The Possession of Mr Cave by Matt Haig Read Free Book Online Page A

expected. But I gave you: 'Fine.'
    The defiance that had creased your forehead softened into
blank confusion.
    'Okay,' you said, almost as a question. 'See you . . . later.'
    'All right. See you later. And see you too, Imogen.'
    You left and I watched you walk out of the back door,
into that fearful day.
    I ran into the shop.
    'Cynthia, can you look after everything here for a bit? I
won't be long.'
    Your grandmother gave me one of her unforgiving looks.
That tight, crinkled mouth offset with those tough eyes that
once had her cast as Hedda Gabler. 'Terence, where have you
been? I was calling you. Mrs Weeks came in wanting a word.'
    'I was upstairs. Listen, I've got to nip out.'
    'But, Terence –'
    And so I left the shop and followed you, out of Cave
Antiques, out into the light. I followed you down Blossom
Street, through the city walls and down the length of
Micklegate. I held my distance when you disappeared inside
a clothes shop. I held my breath when you crossed over the
road, turning your head in my direction. You didn't see me.
    You carried on, over the river, on to Ousegate. I bumped
into Peter, the vicar, and he blockaded me with mild smiles
and charitable words. He asked how we were bearing up.
    'Fine,' I told him, although the anxious looks over his
shoulder probably gave a different story. 'Honestly, we're
getting there. We have our bad days but . . .' I saw you turning
left, heading out of my view. 'Listen, I'm terribly sorry, Peter,
but I'm in a rush. Another time.'
    I ran towards Parliament Street and saw two crowds of
youths loitering around the benches near the public toilets.
The nearest group was made up of boys sitting on stationary
bicycles. Or standing: eating chips, sucking on cigarettes or
typing into their mobile telephones. Boys wearing the kind
of clothes Reuben always wanted. Trainers, tracksuits, their
faces shaded by caps or hooded tops. The warm fuzziness
inside my mind returned for a second.
    I recognised one of them as the small boy I had seen
vomiting his innards out onto the pavement the night Reuben
died. He nudged his friend and nodded over to the other
group. The boy had his back to me but turned, smiling. The
smile died as he looked across. It was him. It was Denny.
    I followed his gaze over to the others. I scanned this
second tribe. Boys with odd haircuts, dressed for the French
Revolution. A rather rotund girl with a painted Pierrot tear
on her cheek. T-shirts with macabre designs and Gothic fonts.
The Remorse. The Pains of Sleep. The Cleopatras. Daughters
of Albion. Instructions for My Funeral. Teenage Baudelaires,
plugged into music machines or eating bagel sandwiches.
    My heart fell as I spotted you, right at the very centre.
    The boys buzzing around your beauty as I had feared. I
saw one of them talking animatedly to you and Imogen.
    He seemed older than the rest, rake-thin, dressed in tightest
black, and despite the weather he was wearing a blood-red
scarf. He had a long, pale, fleshless face with sleepy eyes. A
cadaverous face, Dickens would have said. What was he saying
to make you both laugh? I itched – no, burned – to know.
    There was someone else, on the furthest fringe of that
group. A boy I recognised but didn't know why. A tall, overweight
boy trying loudly to fit in. He had blond hair with
a pinkish fringe and wore thick-lens glasses. And then I
realised. It was Mrs Weeks' son George.
    Up until recently he had always accompanied his mother
on her Saturday-morning visits. The reason it took so long
to place him was that George Weeks had always struck me
as a quiet, studious kind of child. For all his heft it had been
easy to imagine him bullied, what with his bad breathing
and shy manner. And having had his father teach at the
school wouldn't have helped matters. I remember once trying
to get Reuben to talk to him, as George was a year above
him at St John's, but your brother slipped away and made
an excuse, as was his fashion. (I remember the letter I had
found in