there. She’s not going to go away.
He will ignore her. Presumably she’ll disappear in the end. He doesn’t need to go downstairs for days. He has enough food in here to survive. Stale doughnuts, bottled water, teabags, crisps, apples, bread and cheese.
He stares at her one last time. She appears very alone, separated from the rest of the world by her anger. She needs a hat. She doesn’t know that the temperature is deceptive. It may not seem warm in the wind, but she’ll burn. He examines the way she sits there, her shoulders drooping, somehow deflated,and sees that her anger has gone. She seems diminished without it, as if she doesn’t exist. A carrier-bag with nothing to carry.
There’s a photo on his desk of one of the children, Katie Flambard, sent by her mother two months ago. She’s on the beach, kneeling in the sand, digging with a blue plastic spade. She’s smiling at the camera, her blonde wispy hair frizzled by the salty air. Shiny patches of pink appear on the bony tops of her shoulders where she’s starting to burn.
Maggie, a whisper from his dreams: ‘Another failure, Straker?’
He returns to his living room, picks up a stale doughnut and a packet of tomato-ketchup-flavoured crisps on the way and walks heavily downstairs. When he unlocks the front door, he assumes she will hear him and come charging towards him, shouting. Nothing happens.
She doesn’t move. When he reaches her, he sits down next to her. He doesn’t think she sees him at first, but when she does, she’s not surprised. He’s irritated by her acceptance of the fact that he would eventually come out to meet her, so he doesn’t do anything.
After a while, he hands her the doughnut and the packet of crisps, thinking she will probably throw them into the sea. But she doesn’t. She takes the doughnut and bites into it without a word. The jam oozes out and streaks on to her cheeks. She wipes it off with her hand, then licks her fingers. They are short and stubby, and she doesn’t wear any rings.
‘It’s stale,’ she says, after two mouthfuls.
He nods.
‘You’re supposed to eat them on the day you buy them.’
She starts on the crisps and he can hear them crunching in her mouth. He keeps buying tomato-ketchup flavour by mistake because the packets are red like the ready-salted. He doesn’t like them and there’s an ever-growing pile inthe store room he uses for rubbish. She seems to enjoy them, and he considers running back up and bringing her all of the packets.
‘I haven’t tried that flavour before,’ she says, as if they were in the middle of a conversation. She eats politely, not putting in too much at a time, closing her mouth as she chews. ‘They’re disgusting.’
They didn’t eat like that in his family. His father had had a voracious appetite and would keep eating until there was nothing left. His mother struggled to feed him. She made enormous casseroles so that he could fill his plate over and over again, but he still complained that there wasn’t enough. Pete and his brother used to watch him eat, see his mouth working non-stop like a cement-mixer. You could hear his jaw click as he chewed, and the food going round and round. When he spoke, they could see it in his open mouth, half recognisable, half blended. Then he would rush to swallow so that he could take another forkful. They had to eat at the table in the dining room, but their father was allowed to have a tray on his lap while he listened to the wireless. He would comment on the news as he ate, giving further glimpses of the breaking-down stage.
‘That girl’ll be dead when they find her,’ he pronounced, into the stillness of the living room.
‘Never trust a policeman,’ he said, as he downed a roast potato. ‘They’re all crooked.’
They finished long before him and came to listen to the wireless. Their mother ran backwards and forwards with refills for him. The house was too big, the distance too great for this. They had
He will ignore her. Presumably she’ll disappear in the end. He doesn’t need to go downstairs for days. He has enough food in here to survive. Stale doughnuts, bottled water, teabags, crisps, apples, bread and cheese.
He stares at her one last time. She appears very alone, separated from the rest of the world by her anger. She needs a hat. She doesn’t know that the temperature is deceptive. It may not seem warm in the wind, but she’ll burn. He examines the way she sits there, her shoulders drooping, somehow deflated,and sees that her anger has gone. She seems diminished without it, as if she doesn’t exist. A carrier-bag with nothing to carry.
There’s a photo on his desk of one of the children, Katie Flambard, sent by her mother two months ago. She’s on the beach, kneeling in the sand, digging with a blue plastic spade. She’s smiling at the camera, her blonde wispy hair frizzled by the salty air. Shiny patches of pink appear on the bony tops of her shoulders where she’s starting to burn.
Maggie, a whisper from his dreams: ‘Another failure, Straker?’
He returns to his living room, picks up a stale doughnut and a packet of tomato-ketchup-flavoured crisps on the way and walks heavily downstairs. When he unlocks the front door, he assumes she will hear him and come charging towards him, shouting. Nothing happens.
She doesn’t move. When he reaches her, he sits down next to her. He doesn’t think she sees him at first, but when she does, she’s not surprised. He’s irritated by her acceptance of the fact that he would eventually come out to meet her, so he doesn’t do anything.
After a while, he hands her the doughnut and the packet of crisps, thinking she will probably throw them into the sea. But she doesn’t. She takes the doughnut and bites into it without a word. The jam oozes out and streaks on to her cheeks. She wipes it off with her hand, then licks her fingers. They are short and stubby, and she doesn’t wear any rings.
‘It’s stale,’ she says, after two mouthfuls.
He nods.
‘You’re supposed to eat them on the day you buy them.’
She starts on the crisps and he can hear them crunching in her mouth. He keeps buying tomato-ketchup flavour by mistake because the packets are red like the ready-salted. He doesn’t like them and there’s an ever-growing pile inthe store room he uses for rubbish. She seems to enjoy them, and he considers running back up and bringing her all of the packets.
‘I haven’t tried that flavour before,’ she says, as if they were in the middle of a conversation. She eats politely, not putting in too much at a time, closing her mouth as she chews. ‘They’re disgusting.’
They didn’t eat like that in his family. His father had had a voracious appetite and would keep eating until there was nothing left. His mother struggled to feed him. She made enormous casseroles so that he could fill his plate over and over again, but he still complained that there wasn’t enough. Pete and his brother used to watch him eat, see his mouth working non-stop like a cement-mixer. You could hear his jaw click as he chewed, and the food going round and round. When he spoke, they could see it in his open mouth, half recognisable, half blended. Then he would rush to swallow so that he could take another forkful. They had to eat at the table in the dining room, but their father was allowed to have a tray on his lap while he listened to the wireless. He would comment on the news as he ate, giving further glimpses of the breaking-down stage.
‘That girl’ll be dead when they find her,’ he pronounced, into the stillness of the living room.
‘Never trust a policeman,’ he said, as he downed a roast potato. ‘They’re all crooked.’
They finished long before him and came to listen to the wireless. Their mother ran backwards and forwards with refills for him. The house was too big, the distance too great for this. They had
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