev's face. Trev paused, glanced sideways with a vexed, put-upon expression, before being snatched backwards flailing through the air to land upside down and motionless by the passage doorway. Jock, meanwhile, was on his hands and knees, vomiting (by some last courteous reflex) into the ornamental coal-scuttle. Mrs Botham screamed so much the louder. Gavin rubbed his knuckles, frowning, and stepped over Trev into the passage. Mary never moved.
She did the next day: she had to—there was no choice. The next day she found herself alone again. Mary always knew a thing like this would happen to her some time.
'I said if I saw you again there'd be trouble. Didn't I.'
'Yes you did,' said Mary.
'And now I'm seeing you again.'
'That's right.'
'And there's trouble.'
'I know.'
'How old are you... Mary Lamb? Do your parents know what you get up to?'
'I'm in my twenty-fifth year,' said Mary carefully. 'My parents died.'
'Of what?'
Mary hesitated. 'One of consumption,' she said, 'the other of a broken heart.'
'People don't die of those things any more. Well they do, but we call it something else these days ... What did they die of, Mary—if of course this isn't too painful?'
But it was. More out of a desire to change the subject than from any real indignation, Mary said, 'I'm not sure you're allowed to talk to me like this.'
'Oh I am, I am. You ought to know that I am.'
'Why?'
'You've broken the law.'
Mary didn't know what this meant. Her first instinct, understandable in the circumstances, was to ask if the law would ever get better again. But she said, 'I'm sorry. I didn't know. What do you get when you break the law?'
'Time,' he said.
His room was like his
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