by P R Johnson
Chapter 16
‘It sounds way too cold to me.’ Matthew looked over his shoulder as the high walls protecting the grounds of the hidden mansion receded. ‘If I had known what she was planning, things would have worked out differently, I know they would.’
‘That, my friend, is the illusion with which life never fails to confuse us. Nevertheless, things happen the only way they can. That we observe them and think we might be able to intervene is just wishful thinking. Have you never heard the metaphor of the shipwrecked sailor?’
‘No. Should I have?’
‘It is a particular favourite of mine. There is a sailor aboard a ship that sinks mid-ocean. He manages to scramble aboard a life-raft, only to realise he is adrift alone. He is stranded, with limited provisions and not much hope of rescue. He has two options: he can drift wherever the current carries him, or else he can try paddling. If he chooses to paddle, however, who is to say he would be paddling towards safety? Perhaps the energy he expends paddling would be better served doing nothing, reserving his strength and thus prolonging his life. The point is, how does he decide if he is a paddler or a drifter? What part of him can make that decision?’
‘His brain, I guess.’
‘Perhaps. Let’s take another example; that of a serial killer. When is the exact moment, the spark of inspiration, when he decides: I’ve been a good man all my life, but I’m going to kill someone today?’
‘Most killers are psychotic, or schizophrenic. They don’t really have a choice.’
‘Indeed, their condition was foisted on them by nature and circumstance, something clearly out of their control. What about the killer who is neither clinically psychotic nor schizophrenic? What drives him to murder in cold blood; is it simply a lifestyle choice?’
Matthew shrugged.
The man continued: ‘I’ll ask you a personal question, if I may. What is your least favourite fruit?’
‘No idea,’ Matthew answered forlornly. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘It has a bearing, believe me. So, which fruit do you not care for?’
‘Bananas.’
‘What is it you do not like about bananas: The taste? The phallic shape? The manner in which they are farmed?’
‘The taste. I don’t like the taste.’
‘If I were to suggest that from this day onwards bananas should become your favourite fruit, that you should make a conscious effort to enjoy them, would it make the slightest difference?’
‘Probably not.’
‘Then I guess it is something over which you have no control.’
‘What are you getting at?’ Matthew asked, tired of being played.
‘Basically, the notion of choice is a myth. Existence, when weighed up and considered, becomes little more than inputs and factors, reacting and counter-reacting. While each factor has the power to influence everything else, none has the power to influence itself. And if nothing has the power to influence itself, then everything gets pushed and pulled this way and that and is locked into a destiny beyond its control. Therefore, as far as we are concerned – you, me, the shipwrecked man, the serial killer – the only path that can be taken is the only path that is offered. It just so happens that mine led me to statistics and calculations; sadly, Philippa’s led to the side of a bridge.’
‘But if no-one has a choice about anything, we might as well be robots.’
‘Welcome to Funland, boyo.’ The man glanced sympathetically at his passenger. ‘Thankfully, this is where Mathematics comes into play. While Mathematics cannot control anything per se, what it can do is help us see the light. Religion has tried and largely failed to solve the puzzles of life and destiny, while philosophy tends to rely too much on speculation. So, it is left to the mathematicians to fill the void and be elevated to an almost godly plane.’
‘You really believe that Maths is God. You weren’t just saying that.’
‘It is probably the closest thing we have. Once you believe that we each exist and live set lives determined by external influences, only then can you attempt to unravel the intricacies of the timeline. Get closer to God, if you will. Mathematics and, more importantly, statistics and probability are the best tools I have come across for plotting a route from the past to the present to the future. Foolproof, certainly not, but accurate in its own way, undoubtedly.’
‘You know, you sometimes talk about the future the same way my grandmother did. She claimed to be clairvoyant and, I know one thing for sure, she was no mathematician.’
‘Like I said, the important thing is to realise that something exists. If you accept that destiny is real, who is to say what exotic ways people find to unravel its secrets? Speaking as a statistician, one thing I do know is that ninety-eight percent of fortune-tellers are demonstrable frauds. Which means, of course, that two percent may have method in their ways.’
