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Authors: John Luxton
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helpfully.
Dave had now adopted the ‘face palm’ posture. He finally raised his head and looked slowly from Sophie to Joel. “Look we all have our demons. I thought I had laid most of mine to rest and over the years had learnt to live with the remaining ones.”
“So what has happened?” queried Sophie
Joel smiled at Dave in a way that was intended to be encouraging, although he had no idea what his friend was going on about. He was going to speak when he heard a gasp of surprise from Sophie.
“You look like you have just seen a ghost,” said Dave.
Joel turned to see where Sophie’s gaze was resting but all he saw was the empty upper terrace.
In the foyer of the Gate a board displayed information and reviews; here Deacon had discovered the identities of two of the three people he had observed on the terrace: Dave and Sophie Trulock, brother and sister who together ran the Gate; it was her lecture the previous night; it was his voice in the fog arguing with Seraphim. From this revelation there followed a number of questions, all as opaque as last night’s fog. Maybe now he was on the threshold of discovering something about the events that had led up to his sister taking her own life. Moving slowly as if overcome by a great weariness, Deacon left the Gate and walked to the nearby park where he sat on a low wall.
Everything had changed after Electra’s death. The family had been split apart and so had his life. It was as if someone had taken a blunt knife, roughly sawn through the fabric of their shared reality, and cast the two halves aside: Creating a divide as deep and profound as the one that Electra had cast herself into from the vertiginous parapet high above the Avon Gorge, on the day of her eighteenth birthday. Every year on June the sixth, he made a pilgrimage to the Clifton Suspension Bridge. There was a sad symmetry to the fact that she was born and died on the same day.
Opening his eyes he saw the child he had encountered earlier on the foreshore, approaching on his silver scooter, his Wellingtons now streaked with black mud. He stopped and smiled shyly. Deacon smiled back, and the boy scooted off towards his mother. After a few minutes he stood and tilted his head back to feel the warmth of the winter sun on his face, then began to walk away from the river.
Joel had now succumbed and was drinking beer with Dave. They were still outside on the terrace but Sophie had withdrawn to the warmth of her kitchen leaving her brother and her ex-lover sitting in the sun. They had finished their lunch and Joel was looking for an excuse to leave because he was excited to be seeing Mai tonight and did not want his day to degenerate into getting wrecked with Dave.
“I can tell you want to split, but can you do me a little favour first?” asked Dave.
“Like what?”
“Row me up to the boathouse.”
Dave was silent as Joel worked the oars against the ebbing tide. Progress was slow but within twenty minutes they were pulling the skiff onto the concrete apron outside the boathouse.
“Come inside.” Dave called out over his shoulder as he started to unlock the door.
“Well I,” Joel began.
“Look I can talk now we are here. Come inside and I will explain some stuff.” Dave began to wind up the large shutter that covered the front of the building.
“Let’s get some light in here. Just look at that Ducati.”
Once upstairs Dave went around the large studio room pulling up all the blinds. Then took two bottles of beer from a small fridge and threw one to Joel. He settled himself down on the couch facing the big window that looked out over the river, pulled a packet of Rizlas from his pocket and put his feet up on a leather footstool. Joel sat down in a battered brown leather armchair; it was placed at ninety degrees to the sofa, but still commanded an excellent view.
“So, do you know what a pathogenic secret is?” asked Dave
“Freud?” replied Joel.
“Well done. In fact I think it
Dave had now adopted the ‘face palm’ posture. He finally raised his head and looked slowly from Sophie to Joel. “Look we all have our demons. I thought I had laid most of mine to rest and over the years had learnt to live with the remaining ones.”
“So what has happened?” queried Sophie
Joel smiled at Dave in a way that was intended to be encouraging, although he had no idea what his friend was going on about. He was going to speak when he heard a gasp of surprise from Sophie.
“You look like you have just seen a ghost,” said Dave.
Joel turned to see where Sophie’s gaze was resting but all he saw was the empty upper terrace.
In the foyer of the Gate a board displayed information and reviews; here Deacon had discovered the identities of two of the three people he had observed on the terrace: Dave and Sophie Trulock, brother and sister who together ran the Gate; it was her lecture the previous night; it was his voice in the fog arguing with Seraphim. From this revelation there followed a number of questions, all as opaque as last night’s fog. Maybe now he was on the threshold of discovering something about the events that had led up to his sister taking her own life. Moving slowly as if overcome by a great weariness, Deacon left the Gate and walked to the nearby park where he sat on a low wall.
Everything had changed after Electra’s death. The family had been split apart and so had his life. It was as if someone had taken a blunt knife, roughly sawn through the fabric of their shared reality, and cast the two halves aside: Creating a divide as deep and profound as the one that Electra had cast herself into from the vertiginous parapet high above the Avon Gorge, on the day of her eighteenth birthday. Every year on June the sixth, he made a pilgrimage to the Clifton Suspension Bridge. There was a sad symmetry to the fact that she was born and died on the same day.
Opening his eyes he saw the child he had encountered earlier on the foreshore, approaching on his silver scooter, his Wellingtons now streaked with black mud. He stopped and smiled shyly. Deacon smiled back, and the boy scooted off towards his mother. After a few minutes he stood and tilted his head back to feel the warmth of the winter sun on his face, then began to walk away from the river.
Joel had now succumbed and was drinking beer with Dave. They were still outside on the terrace but Sophie had withdrawn to the warmth of her kitchen leaving her brother and her ex-lover sitting in the sun. They had finished their lunch and Joel was looking for an excuse to leave because he was excited to be seeing Mai tonight and did not want his day to degenerate into getting wrecked with Dave.
“I can tell you want to split, but can you do me a little favour first?” asked Dave.
“Like what?”
“Row me up to the boathouse.”
Dave was silent as Joel worked the oars against the ebbing tide. Progress was slow but within twenty minutes they were pulling the skiff onto the concrete apron outside the boathouse.
“Come inside.” Dave called out over his shoulder as he started to unlock the door.
“Well I,” Joel began.
“Look I can talk now we are here. Come inside and I will explain some stuff.” Dave began to wind up the large shutter that covered the front of the building.
“Let’s get some light in here. Just look at that Ducati.”
Once upstairs Dave went around the large studio room pulling up all the blinds. Then took two bottles of beer from a small fridge and threw one to Joel. He settled himself down on the couch facing the big window that looked out over the river, pulled a packet of Rizlas from his pocket and put his feet up on a leather footstool. Joel sat down in a battered brown leather armchair; it was placed at ninety degrees to the sofa, but still commanded an excellent view.
“So, do you know what a pathogenic secret is?” asked Dave
“Freud?” replied Joel.
“Well done. In fact I think it
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