Cold Boy's Wood by Carol Birch (if you liked this book TXT) 📗

like it’s huge, like it’s the glorious fucking revolution, and he’s no idea, no idea at all of the significance of what I did.’

‘What you did,’ I said.

I was losing time. It’s melting. I think I did understand him. I think I saw his mind move, the way it turned irresistibly to the presented opportunity, too apt and perfect not to be grasped, God-given he might have said if he’d believed in God, which he did after a fashion though he’d never have said so. Came a point when all reality ran to that point, and people turned into ciphers.

‘I feel sick,’ he said.

‘Do you?’

‘Horrible taste in my mouth.’ He took a great gurgling swallow. ‘I hit him,’ he said. ‘It was awful, Lor. I hit him with the camera.’

Why should she be gone? Why did he not grieve? What was he? Not that lovely man I met in the record shop, that sweet man who walked beside me in his big coat.

‘It’s not like I thought about it. I was holding it by the strap and I just swung it. You know, Lor, when something just seems to happen by itself. I just swung it and it cracked on the side of his head, right on the ear. And his glasses flew off.’ He laughed. ‘Sailed through the air.’

The lightning flashed.

‘Bastard,’ said Johnny, to a place on the ground in front of the back door. ‘Bastard bastard bastard. All he did was sit with his fucking feet in his Doc Martens up on his desk. Phoney. Fake. All the time lying and lying and lying, don’t ever again try to tell me you were ever a friend of mine. It was me. Me! I was the only one who dared, who actually did it, put myself out there on that ledge.’

‘You didn’t leave him there?’ I said.

‘Christ,’ said Johnny, ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Gone back to the station, I suppose, like he said.’

‘He was OK?’

‘Oh yeah. Bit groggy.’

‘You said a fight. That doesn’t sound like a fight.’

‘Well, it was. Honest, he got up. He went down but he got up again. Absolute cunt. You should have seen him grovelling about for his glasses, feeling around, like this…’ and he patted the air in front of him feebly with a gormless look on his face. ‘Oh God, Lor, you know me. I hate violence. It’s not me. He got up and he hit me, look, here’ – pushing the hair back from his forehead – ‘What could I do? I don’t fight. I don’t know how to. It was ridiculous, he’s got this backpack with a stupid logo and he’s trying to fight with it on his back, he looked so stupid flailing away. I kicked him. I had the camera, I was going to keep it, I think, but I just threw it down, and he went after it, crawling around without his glasses.’

I picked up my file and slid it into the groove in the centre of the leaf.

‘You and your jewellery,’ he said.

‘So he’s gone?’

‘I assume so. Lor, please, I need to rest.’

I shook my head.

‘Lorna!’

‘You can’t do this,’ I said.

‘If you knew what a horrible day I’ve had. I lost my way. Went all over the place before I found the path, falling over things, I was sick, caught my foot in a hole, went flying, right into this rock, it’s all fucking booby-trapped up there, crazy. Fucking hurt. Bastard! Hope he missed his train. Told him he was going the wrong way. All his own fault. Honest, the blood was just pouring down, can’t I at least come in and clean myself up? You wouldn’t turn a dog out, would you, Lorna? And I was just going down and down and looking for the path and thinking all the time I’d come to you because you’d know what to do and because, I don’t know, and got to the path in the end and then I reached the road and some woman gave me a lift, only I didn’t know where I was going, it all looked different somehow, I was trying to think of the name of this cottage and all I could think of was when me and you were here and everything was OK and it made me want to cry, I think I actually might have done and this woman kept saying, are you OK? Are you OK? And then I recognised the T-junction and I said, drop me here, and I knew it then – that way to the village, that way to the woods, and I walked and walked and it was suddenly there, the cottage, God, it was like seeing an oasis, I thought I’d never get here and I’m walking down the lane looking at the roof and remembering the chimneys and there’s no smoke and I thought, if she’s not there I’ll kill myself, I’ll just sit down in the garden and that’ll be it for me. I’ll just sit there and stare into nothing and give up.’

The file slipped and made a mark that spoiled the whole thing.

‘This is me, Lor,’ he said.

It was him.

‘What about Harriet?’ I said.

‘Harry.’ His eyes closed. ‘Oh God, if you knew – I can hardly bear – she’s what now? Twelve? Thirteen? Harry.’

‘Give up, Johnny,’ I said, ‘you can’t make anything right now. It’s all gone.’

‘No.’

‘No! It’s gone. It’s all gone.’

‘No. It’s me, Lorna. Me. Don’t you understand? How can it be gone? It can never be over. Think! All that time, all those… No! It’s not possible. Things don’t end like that. Don’t you see? Nothing was intended! Don’t you remember? Surely, you see. Surely. Through everything, go back, Lor, how it was, please, Lor, go back, before…’

These cobweb layers, this madness.

‘Oh Lor,’ he said, ‘I’ve had a terrible day.’

Her death meant less to him than a falling-out with Maurice.

I stuck the diamond file in the side of his neck and he stood for