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

I step onto the pavement and shove the car door shut. Seagulls circle and screech overhead, struggling to keep a straight path against the wind.

“Where the hell are we?” I ask.

Tom leans backwards, stretching out his spine, breathing in the salty air.

“Essex.”

“Yeah, I know we’re in Essex. I mean, where exactly are we? And why are we here?”

Tom and Michael exchange a meaningful look.

“Come on, guys,” I sigh, “what the hell’s going on?”

“We think there’s something you need to do,” says Tom, decisively.

Michael approaches me apprehensively. “Just stay calm, okay? And remember we’re trying to help you.”

“Help me what? What are we doing?”

“Come on,” says Tom, placing his hand on my back and steering me down the driveway of the bungalow, in between the potted plants and the Nissan Micra.

“What?” I ask, shrugging him off. “Whose house is this?”

Just then the front door opens and a lady steps out. She’s in her early sixties, I’d guess, portly, neatly bobbed fair hair, beige trousers and a navy-blue cardigan.

I think I recognise her, but in my confused state I’m not completely sure. And then a man steps out beside her. A tubby, silver-haired gentleman with glasses and a soft, friendly face.

And now I know exactly who they are.

My stomach lurches and my limbs freeze.

We stand still, staring at each other for a moment, before I feel Tom pushing me gently forwards.

“Hello, Jamie,” says Max’s mum, Carole, smiling warmly at me. “Goodness, look at you!”

Before I know what’s happening, she reaches up and kisses me on the cheek.

“Lovely to see you again, son,” beams Max’s dad, Peter, taking my hand in both of his and pumping it up and down.

His eyes look small and blurred behind the thick lens of his glasses, and I watch his chin wobble as he shakes my hand.

I’m mute and rigid. I can feel my heart pounding. I want to turn and run from these wonderful people who have never known what I did.

I hear Carole behind me now.

“Hello again, Tom,” she laughs, and it’s clear from the way she says it that they’ve only met recently, that he’s been here already, setting this up.

“And Michael!” Carole exclaims brightly.

I stand there, dazed and lost, as everyone greets each other, shakes hands, plants kisses, as if this is a pleasant reunion of long-lost friends instead the moment of reckoning. I know why I’ve been brought here and it’s not to make chit-chat. It’s to own up to what happened, to confess. To seek forgiveness. Tom might have already spoken to Max’s parents, but there’s clearly no damn way he’s told them what happened that night.

“Come inside,” says Peter, guiding me indoors, “let’s get everyone a drink.”

I step out of the wind into the narrow hallway, where I remove my shoes in a trance. From there I’m led into a large, immaculately tidy lounge.

The first thing I see is a photo of Max on the wall, beaming at me. I haven’t been able to bring myself to look at a photo of Max in sixteen years. I’d forgotten about that little gap between his two front teeth, the rosy hue of his cheeks. I feel my breath catch in my throat. But when I turn away there’s another one on the mantelpiece – Max in his primary school uniform – and another one on the windowsill – Max eating an ice cream on holiday. Around me people talk, but I hear nothing of what they’re saying. I feel dizzy and disorientated and I just want to get out of here.

Suddenly a hand touches my shoulder. I turn with a start.

“You okay?” Michael asks.

I look around, but it’s just me, Michael and Tom in the room.

“What the hell are we doing here?!” I whisper fiercely.

“Think of it as exposure therapy,” says Tom, calmly and quietly.

“I don’t want any fucking exposure therapy!” I hiss through gritted teeth. “This is insane! What are you trying to do?!”

“Calm down,” says Michael, placing a hand on my arm.

I knock him away angrily and he retreats.

“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” I hear him mutter to Tom.

“Here we go,” says Carole brightly, entering the room with a tray of polka-dot mugs.

“We bought chocolate Hobnobs for the occasion,” says Peter with a smile, placing a huge plate of biscuits down on the coffee table, “we remembered you boys always loved Hobnobs.”

“Barclay certainly loved a Hobnob,” mutters Carole, sitting herself down on the sofa.

“Good old Barclay loved anything edible, didn’t he?” pipes up Tom, and the rest of them politely chuckle in agreement.

This is too much. It’s all too weird – this niceness, this pretending. Plus, when did any of us ever refer to him as Barclay? Not since we were ten and Tom decided Barclay was a naff name that would surely see him bullied at secondary school. We tried out Macintyre for a couple of weeks, but it was just too much effort. Max. That was so much cooler. Jay, Tom, Max. We butchered the names we were christened with – the ones our parents had so carefully chosen – until we were no more than a syllable each.

We sit down, and Carole hands out the mugs. Michael seems to have ordered me a black tea. Or did I do that myself?

Peter holds out the plate of biscuits.

Tom touches the soft swell of his belly and looks like he’s going to resist, but swiftly changes his mind. “Oh, go on then,” he says, taking a Hobnob, “I think it’s what Max would have wanted.”

They laugh. All of them laugh. I can’t stand this anymore. It’s sick.

“Ah, shit!” I breathe, spilling hot tea all over my shaking hands and my thigh. I stand up quickly. “Sorry,” I say, realising I’ve just committed the deadly sin of swearing in front of a friend’s parents. And the churchgoing ones at that.

“Let me get you a cloth,” says Carole, shuffling forward in her chair.

“No! It’s fine,” I say, heading out of the room, flustered.