They were several miles outside the town, driving through lightly-wooded countryside. Matthew’s mind, although worn out by conjecture, could not let the subject rest.
‘All that stuff you said; it doesn’t make me feel better about what happened with Pippa.’
‘It was not designed to make you feel better. Nevertheless, I personally find the idea of destiny to be consoling.’
‘How, exactly?’
‘What it does is absolve us of any blame.’
Matthew stared at the trees that whizzed relentlessly by. He spotted, on the roadside, a lifeless, squashed animal with entrails leaking out, but was unable to divine what creature it had been.
‘Are you taking me home?’ he asked. ‘I’ve had about enough for one day.’
‘Soon enough, Matthew, soon enough. Firstly, I need to visit a bank and make a withdrawal. In fact, I could very much do with your help.’
‘Whatever,’ he shrugged before a smile came to his lips. ‘Do you want me to be the getaway driver? I’ll warn you, I’ve not passed my test.’
‘Rob a bank? No, that would be far too easy. Nevertheless, my bank is not what you would call conventional.’
‘Is anything in your life conventional?’
‘My life is what it is.’
They joined a busier, dual carriageway and the woodland soon gave way to open fields and the urban mass of a town.
‘I still have no idea what you’re about,’ Matthew said, seeking a chink in the man’s armour.
‘I am, at heart, a simple man with simple thoughts and desires’ His eyes did not leave the road.
‘Yeah, a man who lives rough and happens to own a classic sports car. Do you never stop and think that your life is messed up?’
‘It occurs from time to time.’
‘Don’t get me wrong, you seem a decent man and I know Pippa liked you. But I have no idea where you’re coming from.’
‘I am a decent man, you said so yourself. What else is there to know?’
‘Is it true you used to be a teacher?’
‘Once upon a time. Not a teacher, though, a university lecturer.’
Matthew arched his back against the leather seat. ‘And you had a house and a wife. At least, that’s what I was told.’
‘I still have a house and a wife, technically.’
‘Where are they now?’
‘My wife is probably in my house.’
‘Why are you not with her?’
‘Because I am here with you.’ Passing through the outskirts of the town, the man steered the car into a near-empty car-park littered with potholes. ‘Listen, Matthew, I am not being deliberately obtuse, but if you want to continue the interrogation, you will have to do so inside, for we have arrived. Before we go in, though, tell me what you know about dogs.’
Adjacent to the car-park, a run-down building stretched, which looked like the rear of a sports stand. In front of the building were a couple of turnstiles, above which a sign read, ‘Welcome to Gore Valley Dog Track’.
‘A dog-racing track?’ Matthew asked.
‘That’s right. A place to hold my theories up to scrut
iny.’
The man opened his door and climbed out, and without enthusiasm Matthew did likewise. He followed the pony-tailed man across the car-park to the blue-painted turnstiles.
After Mr Cox had paid the entry fees, they moved along a wide, dingy passage and through into the open expanse of a stadium. While a small grandstand loomed to their left, rising to a glass-fronted section of hospitality boxes, the concrete floor in front slanted shallowly to the oval of a dirt-track. The far side of the oval was without galleries and was protected by high wooden fencing. Several groups of men were standing on the concourse, whereas the grandstand was pockmarked by only the occasional seated punter.
‘What are we doing here?’ Matthew asked, gazing about. ‘I thought you wanted a bank.’
‘You see the people behind those little windows.’ He pointed towards a row of Perspex-fronted booths, each with a digital display at their side. ‘Those are who we have come to see. On certain days they can be most generous.’
‘Bookmakers.’
‘Better still, official trackside bookmakers. I suggest we find a decent vantage-point. Not too close to the action, as we don’t want to seem too eager.’
Mr Cox led him onto the near-deserted grandstand and they settled on a hard wooden bench a couple of rows back. By now a parade of six greyhounds was being led along the grassy area in the centre of the oval. Mr Cox glanced at his watch, and then from his back pocket pulled a notebook and flicked through the pages.
