because they were gripping the sides of the laptop so fiercely that he heard the plastic creak. Long before he'd finished reading the entry he kept feeling he'd forgotten how to breathe. "What are you doing?" he said wildly, he wasn't sure to whom.
" Look ." That was the last word, and he stared at it as though it had paralysed him. The room around him seemed to have grown less substantial than a photograph—the shelves of favourite books from his childhood and later, not to mention discs of old films he liked; the armchairs he'd saved when his parents were replacing their furniture, which just now felt too much like a bid to conjure up companionship; the big thin television screen as blank as his mind wanted to be. He was hardly aware of fingering the keyboard, but it brought him back to the home page of the site, where the unrepentant title along with the column of first words and phrases seemed to invite him to venture deeper into the blackness against which they hung. Perhaps it was a desperate attempt to postpone thinking that made him click on another phrase. Who's next? the words might have been daring him to discover.
Mr Accident was, and soon David had to give up pretending not to know his real name. Mrs Robbins was in the blog as well, and Slocombe's general store up the road. David felt he was being hollowed out by everything he read. When Dent's gutter gave way and the man fell two storeys onto the concrete, David's hands clutched at the air as if he could catch the victim. He raised his eyes with no idea of where he was looking except anywhere but at the screen, and saw Mrs Robbins bearing yet another bag of rubbish to her bin.
For a moment he felt too guilty to think, and then he lurched to his feet and dashed out of the house. How could he look normal, as if he had some pretext for being in the street? His bin had to be one, and he grabbed the chilly plastic handle to trundle the bin to the kerb. "It's that time again, Mrs Robbins," he called, the only words he could think of.
"It keeps someone in a job."
"True enough, there's nothing wrong with that," David said, and also babbled "We're lucky to have one, those of us that have." He saw Mrs Robbins turning away, and was so thrown by having inadvertently used the blogger's name that he seemed to lose control of his voice. "Have you heard anything about Mr Dent round the corner?"
"Good lord above, what a noise. You'll be waking up the night shift." She gave her rebuke time to take effect before she demanded "What are you saying I should have heard?"
"Nothing at all," David was able to hope, "if there's nothing to hear."
If she looked suspicious, surely that couldn't be focused on him. "Then why are you asking after him?"
"I just thought I hadn't seen him lately. Nothing wrong with that, is there?" David immediately regretted adding.
"I didn't know he was a friend of yours."
"I wouldn't say a friend." This seemed unwise as well. "He's like you," David said. "A neighbour."
"It's a pity a few more of us don't care about them."
"I expect so." David was close to agreeing with whatever she said if that would move the conversation forward. "Anyway," he insisted, "as I say, I haven't seen him since I'm not sure when."
"You won't, either."
"Why?" Even if he had to be imagining any accusation, the word felt like an obstruction in his throat. When Mrs Robbins didn't answer at once he said "What..."
"He was cleaning out his gutters. He should have paid someone who knows what they're doing. We always do."
"I'm sure that's best," David said, which only postponed asking "What happened?"
"He fell."
"I'm sorry." He mustn't sound as if he was apologising, and he tried not to seem concerned in any questionable way as he said "Did anyone see?"
"See what, Mr Botham?"
"I don't know, do I? I wasn't there." Before she could question his vehemence David said "Did they see how he came to fall?"
"Nobody saw that I've been told." With a longer look at David than he
" Look ." That was the last word, and he stared at it as though it had paralysed him. The room around him seemed to have grown less substantial than a photograph—the shelves of favourite books from his childhood and later, not to mention discs of old films he liked; the armchairs he'd saved when his parents were replacing their furniture, which just now felt too much like a bid to conjure up companionship; the big thin television screen as blank as his mind wanted to be. He was hardly aware of fingering the keyboard, but it brought him back to the home page of the site, where the unrepentant title along with the column of first words and phrases seemed to invite him to venture deeper into the blackness against which they hung. Perhaps it was a desperate attempt to postpone thinking that made him click on another phrase. Who's next? the words might have been daring him to discover.
Mr Accident was, and soon David had to give up pretending not to know his real name. Mrs Robbins was in the blog as well, and Slocombe's general store up the road. David felt he was being hollowed out by everything he read. When Dent's gutter gave way and the man fell two storeys onto the concrete, David's hands clutched at the air as if he could catch the victim. He raised his eyes with no idea of where he was looking except anywhere but at the screen, and saw Mrs Robbins bearing yet another bag of rubbish to her bin.
For a moment he felt too guilty to think, and then he lurched to his feet and dashed out of the house. How could he look normal, as if he had some pretext for being in the street? His bin had to be one, and he grabbed the chilly plastic handle to trundle the bin to the kerb. "It's that time again, Mrs Robbins," he called, the only words he could think of.
"It keeps someone in a job."
"True enough, there's nothing wrong with that," David said, and also babbled "We're lucky to have one, those of us that have." He saw Mrs Robbins turning away, and was so thrown by having inadvertently used the blogger's name that he seemed to lose control of his voice. "Have you heard anything about Mr Dent round the corner?"
"Good lord above, what a noise. You'll be waking up the night shift." She gave her rebuke time to take effect before she demanded "What are you saying I should have heard?"
"Nothing at all," David was able to hope, "if there's nothing to hear."
If she looked suspicious, surely that couldn't be focused on him. "Then why are you asking after him?"
"I just thought I hadn't seen him lately. Nothing wrong with that, is there?" David immediately regretted adding.
"I didn't know he was a friend of yours."
"I wouldn't say a friend." This seemed unwise as well. "He's like you," David said. "A neighbour."
"It's a pity a few more of us don't care about them."
"I expect so." David was close to agreeing with whatever she said if that would move the conversation forward. "Anyway," he insisted, "as I say, I haven't seen him since I'm not sure when."
"You won't, either."
"Why?" Even if he had to be imagining any accusation, the word felt like an obstruction in his throat. When Mrs Robbins didn't answer at once he said "What..."
"He was cleaning out his gutters. He should have paid someone who knows what they're doing. We always do."
"I'm sure that's best," David said, which only postponed asking "What happened?"
"He fell."
"I'm sorry." He mustn't sound as if he was apologising, and he tried not to seem concerned in any questionable way as he said "Did anyone see?"
"See what, Mr Botham?"
"I don't know, do I? I wasn't there." Before she could question his vehemence David said "Did they see how he came to fall?"
"Nobody saw that I've been told." With a longer look at David than he
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