Boy on the Wire by Alastair Bruce

change in Peter after Paul’s death was profound. Before, he was the happiest boy you could wish to know. You were more thoughtful, sometimes a bit sulky even, but you were young, more introspective. Your brothers were quite boisterous with you, though they loved you of course. There were some moments when your mother and I would have our hearts broken by seeing the three of you, your arms around each other. I remember one day you fell off your bike. There was a rope in the middle of the road. I think you were playing cops and robbers. You went over it, your bike flipped, you went flying. Peter and Paul rushed up to you – I saw it happen from the other end of the garden – and they gave you a big hug and tried to stop you crying. I carried you inside and they came too and sat beside you holding your hand as your Mom wiped away the blood. That was one of those moments.
    Perhaps they did the same on the day Paul died. You had quite a cut on your leg. On your chin too. Perhaps you called for Paul. You used to do that. You would call for him to help you. You adored him, looked up to him – to Peter too – in spite of the rough-housing. There were times Peter (more than Paul) found it annoying, but that is to be expected. He was twelve, you were eight, that is all the reason needed.
    You would have cried out, I’m sure. You never told us how you got those cuts and scrapes, though I suppose it was not the first thing on anyone’s mind. There was blood all over the place and most of it was Paul’s. That you were cut seemed of little concern.
    Once again I digress.
    It made your mother and I ache to think what you had gone through. Both of you. Peter especially. Jumping at the same time. I imagine – he would never admit it – he felt guilty. As if he was responsible. But he was not. It was an accident.
    Even if one pushed the other, it was an accident. There was no pushing anyway, was there? You were too far away to see. You said you were further up the path when they went over.
    Sometimes it was hard remembering it was an accident. It was like you two had a secret from that day on. Something you would not talk to us about. I wonder, did you talk to each other about it? I think not. What was it, John, this secret? Or did we imagine it? It is possible we did, probable even.
    We were never the same, either, your mother and I. The death of a child makes you see the world in a different way. Perhaps it caused us to see you differently too. I am sorry for that.
    We failed you. And Peter. No matter what really happened that day, we failed you. We tried to talk to you after the accident, to talk about what you had seen, might have seen. One of those times, perhaps it was the last time I tried, to my regret, you said something. You were turned away from me, sat on the edge of your bed, turned away from me, and you said something and I asked you to repeat it and you did and the words were ‘I said, I saw.’ I saw. Those simple words. They stunned me. They silenced me completely. Silenced both of us. We sat there, not touching and these words were between us and I had to leave. I understood them, of course, understood the bare words, but what they meant, what they might mean, I could not grasp. Would not, perhaps.
    To my regret, I say again. I had to leave because there was this thing in the room I knew was there but could not see, could not name, could not bear to look at. I know you wanted to carry on talking, but I could not be there. What did you mean, John? What did you see? Did you see Peter push Paul? Is that what you meant?
    I ask, but I ask knowing I will not get a reply, do not deserve a reply, and that is why I can ask.
    I had an idea what you meant, of course. We both did, your mother and I. But we could never speak it, speak of it, though it was with us all the time in this house, immovable.
    I am reminded of a paradox. An irresistible force meets an immovable object.
    I still cannot talk about it. Peter and I never