‘Of those six dogs,’ he mumbled without looking up, ‘which would you plump for, if you were a betting man?’
Matthew eyed the parading animals cursorily. ‘I don’t know anything about dogs.’
‘Which means you will not be tainted by silly ideas.’
‘I take it you’re an expert.’
‘An expert in dogs? Far from it. Fortunately, canine expertise does not count for much in a place like this. Mathematics is key.’ He held out the book, offering a glimpse of columns of numbers and occasional notes scrawled in red ink. ‘I ask again, which dog do you most like the look of?’
Scanning them more closely, Matthew saw that each greyhound wore a coat across its back bearing a number from one to six. ‘If I had to choose, I’d say that the white dog looks the strongest. Number two.’
The man continued to study his notebook, ignoring the animals as they approached the traps from which they would start the race.
‘Interesting.’ He closed the booklet and slipped it into his back pocket. ‘We’ll look out for dog number two.’
The dogs were herded into the traps, momentarily out of view of the public. A bell rang before a mechanical replica hare was sent hurtling on a rail round the edge of the track and past the static traps. The doors sprang open in unison and six greyhounds shot in pursuit.
Barely had Matthew drawn breath as the dogs belted past and flew into the sharp arcing bend, before drawing away down the back straight. The groups of gathered men were hollering, urging the dogs on with their cries. Less than thirty seconds had passed by the time the dogs had completed a circuit and were once again tearing round the far bend towards them. As they hurtled by in a blur, Matthew was oblivious to their order and was trying instead to understand the garbled commentary that sounded over a crackly Tannoy.
Two more laps were completed in a haze and as the dogs passed the finishing-line for what proved a final time, several white-coated handlers waited to catch them.
‘Did you see which dog won?’ Mr Cox asked, amid cheers and muffled groans from the amassed punters.
‘I think it was number two. The dog I chose.’
‘I think you are right. In which case, well done, my friend.’
A few seconds passed and then on a scoreboard appeared the order in which the dogs had finished, accompanied by the gambling-odds for each dog. Dog number two, the white dog, had indeed finished first.
‘Was that beginner’s luck?’ Mr Cox asked, ‘or do you know more about dog-racing than you are letting on? It is a shame we did not place a wager. The people in those booths would have been only too pleased to fill our pockets.’
With the next race not due for twenty minutes, Matthew was dispatched to a refreshment kiosk. He returned with a can of coke for himself and a sugarless tea for his companion.
‘Are we going to bet for real next time?’ Matthew asked, forgetting the forlornness of a short while earlier.
‘That is why we are here.’ Mr Cox studied his notebook.
‘I warn you, I don’t have much money to lose.’
‘I will give you something to set the ball rolling, seeing as though you are here through sufferance.’ His tone became serious. ‘Here is the plan, my friend: Half the money I give you, you can place on any dog you like; follow your instinct. The other half, however, you are going to put on the dog of my choice. In the upcoming race I want you to bet on dog number six for me. We shall combine our winnings and see where things take us.’
The dogs began parading and Matthew eyed them keenly, seeking some kind of clue to the outcome.
‘Well, which do you fancy?’ Mr Cox asked, peering up from the notebook. ‘You do not have long to decide.’
‘Dog number one has just done a crap on the grass,’ Matthew observed. ‘It was pretty gross, but it could mean it’s running with less weight.’
‘Interesting logic. Inputs and factors. Now, do you know how to place a bet?’
‘Yes, my dad’s sent me to the local betting-shop before. It’s usually a waste of time; he hardly ever wins.’
Mr Cox handed him several notes from a wad he pulled from his pocket, and Matthew traversed the concourse and approached one of the betting-booths. He returned a couple of minutes later with two tickets, just as the greyhounds were being loaded into the starting traps.
The mechanical hare set off, the traps sprang open and the dogs darted in pursuit. Matthew kept his eyes on dog number one, his heart thudding with every bound the animal took, willing it onwards.
