defeated.
His mother tapped softly, but receiving no answer, called goodbye, reminded him to eat, and then – humming a little – packed Charlie into his pushchair and left.
32
Justin stayed on at Agnes’s flat.
It was not so much a moving-in as a not-moving-out, and it wasn’t at all what she’d had in mind. But he was only fifteen. He wasn’t well. She felt guilty.
Justin didn’t question his exile from Agnes’s bed, but spent most of his time hunched on the sofa watching her, his eyes tragic and dilated with love.
After living with his middle-of-the-night wanderings and insomnia, Agnes now had to check morning and evening that he hadn’t fallen into a coma. He slept almost constantly and showed no real interest in food, though would eat dutifully, like a child, any meal she put in front of him.
But she was not a cruel person (she told herself) and she wasn’t about to throw him out on the street. So it was with a large measure of resignation that she left for her studio each morning, leaving Justin fast asleep on the sofa.
After two or three days, she arrived home to find him staring gloomily at MasterChef on TV. And she had an idea.
‘Justin, I’m working so hard, and I haven’t had a decentmeal in days. What if I leave you some cash and a cookbook and you see what you can do?’
He looked shocked. What can I do? I can panic at the possibility of having to venture out of the flat. Or having to cook. Why doesn’t she ask a question I know the answer to, like, would you like to have sex with me again?
But then he realized that this was something he could do for her that would make her life easier, a way to thank her for being kind to him. A way to win back her love. Yes, it would require getting dressed, going out, making choices, calculating change, following directions. But he owed her so much. It would be a start.
He told her he would try.
The next day, a Saturday, she left some money on the kitchen table with a copy of Cooking World, and went off to the studio.
He made it as far as the butcher’s on the corner. It was an old-fashioned family butcher’s, one of the few left in town, and there was a semi-skinned rabbit hanging upside down in the window. Justin caught its eye and it winked at him. He recoiled in horror.
And then he heard the horrible whispery voice, only this time it was singing in a high-pitched, squeaky tone, like a rabbit’s. When he dared look again, he saw that it was the rabbit singing, its dead mouth opening and closing with the words:
Run rabbit, run rabbit, run run run.
Where was his greyhound, now, when he needed him? He tried ignoring the horrible figment of his imagination, hoping it would go away, but the rabbit continued to sing.
Run rabbit, run rabbit, run run run.
Justin forced himself to walk to the meat counter where the butcher stood chatting casually with a woman and her daughter, a soft-featured, sturdy girl with thick brown hair and clear, fearless eyes. All three seemed strangely impervious to the singing rabbit, but when Justin approached, they turned to look at him.
He was a peculiar sight. Tears rolling down his face, shouting to drown out the sound of the singing rabbit; he said he needed help, pointed to a chicken, handed over some money, grabbed his parcel and bolted out the door in a panic.
Boys, thought the butcher.
Drugs, thought the woman.
Justin Case, thought Dorothea. So we meet again.
He heard the terrifying voice of the rabbit shouting after him.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Goes the farmer’s gun .
So RUN rabbit, RUN rabbit, run, run, RUN!
He ran, shaking with fear. He couldn’t look at the chicken, its loose yellowy flesh reminded him too much of his own. It looked pathetic, naked and dead. He couldn’t bear to touch it, began to cry when he thought how vulnerable chickens were, how misused, how short and tragic their lives.
He missed his brother. His dog. His former self.
When Agnes returned home, she found Justin curled up asleep
His mother tapped softly, but receiving no answer, called goodbye, reminded him to eat, and then – humming a little – packed Charlie into his pushchair and left.
32
Justin stayed on at Agnes’s flat.
It was not so much a moving-in as a not-moving-out, and it wasn’t at all what she’d had in mind. But he was only fifteen. He wasn’t well. She felt guilty.
Justin didn’t question his exile from Agnes’s bed, but spent most of his time hunched on the sofa watching her, his eyes tragic and dilated with love.
After living with his middle-of-the-night wanderings and insomnia, Agnes now had to check morning and evening that he hadn’t fallen into a coma. He slept almost constantly and showed no real interest in food, though would eat dutifully, like a child, any meal she put in front of him.
But she was not a cruel person (she told herself) and she wasn’t about to throw him out on the street. So it was with a large measure of resignation that she left for her studio each morning, leaving Justin fast asleep on the sofa.
After two or three days, she arrived home to find him staring gloomily at MasterChef on TV. And she had an idea.
‘Justin, I’m working so hard, and I haven’t had a decentmeal in days. What if I leave you some cash and a cookbook and you see what you can do?’
He looked shocked. What can I do? I can panic at the possibility of having to venture out of the flat. Or having to cook. Why doesn’t she ask a question I know the answer to, like, would you like to have sex with me again?
But then he realized that this was something he could do for her that would make her life easier, a way to thank her for being kind to him. A way to win back her love. Yes, it would require getting dressed, going out, making choices, calculating change, following directions. But he owed her so much. It would be a start.
He told her he would try.
The next day, a Saturday, she left some money on the kitchen table with a copy of Cooking World, and went off to the studio.
He made it as far as the butcher’s on the corner. It was an old-fashioned family butcher’s, one of the few left in town, and there was a semi-skinned rabbit hanging upside down in the window. Justin caught its eye and it winked at him. He recoiled in horror.
And then he heard the horrible whispery voice, only this time it was singing in a high-pitched, squeaky tone, like a rabbit’s. When he dared look again, he saw that it was the rabbit singing, its dead mouth opening and closing with the words:
Run rabbit, run rabbit, run run run.
Where was his greyhound, now, when he needed him? He tried ignoring the horrible figment of his imagination, hoping it would go away, but the rabbit continued to sing.
Run rabbit, run rabbit, run run run.
Justin forced himself to walk to the meat counter where the butcher stood chatting casually with a woman and her daughter, a soft-featured, sturdy girl with thick brown hair and clear, fearless eyes. All three seemed strangely impervious to the singing rabbit, but when Justin approached, they turned to look at him.
He was a peculiar sight. Tears rolling down his face, shouting to drown out the sound of the singing rabbit; he said he needed help, pointed to a chicken, handed over some money, grabbed his parcel and bolted out the door in a panic.
Boys, thought the butcher.
Drugs, thought the woman.
Justin Case, thought Dorothea. So we meet again.
He heard the terrifying voice of the rabbit shouting after him.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Goes the farmer’s gun .
So RUN rabbit, RUN rabbit, run, run, RUN!
He ran, shaking with fear. He couldn’t look at the chicken, its loose yellowy flesh reminded him too much of his own. It looked pathetic, naked and dead. He couldn’t bear to touch it, began to cry when he thought how vulnerable chickens were, how misused, how short and tragic their lives.
He missed his brother. His dog. His former self.
When Agnes returned home, she found Justin curled up asleep
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