The End is Where We Begin by Maria Goodin (best books to read non fiction .TXT) 📗

I run past the lock house, past the weir, past the entrance to the nature reserve. The dogs and their walkers disappear far behind us and the path ahead is open and empty. And just then I see the big concrete bridge approaching, the spot where Max died.

I speed up, the air rushing past me, my feet pounding the ground, faster, faster…

The bridge approaches and I feel a sense of dread set in, but there’s no question of me turning back or hiding away from what once happened here. I run full pelt, my legs powerful, my arms pumping, faster, faster, FASTER!

And suddenly I’m bursting through the finish line. The bridge is behind me and I’m out the other side.

I slow down, eventually grinding to a halt, bending over and gulping in air.

“Oh my God,” gasps Rob, pulling up beside me, panting. “That’s not taking it easy, man.”

I use the bottom of my T-shirt to wipe the sweat from my face. I glance back at the bridge, half expecting to see darkness, paramedics, four boys – one of them lying on the ground – Stan Finch and John Porter. But there’s nothing but shadow and a bit of weathered, indiscernible graffiti. It’s still and quiet, just the sound of Rob and I breathing heavily.

I wander slowly back towards the spot where Max died. I stare at the exact place where his lifeless body lay. There’s nothing there. Nothing happens. I don’t feel anxious or angry.

I just feel sad.

But it feels right, this aching sadness. I’m reminded of a game little children play, where you have to place the right-shaped block into the right-shaped hole. For too long I’ve been trying to plug a hole in my heart with notions and feelings that just wouldn’t fit, forcing them in until they became distorted and damaged. But this sadness finally feels like it’s where it’s supposed to be. It’s hard and it’s painful, but it’s home.

If Rob wasn’t already aware that this is the spot where Max died, then I’m pretty sure he’s aware now. He remains at a respectful distance, looking out at the water until I call over to him.

“Is it okay if we turn back now?”

Our plan was to go about half a mile further than this, but I’m done. He starts to walk towards me.

“You’ve burned yourself out,” he tells me, with the tone of a gentle reprimand.

I shake my head. I don’t feel burned out. I feel like I could go for miles.

“I’m fine,” I reassure him, turning and starting to jog slowly back along the path. “I just suddenly thought of somewhere I need to go.”

“Hi again,” I say, “I bet you weren’t expecting to see me again so soon.”

Max is silent.

“I wanted to tell you something,” I say. “In fact, I wanted to tell you lots of things.”

I take a deep breath and crouch down in front of his grave. I’m freshly showered following my run, and the scent of my own shower gel and deodorant mingles with the smell of earth and grass.

“I miss you,” I say, a lump rising in my throat. “I miss your big belly laugh. I miss your gap-toothed smile. I miss laughing at you and the way you always took it in good humour. I miss playing football with you. I miss talking to you. I miss cycling with you, listening to music with you, taking the piss out of Tom with you… I miss… I just miss you.”

I gaze at the flowers by his headstone, drooping sadly. For a second I wish I’d brought fresh ones, but that’s not really me and he knows that. Plus, it won’t be long until they’re replaced.

“I’ve felt so bad for the ways things turned out that night. I’ve spent so long wishing I’d done things differently, wishing I could have made things turn out okay. I wanted to save you. I wish I could have saved you. But I couldn’t.”

For a long time I stare at his name on the headstone, my mind quiet and empty.

“Would it be okay if I let go of this now?” I whisper, without much awareness of what I’m even saying.

In the stillness, I hear the gentle breeze quietly rustling the leaves of the trees. I feel the early-autumn sunshine warming my back. A single white petal, curled and brown, drops to the ground. I stare at it lying there, wanting it to mean something, wanting it to be a sign.

But there’s no one who can answer my question.

No one but me.

Chapter 27

Forwards

For the last four years, at the start of November, Stu and Irena have held a charity fundraiser at the Canal House. It’s a ticket-only event, and the place is always packed. There’s live music from a variety of local bands, a barbecue, a raffle and, later on, fireworks. Unlike last year when the event had to be moved inside to shelter from the rain, this year the bands will play on a raised stage at the side of the terrace underneath a clear night sky.

Some of the regulars pitch in, selling raffle tickets, promoting the event and helping to get the party started. Michael and I fire up the barbecue, although he’s so high on excitement about playing with his band later that he almost sets fire to his own jeans. Then I take over door duty for a bit, checking tickets and turning away anybody without one, taking a bit of aggro from a group of lads who have clearly already been on the beers and didn’t read the Private Event signs at the car park entrance. Then, like each year, there’s a mini-crisis when the banner over the stage falls down, taking a string of lights with it and landing on top of a young female singer and her guitar. Fortunately, she’s not hurt, but it takes the shine off her debut at the Canal House, and