This time, however, he witnessed his selection finish the race third. Mr Cox’s selection came first and the man nodded knowingly as the result was flashed onto the scoreboard.
‘So far, so good,’ the man said. ‘Our God is being kind. It only requires that you collect our winnings.’
Matthew made the short walk to the betting-kiosks and returned with a pocketful of notes and coins.
‘You say that your dad is a bit of a gambler,’ Mr Cox stated as Matthew resumed his seat.
‘An occasional gambler and I don’t think my mum would like it if she found out.’
‘What does he usually bet on?’
‘Horses.’
‘Horses are fine, noble creatures, but people tend to personalise them too much with names. Clouds the issue, in my opinion. Dogs have names, too, but here on the track they are reduced to numbers, which is much more my field of expertise.’
During the following three races Matthew placed two bets each time – one for himself and one for Mr Cox – always using the money that was earned in the previous race. Mr Cox’s choice won the first two races, while Matthew’s selection won the third, an outcome that made him beam with joy.
As he sat counting the winnings, Matthew realised that they had trebled their original outlay.
‘So, how are you managing to win so often?’ he enquired.
‘Numbers and statistics.’
‘And that’s it?’
‘More or less.’ The man sat upright against the wooden support of the bench. ‘As you seemed interested before, I will let you in on a secret about my past. When I was not much older than you are now, a couple of fellow students and I got wind of a casino scheme that some mathematicians were running abroad. The game they played was blackjack and the system was card-counting; you may have heard of it.’
Matthew shook his head.
‘I’ll not bore you with details,’ Mr Cox went on, ‘but suffice to say that the system turned the odds irrevocably in the gambler’s
favour. And believe me, the system worked. Lots of people were winning handsomely and plenty of mathematicians rolled up to college in new cars that year.
‘My friends and I jumped on the bandwagon and started playing the local casinos, and soon we too were taking them to the cleaners. Nevertheless, like all good things, it had to end, and when the casinos got wind of what was happening, they began to take measures. Many people were banned and in some cases violence was used. Some of us tried the system abroad and got away with it for a while, travelling to a different casino every night. Before long, however, the honey-pot was plugged and everyone knew the party was over.’
‘How much did you win?’
‘More than enough to pay my way through university. Although, to be honest, it was never about the money. It was more a question of out-smarting the casinos, proving that we were superior. Let’s face it, casinos and bookmakers are little more than mathematical manipulators, stacking odds in their own favour. People like us, we wanted to even things up a little.’
‘So, how does card-counting help at a dog-track?’
‘In no way. They are different beasts altogether. Dog-racing is governed by factors and inputs; quite simply, the more data you can amass beforehand, the more accurate your prediction will be.’ The man glanced at his watch and pulled the notebook from his pocket. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I have to concentrate. The real work is about to begin.’
As Matthew sat idly by, the man peered anxiously at the scoreboard as the runners in the forthcoming race were displayed. With a red pen he made several jottings before snapping the book closed.
‘Young man, the time has come to earn our salts.’ He pulled the thick fold of notes from his pocket and passed it to Matthew. ‘This is important. There is exactly a thousand in that bundle. Add to that whatever money we have already won and take it to the window you have been using all afternoon. Put everything on dog number five to win. Understand? Dog five to win. They may look at you suspiciously and they might not want to accept the bet. Stand your ground. Act as though you have as much right to lose your money as anybody. Is that clear?’
‘Yes. Dog number five to win. Don’t I get to choose a dog?’
‘Not this time. Hurry, now, we cannot afford to miss out.’
Withholding further questions, Matthew did as instructed and approached the same booth as before. He told the lady his selection and handed her the wad of notes.
Sighing, the woman counted the notes and asked sympathetically: ‘There’s a lot of money here. Are you sure you want to blow the lot?’
Matthew shrugged. ‘It’s all or nothing. Shit or bust.’
‘I’m going to need clearance from my supervisor.’
