as he tried to identify it. Tonight he’d only seen her desperation, but without doubt he recognized her from somewhere else. For now he just couldn’t remember
where.
This shifted his priorities so that he never turned into Gwydir Street, instead following his new thoughts until they took him in a full circle back to Parker’s Piece, and towards the
empty building that stood on the far side. The first three floors were in darkness but a single light shone from his attic window. No one else lived in any part of the building, and the light
worked on a timer, set to switch on from 7 p.m. until whenever he eventually made it home and turned it off.
Weariness caught up with him as he climbed the silent flights of stairs to his front door. He turned off the light in the window, then sat down in the nearest chair, feeling strangely reluctant
to cast off his smoke-impregnated clothes. He only meant to stay there for a minute or two, but was still in the same place when he fell into an exhausted sleep.
The television set had a seven-inch screen, and a small aerial like a tilted halo. The picture was poor, but as long as Stefan didn’t move the sound remained clear.
Stefan didn’t move at all.
A reporter was at the scene, using a lot of words, a lot of meaningless spiel best interpreted as ‘We know nothing’.
She stood to one side of the camera shot, and over her shoulder was his house. He watched the smoke, then her mouth move, then the smoke again. Smoke, mouth, smoke, his gaze flicking back and
forth across the screen until it got boring.
He knew what they’d find there: a lesson in what happened when betrayal overstepped the point of possible forgiveness.
Sometimes it wasn’t enough for people to suffer pain; sometimes it was more important to show everyone else the price that must be paid. Those were the unwritten rules. The unfair part was
the notion that not everyone would be made to pay.
But, as he thought it over, he was sure that would not be allowed to happen here.
Mouth, smoke, mouth. Not so boring, after all.
Riley’s bowl tipped over and the contents hit the floor, splashing outwards like vomit. He didn’t look at all concerned. In the whole of his short life, he’d
never had to feel fear.
TWELVE
At 5 a.m. Kimberly slid open the sash window. She felt like she’d been holding her breath for hours, but now, with her lungs tight with anxiety and the house feeling
stale, she admitted to herself that she needed air. There was no breeze but clean air soon filled the room by replacing the warmth which slipped outside.
Night had almost passed, streetlamps were glowing and lights had come on in a few of the houses bordering the cemetery, but the brightest by far shone from Rachel’s house: a floodlight
that was directed on the front elevation, but glowing above the remains of the collapsed roof like an unnatural, clinical-white sun about to rise and shine on her life.
Kimberly was neither a church-goer nor a hypocrite but her brain repeated two words: Please God. Please God.
Over the last hours, her hopes and ambitions had withered, her sense of independence become frail. Riley had become her every reason to live, and he was out there somewhere she couldn’t
see, couldn’t reach.
Please God. Please God.
She closed her eyes and tried to feel her child’s spirit; she believed her love for him was strong enough to know whether he was safe. Whether he was alive. Whether he was waiting for her
– bewildered, crying, feeling abandoned.
I’m sorry. Please, God, help me.
She knew that gnawing emptiness too well. The futile search for love and safe harbour painted her every single childhood memory, a pattern of false hope and abandonment and finally anger.
Producing a fury that had smothered all her vulnerabilities, and still rode on her shoulder.
That rage wouldn’t do anything for her now except choke her ability to think clearly. Tears slipped from her tightly closed eyes and the
where.
This shifted his priorities so that he never turned into Gwydir Street, instead following his new thoughts until they took him in a full circle back to Parker’s Piece, and towards the
empty building that stood on the far side. The first three floors were in darkness but a single light shone from his attic window. No one else lived in any part of the building, and the light
worked on a timer, set to switch on from 7 p.m. until whenever he eventually made it home and turned it off.
Weariness caught up with him as he climbed the silent flights of stairs to his front door. He turned off the light in the window, then sat down in the nearest chair, feeling strangely reluctant
to cast off his smoke-impregnated clothes. He only meant to stay there for a minute or two, but was still in the same place when he fell into an exhausted sleep.
The television set had a seven-inch screen, and a small aerial like a tilted halo. The picture was poor, but as long as Stefan didn’t move the sound remained clear.
Stefan didn’t move at all.
A reporter was at the scene, using a lot of words, a lot of meaningless spiel best interpreted as ‘We know nothing’.
She stood to one side of the camera shot, and over her shoulder was his house. He watched the smoke, then her mouth move, then the smoke again. Smoke, mouth, smoke, his gaze flicking back and
forth across the screen until it got boring.
He knew what they’d find there: a lesson in what happened when betrayal overstepped the point of possible forgiveness.
Sometimes it wasn’t enough for people to suffer pain; sometimes it was more important to show everyone else the price that must be paid. Those were the unwritten rules. The unfair part was
the notion that not everyone would be made to pay.
But, as he thought it over, he was sure that would not be allowed to happen here.
Mouth, smoke, mouth. Not so boring, after all.
Riley’s bowl tipped over and the contents hit the floor, splashing outwards like vomit. He didn’t look at all concerned. In the whole of his short life, he’d
never had to feel fear.
TWELVE
At 5 a.m. Kimberly slid open the sash window. She felt like she’d been holding her breath for hours, but now, with her lungs tight with anxiety and the house feeling
stale, she admitted to herself that she needed air. There was no breeze but clean air soon filled the room by replacing the warmth which slipped outside.
Night had almost passed, streetlamps were glowing and lights had come on in a few of the houses bordering the cemetery, but the brightest by far shone from Rachel’s house: a floodlight
that was directed on the front elevation, but glowing above the remains of the collapsed roof like an unnatural, clinical-white sun about to rise and shine on her life.
Kimberly was neither a church-goer nor a hypocrite but her brain repeated two words: Please God. Please God.
Over the last hours, her hopes and ambitions had withered, her sense of independence become frail. Riley had become her every reason to live, and he was out there somewhere she couldn’t
see, couldn’t reach.
Please God. Please God.
She closed her eyes and tried to feel her child’s spirit; she believed her love for him was strong enough to know whether he was safe. Whether he was alive. Whether he was waiting for her
– bewildered, crying, feeling abandoned.
I’m sorry. Please, God, help me.
She knew that gnawing emptiness too well. The futile search for love and safe harbour painted her every single childhood memory, a pattern of false hope and abandonment and finally anger.
Producing a fury that had smothered all her vulnerabilities, and still rode on her shoulder.
That rage wouldn’t do anything for her now except choke her ability to think clearly. Tears slipped from her tightly closed eyes and the
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