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The house had hardly any roof.
One side was entirely exposed, while the other was make-shift at best: perhaps for the cattle to receive shelter.
I could see none.
The house seemed empty.
I walked around but could make out little in the darkness.
Wisps of memory and desire swung past my ears.
Voices.
Past voices.
I could see my father; or rather imagine him, standing there at the door. He was speaking of my mother. She had gone away. Myself and my brother looked on. My sister too.
There was pain.
—She has gone away. Left us all alone.
There was only darkness after that. After all that, memory and desire fucking up the past with the present.
I stumbled on through the other rooms, falling over the detritus of half a century.
Yes.
It had been that long.
Yes.
I ran my fingers off the wall, allowed its memory to soak into my skin. I was hearing my voice, but from a distance, of many years. My hands grew older, trembled. The grit of the white walls penetrating my flesh.
On.
—What did you do to mother?
—I said she’s gone.
I turned the corner into last room, the master bedroom. There was a little girl sitting silently in the middle of the floor. She was wearing a little red dress. Like a princess.
Rain.
Wind.
I got a shock.
—Who are you?
—Your daughter.
—My daughter?
—Yes. Your daughter.
I was confused.
—Where is your mother?
—You took her away.
—I did nothing of the kind. I came here to find my mother.
There was much disorder, howling wind and rain, shouting. The little girl was standing up now, soaked to the skin. She looked long at me and in her eyes I saw my past and future.
It was not so terrible.
I looked up.
There was no roof.
There were no stars.
I stepped back.
I turned.
I ran—out the door and straight into a tree.
Whack!
When I awoke the next morning, I was drenched to the bone.
Freezing.
I went back into the house. I found no little girl.
No trace of any kind.
Not even a pair of shoes.
There was no sign of anyone.
The cattle moaned.
Perhaps they were being led to the slaughter.
Light shone through every little crack.
Cracks.
White walls.
My hands on the white walls. Nothing could get in. Not even spiders.
I raised my hand up to my eyes, so as to see better, so as to block the streaming light from blinding me, but all I saw was light—light of darkness.
Quinn.
Licky.
The bus driver.
Disorder.
They were all coming for me.
My head was swimming.
I needed a weapon.
I went round back and found an old boat. It was a white rowing boat. It looked like a large bed.
I knew what I had to do.
I dragged the boat through the two adjacent fields and across the wet shingle of the strand.
Cast her out.
The sheep moaned.
Everything moaned.
The trees, the leaves; even the flowering bitter cress.
I pushed it out into the water and climbed inside.
This was it.
This was my end.
I closed my eyes; I placed my hands on the edges of the boat.
I floated through the surf, through the jetsam and flotsam.
Lovely words.
Out into the sea, into the great divide.
I was calm. I was writing. For the first time in a long time, I was calm.
Calm.
I could actually say it.
—Calm.
I still didn’t know who I was or what I had done or where I had come from but it didn’t matter anymore.
I knew I was innocent.