As the lady swivelled and called to someone behind her, Matthew turned and watched the greyhounds as they were led onto the parade-strip in the centre of the oval. A portly man sidled up behind the woman, studied the betting-slip that she was processing and gazed through the Perspex at Matthew. Eyeing him keenly, he eventually gave a nod.
‘Yeah, that’s all right.’
With the wager duly completed, Matthew took his receipt with a tempestuously thudding heart and traversed the concourse to rejoin Mr Cox. He arrived just as the dogs were being loaded into the starting traps.
‘Everything OK?’ the man asked.
‘Fine,’ Matthew smiled.
Together they watched as the hare set off and the slim, bony greyhounds sprang from the traps, scarcely slowing as they rounded the initial crescent bend. By the time they had completed the first lap, five of the dogs were trailing a lone dog by a fair margin and the leading dog, Matthew was convinced, was not the one they had backed.
Three more laps passed in a whirl and upon rounding the final bend, it was clear that dog number two was romping to victory. As the white-coated handlers halted the canine runners, the race was complete. Matthew looked at his companion, who gazed glumly on, and both looked to the scoreboard.
Information appeared within seconds and revealed that dog number two was the victor. Dog number five had come third. Matthew waited a few seconds, half-expecting the race to be declared void, or that a couple of dogs would be announced disqualified. When no announcement came, however, and the information disappeared from the screen, it was clear the result stood.
‘Well, is that it? Did we just lose everything?’
‘Yes, Matthew, we lost everything. I guess we had it coming after our brief good fortune.’ The man faced him with a sigh. ‘And you, my friend, have learned the first lesson of statistics and probability: expect to be wrong sometimes.’
‘What about destiny? What about your system? I thought you had things under control.’
‘Destiny is infallible – that has not changed. My system, however, has clearly failed.’ The man eyed the gambling-booths and then the fellow punters lingering by the trackside. ‘Who knows, maybe it is a good thing to lose from time to time. Look at him over there.’ He pointed towards a man who was sat on the edge of the concourse, his chin resting in his hands and discarded betting-slips covering the floor about him. ‘What do you suppose is his problem?’
‘It looks like he’s just lost, too.’
‘You are right. It certainly appears as though he has lost. Now, look at me. What does my face say about me?’
Mr Cox’s blue eyes had the same steeliness as ever, revealing neither disappointment nor anger, just a vague, habitual wildness.
‘To be honest, you look like you don’t care.’
‘Cute observation. And that is because I don’t. Between you and me, knowing beforehand what is going to happen is all very well, but it has the effect of deadening the soul. Who is more alive, him or me? Man or robot? If I went and gave him something to place on the next race, suddenly hope would illuminate him like a lighthouse in the fog. He would probably blow it again, but for that one race he would be alive with hope. That is the hope that I have lost, Matthew, and that is what systems do for you. That is destiny’s curse. Now, if you don’t mind I would like to leave this god-forsaken place, as I too have had enough of today.’
The pair trudged through the exit turnstiles and over to the red sports car.
Climbing in, the man adjusted the windscreen mirror and inserted the key in the ignition. As he started the motor, he gazed at Matthew, who was clicking his seatbelt into place.
‘So, my friend, you have now had a glimpse into the life of the wonderful Sage of Ash Tree. As you might have guessed, it is not all it’s cracked up to be. You see, once upon a time I had a life, and for Mathematics I gave it up.’ His chin jutted nobly as he engaged the gear and steered out of the car-park. ‘Oh, Mathematics led to education and money, and that in turn earned me a career as a university lecturer, a preacher some might say. I found myself a wife, a damn good woman, and it’s probable that I was happy. However, for some, happiness is never enough. Once that bug of Mathematics is in you, it is almost impossible to purge. While there are bookmakers, casinos and other charlatans dangling money in front of you like a red rag to a bull, it is no wonder a man can lose his way.’
‘Are you saying you lost it all through gambling?’
