The Gloaming by Melanie Finn Read Free Book Online Page B

hand.
    â€˜Don’t.’
    â€˜If there’s anything I can do.’
    â€˜You’ve done enough.’
    He ignored this. ‘What about your parents? Have you called them?’
    â€˜You know that’s not possible.’
    â€˜They’re still living like that?’
    â€˜Like what?’ I wanted him to condescend, to sneer.
    â€˜Like—’ But he stopped himself. ‘Without a phone?’
    â€˜Yes. Still. It’s how they live, Tom. Feral as goats, and happy.’
    â€˜You could—’
    â€˜Go and stay with them?’
    He sighed, bowed his head. ‘I don’t know. But I’m worried about you. We’re worried.’
    We
. I thought about this shift, made in a matter of sentences. Not years, not months, not weeks. Once—for twelve years—we had been
we
. Now we was exclusive of me. This new we he spoke of casually, yet with surgical precision. He was a lawyer, he always chose his words.
    â€˜I’m fine,’ I said.
    But Tom was not finished. ‘Elise has the name of a great therapist.’
    â€˜You think I should see Elise’s shrink?’
    â€˜Therapist. Highly qualified psychotherapist.’ He spoke calmly. ‘Shock. It’s very insidious. I see it all the time at work. You know that.’
    â€˜And just what do you think Elise’s shrink would suggest? That I start an affair with a married man and get pregnant by him so he leaves his wife?’
    Tom exhaled softly. ‘Jesus, you’re so bitter.’
    â€˜Or did I get it the wrong way round? You got her pregnant so you could leave me.’
    â€˜It’s time to move on.’
    â€˜Why? So you can feel less guilty?’
    He stood and shook his head with contempt, ‘Three children are dead. Don’t talk to me about guilt.’ He tossed the flowers in the sink, an expensive bouquet worth several hundred Swiss Francs.
    Â 
Magulu, May 3
    A mob of children surrounds Kessy. He holds in his hands a box, and they are all trying to touch the box. Kessy is losing his temper, but he must hold the box with both hands as it is torn, at risk of collapse, and he cannot fend them off. Gladness’s brother, Samwelli, wades out to help him. Samwelli is small and neatly formed, like Gladness—not so much bigger than the children, but he is quick and strong; he picks out the main troublemaker and pulls him roughly aside.
    The ragged procession moves down the street, drawing in new members, as if Kessy is the center of gravity. The children are screeching and jumping, the adults grinning and chattering. I can feel the frantic energy of the crowd, the greed of it, not for Kessy, or even the box, but for the event itself: something is happening in Magulu!
    Dorothea stands outside the clinic, ready and alert. Kessy hands her the box and turns on the crowd, his club swinging like a propeller, opening up a semicircle of space. People are shouting questions at him. One man, in a red T-shirt, shoves forward and stabs his finger at Kessy, his voice hysterical with accusation. In an instant, Kessy grabs him, flips him onto the ground, cold-cocks him. The crowd steps back in awe, as if they have seen a magic trick. Kessy places his knee on the man’s back and jerks his wrists into handcuffs, one at a time.
    Now, looking at the crowd, pulling the man to his feet, Kessy speaks in a low, hissing voice. They listen and seem to obey, for they back up. But I see in their eyes something base. One day, they will tear Kessy apart. One day, they will hit him until he falls on the earth and they will kick him, his face, his ribs, his stomach, his groin, until he is no longer a policeman, no longer anyone they knew, and when he is good and dead, when he is meat and dust, then they will vanish into the bush.
    Am I beginning to understand?
    â€˜Friend!’ Dorothea calls to me. ‘Come, come here!’
    Inside the clinic, she opens the box. It once contained paint and is