like a normal person might.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” said the man at Keane’s shoulder. Keane turned slightly so he could see who was talking to him like he was some drunk in a pub.
The guy wore security guard’s clothes. He looked kindly enough, but Keane noticed the man wasn’t close, wasn’t far. Being careful, wary of…
Tramp.
You’re a tramp, baby.
It hit hard enough to sting—that realization she was right and he was wrong and that this wasn’t the way.
It wasn’t the way.
Keane nodded to the guard. “I’m leaving,” he said. The guard followed Keane to the doors. Keane stepped through and out into the cold, bright air of a new winter.
That night, he slept in clean sheets in a bed-and-breakfast and didn’t sleep in his car ever again.
27
That winter, long and cold, Keane passed the time conversing with shadows.
Honey, his wife would say, you need a shower . So, he’d take a shower, or he’d eat. Once, he’d cared for her, looked after her needs following the accident that took the use of her legs.
Now, she cared for him.
He knew she was dead, but having her in his head made it easier. Life was easier with her there, and slowly, as the winter drew on, he came to relish her little interjections into his life, her guidance and her good sense.
He wasn’t completely without empathy. He understood the owners of the bed-and-breakfast at which he stayed were wary of him. Understanding this, he kept his distance, was polite, considerate. He was a very quiet resident, and, thanks largely to Teresa’s silent prodding, clean and well-kempt. He kept the beard. Didn’t quite know why. He just did.
When the last of the snow thawed, when the rains came and it was cool but not cold, Keane began to walk. Not far. Not compulsively. Just into town, and then back to the bed-and-breakfast. Sometimes he’d buy a pack of cigarettes, sometimes not. He smoked less, showered more, ate twice a day instead of four times, and quit drinking.
When springtime came to the city, people didn’t look at him like he was crazy anymore. He had learned to smile.
28
Conversing with shadows with a smile on his face.
Smile, baby. Just smile, she’d say.
So he smiled at people he passed on his walks. Smiled at the owners of his small room with mismatched furniture and old television. Smiled and passed the time of day with the ladies in the newsagents.
Funnily, as he looked in the mirror each day, the haunted look in his face was gone, though she became more present than ever.
In the dark, though…in the dark.
She fell quiet some nights. Like she was afraid. Afraid of him.
Brother. Keane’s shade.
And, in the dark, Keane waited. Each night, before sleep, he waited. Flicked the light on, off, on, off.
Empty.
The shadows were empty.
29
At around 7:40, Keane switched the light off for the final time and sat up from his bed.
Where is it?
Not her voice, this time, but his own.
Where was the photograph with his writing. The one with Brother Shadow’s words.
It ends Tuesday.
Keane searched his luggage with a deep frown on his face. Naked, his hair receding but long and his beard thick. The frown grew. He became frantic for a moment, because she wasn’t there and neither was the picture.
Where the fuck is it?
He rocked back on his heels and slammed his sole suitcase shut. He didn’t have it.
What did you do with the picture, Keane?
He didn’t know. But there was only one place he could have left it. The old house.
30
Keane pulled the car tight in at the curb and turned off the ignition. There was a sign in the driveway for an auction company. The bank had put the house on the market and it hadn’t sold, or things just moved slowly when a house was repossessed. He didn’t know which and didn’t suppose it mattered