The Absolutist by John Boyne Read Free Book Online Page B

longer alive, the streets of London having swallowed me whole? It was impossible to know.
    The war had been over for almost nine months by the time I finally plucked up the courage to write to Marian. It had been on my mind for a long time, a sense of responsibility that had kept me awake night after night as I tried to decide what to do for the best. A part of me wanted to dismiss her from my thoughts entirely, to pretend that she and her family did not exist. What help could I be to them, after all? What possible comfort could I offer? But the idea lingered and one day, tortured by guilt, I purchased what I considered to be an elegant packet of notepapers and a new fountain pen—for I wanted her to think well of me—and composed a letter.
    Dear Miss Bancroft,
    You don’t know me, or maybe you do, maybe you have heard my name mentioned, but I was a friend of your brother, Will. We trained together before we were sent over there. Wewere in the same regiment so we knew each other well. We were friends.
    I must apologize for writing to you out of the blue like this. I don’t know what you’ve been going through over these last couple of years, I can’t imagine it, but I know that your brother is never very far from my thoughts because, no matter what anyone says, he was the bravest and kindest man I ever knew and there were plenty of brave men out there, I can promise you that, but not so many kind ones.
    Anyway, I write to you now because I have something belonging to Will that I thought I should return. The letters you wrote to him while he was over there. He kept them all, you see, and they fell to me. Afterwards, I mean. On account of our friendship. I assure you that I’ve never read any of them. Only I thought that you might like them back.
    I should have written before now, of course, but the truth is I haven’t been well since my return and have had to take a little time for myself. Perhaps you can understand that. That’s all over now, I think. I don’t know. I’m not sure about things when I look to the future. I don’t know if you are; I know I’m not.
    I didn’t mean to write so much really, I just wanted to introduce myself and say that if perhaps you would permit me to call on you some day, then I should very much like to do so and I could return the letters to you, for I wonder if it might not give you some degree of comfort when you think of your brother.
    Maybe you come to London sometimes. I don’t know if you do or not, but if you don’t I wouldn’t mind coming to Norwich. I hope this letter reaches you safely; you might have moved for all I know. I heard that sometimes in these cases people move because of all the trouble that comes about.
    If you would write to me, I would like to set this matter right. Or, if you prefer not to meet, I could put the letters ina box and send them along to you. Only I hope you do agree to meet me. There are so many things I would like to tell you.
    Your brother was my best friend, I said that already, didn’t I? Anyway, I know this much, that he was no coward, Miss Bancroft, he was no coward at all. He was a braver man than I will ever be.
    I didn’t mean to write so much. But there’s a lot to say, I think.
    With respectful wishes,
    Tristan Sadler
    Without realizing it, I had walked directly past my turning for Recorder Road and found myself standing on the Riverside, staring across from where the stone pillars of Thorpe rose up to greet me. I found that my feet were taking me across the river and inside the station and I stood quietly, watching the people as they purchased their tickets and made their way towards the platforms. It was five minutes past twelve and there in front of me was the London train, set to go in another five minutes’ time. A conductor was walking up and down crying, “All aboard!” and I put my hand in my pocket for my wallet, looking at the ticket that I was carrying for my return journey later that evening. My heart raced when