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

know,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut, the regret evident on his face, “and I never even came to see you, and I’m sorry. I’ve felt so bad about that, about the way I withdrew. But I never blamed you for anything, you have to know that.”

“I was the one who made us late that night,” I hear myself say. “I was the one who suggested taking the shortcut—”

“What are you talking about? I was the one who made us late, and Max was the one who suggested taking the shortcut.”

“No,” I shake my head adamantly. “I was trying to win Libby a soft toy by shooting one of those stupid air rifle things. I couldn’t let it go. I just kept trying until I finally won that polar bear.”

“Oh no,” he laughs, “you don’t get to take the credit for that!”

I frown at him.

“You and I were in competition mode all evening, both trying to be the first one to hit that damn target. We kept going back until you finally hit the edge and won a can of lemonade. I remember because you celebrated by shaking it up and spraying it over me, and then I got stung on my neck by a bloody wasp. Anyway, after that I had to hit the target, too. I was like a dog with a bone. There was no way I was letting you win. I would have stayed there all night if I’d had to.”

“But that polar bear… it was mine. I won it for Libby.”

“It was mine and I suggested you give it to Libby.”

I gaze at the clouds, tying to recall.

Give the polar bear to your girlfriend. Tell her I won it for her because her boyfriend’s a crap shot.

Only after twenty goes!

Doesn’t matter. I still hit the bull’s-eye. Mind you, Libby probably already knows that you fire too soon and shoot all over the place.

Oh, ha ha, you’re so funny…

“I was the one who held us up,” says Tom. “You three wanted to leave.”

“But I was the one who said we should cut through the fields—”

“Max said we should cut through the fields and across the allotments. He said he knew a route. Some family member used to grow vegetables there, or something.”

I rack my brain, something coming back to me, a conversation I had with Max that night.

My gramps used to have an allotment here. The council have let it go to waste now, but it used to be really nice. He used to grow carrots and lettuces and potatoes…

Hadn’t he heard of Tesco?

Nah, it’s good, growing your own stuff. More fun than you’d think.

That’s ’cause I’d think it would be no fun whatsoever…

“I was the one who said we should run,” I say, already seeking the next reason why it must have been my fault, “it was my idea to run—”

“Because we were being threatened!” exclaims Tom in exasperation. “The guy had a knife! Look, you can lay the blame at your own doorstep all you like, but the fact is Michael was the reason we needed to get home quickly, Max was the one who came up with the shortcut, I was the one who thought it was a great idea to go investigate a fire that was none of our business… It was just a series of events. It was no one’s fault.”

“But I was the one who was meant to get help! I was the one who didn’t get there on time. I was a fucking sprinter and I didn’t get there because I…”

I trail off, shaking my head.

“Because you what?”

I rub my eyes with trembling hands.

“Because you what?” repeats Tom.

“I stopped!”

Tom frowns. “Stopped? What for?”

“Because I couldn’t decide which way to go, all right?!” I snap, hearing an accusation in his tone. “I just froze! I couldn’t figure out which was nearer, the Kingfisher or—”

“Hey! Stop,” hisses Tom, reaching out and gripping my forearm. “Stop.”

I realise I’ve shouted, that a couple of blokes sipping pints at a nearby table are staring. I feel my chest constricting, sweat beading on my brow.

“I wasted time,” I say, staring deep into Tom’s eyes, needing him to acknowledge my mistake, needing him to blame me.

“You tried your best,” says Tom firmly, “and that was all you could do. Listen, what happened was shit. But it wasn’t any of our faults. I’ve never blamed myself, and I’ve certainly never blamed you.”

His words penetrate me, like narrow beams of light piercing through the calloused outer layer of my heart. I want the layer to crack open and shift apart like the earth’s crust, allowing something warm and healing to seep through. But it won’t. I just can’t accept it wasn’t me who made this terrible thing happen.

“So if I was no more at fault than you, then why don’t you blame yourself like I do?” I ask. On some level, this makes sense to me; that my guilt is evidence I was to blame, and Tom’s clear conscious is a sign of his innocence.

“Because I’m me, and you’re you,” says Tom. “We’re different people, and we process things differently.”

He stares into his tea and sighs.

“I think one thing I learned as a child was to draw a line between myself and other people’s pain,” he says. “I had to. Watching my dad rocking back and forth in his chair crying… I couldn’t have coped if I hadn’t built a force field around myself. I know you were shocked when you found out I’d gone into psychiatry, but it’s not about tea and sympathy. I deal with some fucking horror stories, stuff that would make you lose your faith in humanity. I need that ability to fence myself off, otherwise I’d lose my mind. Whereas you, you were always a bit more sensitive. Plus, you were always a bit more… I don’t know… self-doubting. And harsher on yourself.”

I think about what he’s said. I’d always thought Tom and I were similar, but it’s probably true that he had