‘In a manner of speaking, yes. I repeat, however, that beating them was never about money. It was about proving that Mathematics was God. And it went far beyond blackjack, which we had already licked. I went after the biggie: roulette. Randomness, where randomness has no right to exist. It just required the formula, the system of systems, and that is what my world became. Until roulette could be conquered, my life would be null and void. All my colleagues thought me mad, that it could not be done. But there I was, living in a world where everything had its path, where everything could be known; finding the formula of formulae was only an equation away.’
They were now outside the town, driving past ploughed, empty fields.
‘How much money did you lose?’
‘Plenty. I also won plenty back. Money is not the issue. There is always more money in the world
; what is spent and irretrievable is time. The hours I dedicated to my obsession could not be clawed back by Mathematics. My job became irrelevant, my wife lost patience, and those who were closest, I let slip away. Yet, still it did not matter. There I was in a vacuum of Mathematics and entirely unconcerned. That is when sleeping rough became my penance. I built my hovel in Ash Tree Park and, until the system was defeated, there I was willing to stay. Money, cars, houses, love: they meant nothing without mathematical certainty. That is where fate led me, young man, and that is the hole I dug for myself.’
Matthew smiled in exasperation. ‘Let me get this straight: you lost everything trying to beat a fucking casino? And that’s the reason you’re living in a park and washing in a fountain. Sorry, Mr Cox, but that’s pathetic, totally pathetic. I thought there was more to you than that. I mean, we’ve just spent two hours watching skinny, anorexic dogs running in circles, and your ‘Mathematics’ has earned us nothing. Not a penny. It’s been a total waste of time. And you know what? A total waste of your fucking life.’
As the car engine roared, the man’s eyes widened.
‘Again, you appear to have seen through me. Unfortunately, my friend, the story does not end there. Whatever you think of me and my ‘waste-of-a-life’, in this big wide world there are some systems that work no matter what.’
‘Well, I haven’t seen much evidence of that.’
‘What I am about to tell you is in the strictest confidence. Agreed?’
‘I suppose.’
‘I am relying on you.’ He addressed him directly. ‘If any of this gets out, the shit will truly hit the fan. While we were at the dog-track, backing a greyhound that could not win if it had a jet-pack rammed up its backside, in betting-shops all over the country, associates of mine were laying money – and I mean serious money – on dog number two to win. You see, the national betting-shops, as well as the back-street dens, base their odds on the official trackside bookmaker, which they view as a fair aggregation. By placing our little chunk on dog number five – who was the pre-race favourite – we subsequently lengthened the odds on every other runner. We lost our little wager, but our syndicate, betting here there and everywhere, earned a more-than-decent return.’
Scratching his neck, Matthew took a moment to digest the information. ‘You’re saying that you still came out on top, even though you lost all that money back there?’
‘I and many others came out on top.’
‘What if dog number two had lost? What would have happened then?’
‘That was all but impossible.’
‘How can you be so sure? You said yourself that systems often fail.’
The man sighed. ‘My friend, five dogs in that race were doped up to their eyeballs. You did not need Mathematics to know which would finish first. All you needed was the name of someone with trackside clearance and access to mild sedatives.’
Joining the main artery north, Mr Cox drove faster than before, making the old engine squeal, almost as if he was late for an appointment and no longer cared about the constraints of legality.
Matthew sat pensive the rest of the journey, happy not to talk.
‘Should I drop you at your house?’ the man asked as they entered familiar surroundings.
‘Actually, would you mind taking me to the top of Orchid Hill? I don’t fancy going home just yet.’
Mr Cox nodded and followed directions to the brow of the hill. At the top, he steered into the car-park adjacent to the picnic area and turned off the engine.
Matthew ran his fingers across the stubble of his chin. ‘What happens now?’
‘Life goes on, I suppose.’
‘I take it you’re going back to the capital.’
‘For the time being, that is where I have to be. If ever you decide to return and fancy a stroll in the park, you will know where to find me.’
‘Surely you deserve better than to be living in a park. Can’t you go back to your wife? I mean, if I learned anything from Pippa, it’s that life is too short to waste chasing stupid goals.’
‘Funny. If I learned anything from Philippa, it is that when you have spent your whole life groping in darkness, you are not going to stop just because the lights come on. And I suspect the girl herself is laughing at us for reaching such different conclusions.’
