Boy on the Wire by Alastair Bruce Read Free Book Online

their arms around one another. I wipe away some of the dust. On the back are the names Peter, Paul and John, and a date, 11 December 1983. As if the names and the date could be forgotten.
    Beneath this photograph is another. A boy, his back to the camera, sits on the ground clasping his legs to him. He is in a forest, or at least in the bush. We do not have forest here.
    It is Peter. I took the photograph.
    I go upstairs, open more windows. I stop at the entrance to the main bedroom. The bed is unmade. I wonder at this. The rest of the house is neat, prepared. Why wouldn’t he have made the bed? He knew I was coming, would have guessed I would come. That, surely, was the point of the letter: to goad me into flying out here after him.
    I pull the sheets off and hold them up. They are yellow where he has laid on them. I sniff. They smell of a person, a man. I don’t know what I expect. To recognise the smell?
    I detect a faint warmth on the sheets. The sun slants across the bed.
    There are no beds in the other rooms. The first room down the corridor was Paul’s. There are some cupboards built in, but otherwise the room is empty. The next one belonged to me. The furniture is the same as I remember: white cupboards, a desk under the window. I feel nothing, though. I cannot see myself in here.
    I walk out and turn to go further down the corridor, but I stop. Something makes me turn around. I am not sure what exactly. I step back into Paul’s room. It is empty. There is a noise, though. Rather, not a noise, a sudden absence of noise. Like my eardrum has stopped working. It lasts just a moment.
    I stare out of the window which looks out over the driveway, briefly picturing Peter returning, but of course there is nothing out there.
    I do not go into the last bedroom: Peter’s room as a boy. I stand outside it, where I can see the door to the attic room. There are bolts on it, one of which has been drawn. The police appear to have cleaned up well after themselves.
    To my left, a window. The mist has not burnt off yet. It is like I am at the top of a mountain looking into cloud. And then, through the mist, a brighter spot, a white disc. In the lounge I sit in the chair and pick up the phone. There is no dialling tone. The bills have not been paid, I assume.
    I do not know Rachel’s number anyway. I have never had to remember it since it was in my mobile. I could buy a charger for it, but I think it is better if I do not call.
    I hear a knock on the front door. At least I think I hear it. I may have been asleep and dreaming. It is like I hear it some time after it has happened. I turn my head towards the door and listen. I hear nothing further, but I get up and go to the door. As I pass the second lounge, I see a shadow on the floor, something standing in front of the window, unmoving. I can see the shape of the head, the rest of it formless. I stop, then move closer. As I step into the room, a cloud, or the last of the mist, moves across the window and the shadow vanishes. I peer around the door. Nothing. There is also nowhere anyone could have gone. The windows are still open, but there are bars across them. There are two marks where someone could have been standing, but they are more likely just scuff marks. I stand on top of them. The sun casts my shadow, nothing else. I step to one side, hear my feet move on the carpet. The shadow stays where it is. Not a shadow at all: the light from the sun picking out an old stain. I open the front door but there is no one there either.
    I spend the night on the couch. I have washed and hung out the bed sheets but they are not dry yet. The house is quiet. I hear only the occasional tick. I lie on the couch and watch the moonlight as it shifts across the ceiling.
    Just before dawn, I go out of the house and into the garden. There is no mist today. The last of the stars are in the sky, and the wind, for once, is still, quiet.
    Later I drive to a shopping centre and go into a hardware store. I