David?" Emily said. "Or don't you want to say?"
"Apparently I've been reported for handing out our leaflets when we should have got permission first."
Her face turned pink on his behalf while Bill and Helen made their indignation audible. "You were only doing what you thought was right," Emily said. "When you think what some people do..."
David felt he was being invited to ask "Anyone we know?"
"Whoever's been using that title of yours for a start."
"I did say it wasn't my title." He would very much rather not have been reminded of the blog, and felt compelled to add "Anyway, they're only words."
"It's worse than that, I wouldn't like to meet whoever's responsible."
Despite his reluctance David couldn't avoid saying "Worse how?"
"Words can hurt too, can't they?" For a moment he was able to believe this was all Emily meant, and then she said "They've been writing about someone who was in the news. If they can say that kind of thing I wouldn't want to think what they'd be like if you ever met them."
FOURTEEN
He'd met far too many people like that, David tried to reassure himself. Behaviour like that was all too common on the train— people who brought food and its smell into the carriage, and ate with their mouth open to share the sight and sounds with their fellow passengers, not to mention planting their feet on the seats and leaving behind the detritus of however many courses of their meal—but how many of them also took their shoes off and complained about the fit? How many talked to nobody in particular throughout the journey and let sentence after sentence trail off, dangling a lonely word? There was no point in trying to deny the truth. Whoever was responsible for Better Out Than In had in mind a man David remembered from the train just weeks ago.
His name was Donald Sugden, and he'd died in the lift at Lime Street. Now David realised why the face in the newspaper was familiar, though when he'd read the item at Stephanie's restaurant he hadn't managed to grasp that it was. Sugden was in David's local paper too, in the obituary section. Beloved Husband, My Life's Companion ... Much Missed Dad ... Unfailingly Helpful Brother-in-law ... David was grateful to be distracted by the rumble of a bin across the road, where Mrs Robbins was trundling hers to the kerb to await tomorrow's collection, but when he lowered his eyes he found two images of Sugden—a recent photograph and a younger version—gazing up at him. Why should he feel guilty because someone had disliked the man enough to celebrate his death? Vicious comments were often posted online after people died, not infrequently by total strangers lent courage by disguise or anonymity. He would be dismayed to think that Sugden's family might read the blog, but surely nothing would attract their attention. He had to admit that he was more relieved that nobody would associate the blog with him. Apart from Stephanie, nobody knew about Lucky, and she seemed happy to believe the blog was a coincidence.
Couldn't it be one? Weren't all the entries about common forms of misbehaviour—shop assistants ignoring customers, car owners who couldn't be bothered to quell their alarms, cinemagoers who blundered in front of you when you were watching a film? That entry seemed to have even less to do with David, since he didn't care for horror films, especially not the kind the blog described, if the film even existed. Surely all he need do in order to reassure himself was read the rest of the blog. He was behaving too much like Andrea's image of him—timid, ineffectual, useless. In a rage he brought up the site on his laptop and chose the latest listing on the sidebar. " Pests ," it said.
He couldn't help agreeing for a few paragraphs, until he saw that Mr Lucky wasn't just distributing pamphlets in the street but being warned off by an official with a jerky head. While the blog didn't give the man's name, David knew it all too well. He had to force his hands to relax,
"Apparently I've been reported for handing out our leaflets when we should have got permission first."
Her face turned pink on his behalf while Bill and Helen made their indignation audible. "You were only doing what you thought was right," Emily said. "When you think what some people do..."
David felt he was being invited to ask "Anyone we know?"
"Whoever's been using that title of yours for a start."
"I did say it wasn't my title." He would very much rather not have been reminded of the blog, and felt compelled to add "Anyway, they're only words."
"It's worse than that, I wouldn't like to meet whoever's responsible."
Despite his reluctance David couldn't avoid saying "Worse how?"
"Words can hurt too, can't they?" For a moment he was able to believe this was all Emily meant, and then she said "They've been writing about someone who was in the news. If they can say that kind of thing I wouldn't want to think what they'd be like if you ever met them."
FOURTEEN
He'd met far too many people like that, David tried to reassure himself. Behaviour like that was all too common on the train— people who brought food and its smell into the carriage, and ate with their mouth open to share the sight and sounds with their fellow passengers, not to mention planting their feet on the seats and leaving behind the detritus of however many courses of their meal—but how many of them also took their shoes off and complained about the fit? How many talked to nobody in particular throughout the journey and let sentence after sentence trail off, dangling a lonely word? There was no point in trying to deny the truth. Whoever was responsible for Better Out Than In had in mind a man David remembered from the train just weeks ago.
His name was Donald Sugden, and he'd died in the lift at Lime Street. Now David realised why the face in the newspaper was familiar, though when he'd read the item at Stephanie's restaurant he hadn't managed to grasp that it was. Sugden was in David's local paper too, in the obituary section. Beloved Husband, My Life's Companion ... Much Missed Dad ... Unfailingly Helpful Brother-in-law ... David was grateful to be distracted by the rumble of a bin across the road, where Mrs Robbins was trundling hers to the kerb to await tomorrow's collection, but when he lowered his eyes he found two images of Sugden—a recent photograph and a younger version—gazing up at him. Why should he feel guilty because someone had disliked the man enough to celebrate his death? Vicious comments were often posted online after people died, not infrequently by total strangers lent courage by disguise or anonymity. He would be dismayed to think that Sugden's family might read the blog, but surely nothing would attract their attention. He had to admit that he was more relieved that nobody would associate the blog with him. Apart from Stephanie, nobody knew about Lucky, and she seemed happy to believe the blog was a coincidence.
Couldn't it be one? Weren't all the entries about common forms of misbehaviour—shop assistants ignoring customers, car owners who couldn't be bothered to quell their alarms, cinemagoers who blundered in front of you when you were watching a film? That entry seemed to have even less to do with David, since he didn't care for horror films, especially not the kind the blog described, if the film even existed. Surely all he need do in order to reassure himself was read the rest of the blog. He was behaving too much like Andrea's image of him—timid, ineffectual, useless. In a rage he brought up the site on his laptop and chose the latest listing on the sidebar. " Pests ," it said.
He couldn't help agreeing for a few paragraphs, until he saw that Mr Lucky wasn't just distributing pamphlets in the street but being warned off by an official with a jerky head. While the blog didn't give the man's name, David knew it all too well. He had to force his hands to relax,
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