‘Laughing at us, what, from Heaven?’
‘Perhaps. Or perhaps she is not that far away.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
The man shrugged. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. It’s just that everyone is merely assuming that she died that day. They have yet to recover a body and nobody saw her jump. All they did was find her belongings on the bridge.’
‘And the suicide note she sent her brother.’
‘Which is compelling evidence, but not conclusive.’
Matthew stared gravely at the man. ‘Let me get this straight, are you saying that you think she’s still alive?’
‘Sadly, no. I think the girl is dead and gone. As a statistician, though, I would like a bit more data to put the matter beyond doubt. For the time being, there is a tiny spark of uncertainty. And perhaps a spark is all we robots need to get our hearts pumping, to help us feel human again. Maybe that is the path we should aim for.’
They sat for a while staring across the expanse of countryside that melted into an October haze.
‘Well, Matthew, it looks as if we have come to the end of the road,’ the man said at last. ‘I think I should head off if I want to avoid the traffic.’
Shrugging in acceptance, Matthew unbuckled the seatbelt and reached to shake his hand. ‘Enjoy the winter, Mr Cox. I hear it’s going to be cold.’
‘Then I shall have to acquire an extra-thick coat.’ The man flashed him a wink. ‘Be seeing you, my friend.’
‘Goodbye, Mr Cox.’
Matthew climbed out of the car and closed the door. Stepping back, he listened as the croaky engine fired, and then shielded himself as tyres kicked up dust when the car pulled away.
Alone now, he sat on a park bench and stared at the town below. His eyes focused on the church roof and spire, which were no longer sullied by tarpaulin and scaffolding-poles. He still could not bring himself to look upon the school where he would soon have to return.
As he looked ahead, from the corner of his eye he noticed a girl approaching with a small black dog on a leash.
His blood ran momentarily icy when he honed onto her face, although his composure quickly returned.
‘Hey, Matt, how’s it going?’
‘All right, Carla. And you?’
‘Good, thanks.’
‘I never knew you had a dog.’ He nodded at the animal as it sniffed the bench legs.
‘Bobby? We’ve had him nearly ten years. He’s getting on a bit, now.’
‘I’m surprised you’re not away at Uni.’
‘I should be. I just popped home for a couple of days. A bit of a family crisis ... you know how it is.’ Her eyes looked skyward. ‘It’s a shame you didn’t get in. Uni’s pretty cool. I’m in the halls of residence, but next year me and a couple of others are getting a house. You should try to get a place. You’ll have a brilliant time.’
Matthew nodded, unfazed. ‘Is Adam studying with you?’
‘No, he’s in the capital. Between you and me, I’m not sure if we’re on or off at the moment; you know how it is with long-distance relationships. What about you? I read something about you in the paper; it said you knew that rich girl who killed herself.’
‘Kind of. But that’s all done with, now.’ His eyes flitted to the girl’s belly and back to her face. ‘What happened about your ... problem?’
Momentarily she seemed confused. ‘What, the pregnancy? Turned out to be a false alarm. Just as well. I didn’t need that going on in my life.’ The dog began pulling at the leash and Carla gave a tug to restrain it. ‘Anyway, I’d best be off. We’ll have to catch up properly some time. I’m around till Sunday. Give me a call and we’ll go
to the pub.’
‘OK. I think I’ve got your number.’
The girl smiled and, with the dog flexing the leash, she flicked the fringe of black hair from her forehead.
Matthew watched her walk away, feeling a chill return.
Easing against the wooden bench, he became distracted as a man passed in the distance. He eyed the knee-length brown raincoat and noticed bare legs protruding beneath. As the old man headed towards the bushes, however, Matthew stayed where he was, deciding not to interfere.
He gazed, instead, at the sky, where grey clouds were thickening. His mind turned briefly to idyllic, lazing cows. The wind gusted with the promise of what was to follow and he held out his hand, just catching a drop of autumn rain as it fell into his palm.
The end