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

a tougher edge to him. He was certainly more self-confident, more sure of himself. I think maybe that’s what I liked about Michael when he came along; that I could see his vulnerability. He was a respite from all bravado and toughness.

“Tell me,” says Tom, leaning in, “what it would take for you to let go of this?”

I gaze up at the sky, chew my lower lip and shake my head.

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do,” says Tom. “Come on. Libby, me… Who do you need to see next?”

I scratch at my neck.

“Max,” I tell him. “I want to talk to Max.”

Tom nods as if this was the exact answer he was expecting.

“So let’s do it then,” he says decisively, “let’s go talk to Max.”

Chapter 22

Revelations

In the light of the fire, I could see the Leader’s face; gaunt, hollow-eyed, grey stubble flecking his angular jaws. His long, skinny arm was draped over Tom’s shoulder, the knife dangling.

“What’s going to happen now?” he asked in his thick accent, looking directly at me, the firelight reflected in his eyes. “It’s all up to you.”

I shook my head, not knowing what to say, not understanding what he wanted from me.

He started to count slowly backwards from sixty. I watched him, confused.

“…fifty-one, fifty, forty-nine…”

“I don’t know what I’m meant to do,” I said, my voice cracking under the pressure.

“…thirty-three, thirty-two, thirty-one…”

“What… what do you want me to say?” I asked in a panic.

“…twenty-four, twenty-three, twenty-two…”

I glanced around, but everyone else – Tom, Michael, Max, the other members of the Leader’s gang – was just watching me, waiting for me to act.

“…thirteen, twelve, eleven…”

“What?!” I yelled. “I don’t know! I don’t know what I’m meant to do!”

“…five, four, three…”

“Stop! I don’t know what you want from me! I can’t decide—”

“Too late,” said the Leader, coolly, slicing the blade across Tom’s throat.

Blood gushed from the wound.

And as I glanced down, I saw with horror that my own hands were bleeding profusely, blood dripping onto the hard, dried earth, seeping between the cracks.

“Dad?”

I sit bolt upright, my heart pounding, my chest tight. In the darkness, I can just make out Josh’s silhouette in my bedroom doorway.

“Are you okay?” he asks quietly. “You were making weird noises.”

I rub my face.

“I’m fine,” I tell him. “Bad dream, that’s all. Go back to bed.”

“That’s the seventy-millimetre bolt, right? So that should go—”

“It’s an error in the instructions, Stu,” I tell him again, holding a part of the cot in each hand. I feel exhausted and I’m running out of patience. I wish he’d just leave me to get on with putting the damn thing together.

“Jay knows what he’s talking about, Stu,” says Irena, grumpily, snatching the instructions from his hand. “Just listen to him.”

“I don’t think the instructions would be wrong.”

“Then why does it say one thing in English and a different thing in Polish?!”

“Calm down, babe,” says Stu slowly, “you said you weren’t feeling that great, you should be resting—”

“Don’t you babe me! Why you ask Jay to have a look if you know what you doing, huh, clever boy? This baby will be sleeping on floor before you are sure! Go to cash and carry and let him do it!” she shouts, thrusting the instruction sheet at me.

Stu offers me a look of resignation before sloping out the door, turning at the last minute and making as if to strangle Irena from behind.

“What you doing?” she snaps, turning quickly.

“Nothing, honey,” he mutters, disappearing down the hallway.

“Silly man,” she tuts, rubbing her back and letting out a little groan. She lowers herself into the new rocking chair and strokes her round belly, grimacing with discomfort. God, I’d forgotten how rough pregnancy looks.

I discard the instructions, pick up a screwdriver and crouch down to get to work.

“Nice cot,” I comment, knowing it must have cost a packet. “You know, you can get really good second-hand kids’ stuff on eBay—”

“Why I want to get second-hand things for my baby?” Irena interrupts. “I work long hours. What I come to this country for if I can’t afford my own things?”

Firmly put in my place, I get to work in silence. I know Irena’s spending is a source of stress for Stu. It was initially her idea to get the mural painted, her idea to rebrand the Canal House last year with a new sign, menus, website… But, as Stu admits, the investment pays off in the long run. She’s a shrewd businesswoman.

“So, I got text message from Libby last night,” says Irena.

My heart sinks. I really don’t want to talk about Libby. She’s gone. I just want to put her out of my head.

“You’re not going to ask how is she?”

“She only left last week, Irena,” I tell her, lining up a screw.

“Well, she is split from her boyfriend.”

I pause for a second, the screwdriver in mid-air, before composing myself and continuing.

“Split?”

“Yes, split. Finished. Over.”

I knew she wasn’t happy! I knew it all along. No matter what she said to the contrary, I knew something wasn’t right.

“You are not going to ask why?” says Irena.

I shrug, trying to look as disinterested as possible.

“It’s not really any of my business, is it?”

“You know he cheat on her?”

The screwdriver clatters onto the wooden floor and I scramble to pick it up. That fucker. That fucking arsing shitty bastard fucker.

“No. I didn’t know.”

“With his personal assistant.” She tuts and mumbles something about all men being pig dicks.

My grip tightens on the screwdriver and I clench my back teeth. I try to imagine what it would be like to bang his head against a brick wall and drive my fist into his face, but having never done such a thing, I have no idea how it would feel. I’m guessing incredible.

“I thought maybe she tell you he did this,” says Irena. “It was months ago. Before she even came here.”

I pause what I’m doing.

“Before she came here?”

“Yes. So this explains why she is happy to move out of his