kill all the other fledglings; then all that is left is the alien presence. Nature is kind however, as the feathered couple can try again next season. The same is true for humans I suppose. Anyway what I am trying to say is that some secrets can be bad for your health when they are hidden, but they can be even worse when they come out.”
Joel rubbed his shoulder again and tried to concentrate. He had slept badly and was in reality more focused on the imminent return of Mai than Dave’s elliptical exposition on mankind’s dark unconscious.
“So why was your tame detective here last night?” said Dave, having drained his glass of beer and looking round belligerently.
“He really just came with his daughter for Sophie’s talk.”
“Spying on us all more like,” Dave slammed his glass down to punctuate his assertion.
When Joel explained about the police being more worried about crazed level nine gamers trying to kill him, than suspecting him of anything, Dave exclaimed, “Holy fuck!” and began to laugh.
He was still laughing when Sophie finally showed up a few minutes later. She looked from Joel to Dave and then back at Joel, who attempted an eyebrow shrug but as he was wearing his aviators it was unlikely she could see this. Dave wiped the tears from his eyes and looked up at his sister.
“Level fucking nine,” he said.
Deacon had woken in the mid morning and formulated a plan for the day. Instead of going to the day centre where he ran an art group he walked towards the river. Soon he found himself passing by the causeway; he stopped to read the information board, and then walked down onto the apron of shingle. For a while he stood and watched the river water running over the stones, and listened for voices from the past. But he heard nothing save the occasional honk of geese and the jets passing along their flight path to Heathrow.
Hearing footsteps he turned and saw a small boy in yellow wellingtons, followed by a woman carrying the child’s scooter. Without even glancing at Deacon the boy walked into the shallow water and defiantly stood there with his mittened hand on his hips.
“Watch out for deep mud, called the woman.
Deacon walked back up the causeway and along the path to the Gate. He entered the bar, it was cool and shaded but he could see doors leading to a terrace and beyond that the glint of the sun on water. Nobody paid him any attention as he crossed the room and stepped out onto the terrace. He stood at the edge and took in the views. The Gate was positioned on the apex of a large sweeping bend in the river, to the east the city, and rolling meadows to the west.
Deacon saw that he was on the middle tier of the Gates three terraces. He looked down and saw a dozen tables with pale yellow tablecloths, the edges of which moved slightly in the breeze.
He shivered and realised that it was the wrong time of year to eat outside. There was in fact only one table being used. The tables must be for hardcore smokers only, he thought. In fact there was a guy down there smoking. He was expounding about something and jabbing the air with the hand that held the cigarette and Deacon was shocked to recognise the timbre of the man’s voice as one he had heard the previous night at the boathouse; a tormented voice that had called out his dead sister’s name. He then leaned forward to look more closely at the smoker’s companions.
Sophie was sitting with her back to the river, facing Joel and her brother.
“Dave, we are just concerned about you,” she began.
“Yes, and in my own oblique way I have for the last ten minutes been addressing this in my conversation with Joel. Until he told me about level nine, and that is so darkly funny that I have to admit I became a little hysterical.”
“Well that’s good, you explaining things,” said Sophie as she glanced across at Joel.
“Dave was saying we all have dark secrets that haunt us,” said Joel. “Is that right, Dave?” he added
Joel rubbed his shoulder again and tried to concentrate. He had slept badly and was in reality more focused on the imminent return of Mai than Dave’s elliptical exposition on mankind’s dark unconscious.
“So why was your tame detective here last night?” said Dave, having drained his glass of beer and looking round belligerently.
“He really just came with his daughter for Sophie’s talk.”
“Spying on us all more like,” Dave slammed his glass down to punctuate his assertion.
When Joel explained about the police being more worried about crazed level nine gamers trying to kill him, than suspecting him of anything, Dave exclaimed, “Holy fuck!” and began to laugh.
He was still laughing when Sophie finally showed up a few minutes later. She looked from Joel to Dave and then back at Joel, who attempted an eyebrow shrug but as he was wearing his aviators it was unlikely she could see this. Dave wiped the tears from his eyes and looked up at his sister.
“Level fucking nine,” he said.
Deacon had woken in the mid morning and formulated a plan for the day. Instead of going to the day centre where he ran an art group he walked towards the river. Soon he found himself passing by the causeway; he stopped to read the information board, and then walked down onto the apron of shingle. For a while he stood and watched the river water running over the stones, and listened for voices from the past. But he heard nothing save the occasional honk of geese and the jets passing along their flight path to Heathrow.
Hearing footsteps he turned and saw a small boy in yellow wellingtons, followed by a woman carrying the child’s scooter. Without even glancing at Deacon the boy walked into the shallow water and defiantly stood there with his mittened hand on his hips.
“Watch out for deep mud, called the woman.
Deacon walked back up the causeway and along the path to the Gate. He entered the bar, it was cool and shaded but he could see doors leading to a terrace and beyond that the glint of the sun on water. Nobody paid him any attention as he crossed the room and stepped out onto the terrace. He stood at the edge and took in the views. The Gate was positioned on the apex of a large sweeping bend in the river, to the east the city, and rolling meadows to the west.
Deacon saw that he was on the middle tier of the Gates three terraces. He looked down and saw a dozen tables with pale yellow tablecloths, the edges of which moved slightly in the breeze.
He shivered and realised that it was the wrong time of year to eat outside. There was in fact only one table being used. The tables must be for hardcore smokers only, he thought. In fact there was a guy down there smoking. He was expounding about something and jabbing the air with the hand that held the cigarette and Deacon was shocked to recognise the timbre of the man’s voice as one he had heard the previous night at the boathouse; a tormented voice that had called out his dead sister’s name. He then leaned forward to look more closely at the smoker’s companions.
Sophie was sitting with her back to the river, facing Joel and her brother.
“Dave, we are just concerned about you,” she began.
“Yes, and in my own oblique way I have for the last ten minutes been addressing this in my conversation with Joel. Until he told me about level nine, and that is so darkly funny that I have to admit I became a little hysterical.”
“Well that’s good, you explaining things,” said Sophie as she glanced across at Joel.
“Dave was saying we all have dark secrets that haunt us,” said Joel. “Is that right, Dave?” he added
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