1
The doorbell rang.
Nathan had a feeling – but he dismissed it, muted the TV and went to the door. There stood Bob; hunched over, grinning in the darkness and rain. Saying: ‘Hello, mate.'
Nathan said, ‘How did you find me?'
‘I looked.'
Nathan tried to slam the door, but Bob put out a big hand, stopping it. Then he removed the hand and said, ‘They're digging up the woods.'
‘They're what?'
‘Digging up the woods.'
‘Why?'
‘Does it matter? They're building a housing estate.'
‘Of course it doesn't matter. What kind of housing estate?'
‘The kind people live in. Are you actually listening?'
‘Yes. Yeah, of course.'
Nathan glanced backwards, as if somebody was standing at his shoulder. But nobody was; it was Tuesday night. That meant Holly would be back late.
He said, ‘Look. Give me a call. Phone me at work.'
‘I'm here. Right now.'
‘You can't come in. I'll meet you somewhere. Tomorrow.'
‘I'll be gone in two minutes.'
‘My wife will be home.'
But Bob just stood there, waiting in the rain. So Nathan gathered his breath and moved aside. Bob stepped over the threshold and stood dripping on the wooden floor.
He'd noticed the many framed photographs that hung in the hallway.
Nathan waited while Bob took a squinting step forward, examining the photographs more closely. A baby girl, naked on a towel. A gap-toothed girl with a pageboy haircut. The fringe was blunt and a bit crooked – obviously trimmed by her mother. A holiday photograph in which the girl was a very young teenager, her hair short and bleached and spiky. She stood on the deck of a boat, wearing an orange life jacket. She was holding up a long, silver mackerel. In that photograph, she was laughing.
Bob looked at the photographs for a long time.
When he turned to Nathan, his voice had gone.
‘What the fuck is this?'
‘I told you not to come in.'
Using the wall for balance, Bob lowered himself. He sat on the stripped Victorian floorboards. He looked wrong, like an optical illusion, like a drawing where the perspective and the scale have been altered.
Fingertips brushed the hair on Nathan's nape.
In the living room, the TV flickered – and it seemed to Nathan that the lights dimmed, and flickered, then rose again.
Copyright © 2009 by Neil Cross