The ground felt alive.
Final darkness, and still no sound.
“Can I help with your bags?”
“No thanks.”
His father’s hand had been awfully clammy. His eyes were nervous, badly blinking. His face stooped, his walk was fatigued, and his voice was rarely used; Clay could hear that. He knew that all too well.
When they walked to the house and sat on the front step, the Murderer partly sank. His forearms were splayed; he held his face.
“You came.”
Yes, Clay thought. I came.
Had it been anyone else, he’d have reached across and placed a hand on his back, to say it’s okay.
But he couldn’t.
There was only one thought, and the repetition of that thought.
I came. I came.
Today, that would have to be all.
* * *
—
When the Murderer recovered, it was a good while sitting there before they went in. The closer you got to it, the itchier the house seemed:
Rusty gutters, scales of paint.
It was surrounded by a virulent weed.
In front of them, the moon glowed, onto the worn-out path.
Inside, there were cream walls, and a great blast of hollow; all of it smelt alone.
“Cup of coffee?”
“No thanks.”
“Tea?”
“No.”
“Something to eat?”
“No.”
They sat in the quiet of the lounge room. A coffee table was loaded with books, journals, and bridge plans. A couch ate them up, both father and son.
Jesus.
“Sorry—it’s a bit of a shock, isn’t it?”
“That’s okay.”