Boneland

At the end of the street,

And it’s Number Ninety-Four.

Oh, I’m going back to Imazaz:

Imazaz a pub next door!’

At the bottom he braked to lessen momentum, so that by leaning hard over and trailing his foot he cleared the roundabout and veered right into London Road and the traffic. He worked among the flocks of cars. They all had black glass in the windows. Then the station approach made him pedal. Two point zero four kilometres; approximately.

After the station he went by Brook Lane and Row-of-Trees, urging past Lindow Moss, along Seven Sisters Lane to Toft. The house stood at the end of a drive, among rhododendrons. He lodged his bicycle and rang the doorbell.

‘Whisterfield. Colin Whisterfield.’

‘Do come in, Professor Whisterfield. Doctor Massey is expecting you.’

The entrance corridor had a side room.

‘Please wait here.’

Colin waited.

He waited.

‘Doctor Massey is ready now, Professor.’

He was led into a bigger room, lined with books. French windows opened to lawns. A woman lay on a chaise longue, reading a file. She wore a suit of dark silk. ‘Hi,’ she said, without looking up.

‘You’re quite young,’ said Colin.

‘“Quite”.’

‘Your hair’s black.’

‘That’s this week, darling. Tomorrow may be a different story.’

There was a diamond-paned cabinet. The tumblers and decanter inside were of crystal.

‘Are you looking for a drink?’ she said.

‘May I? Is it allowed?’

‘No. But there’s ice and water over there. Help yourself.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Cheers,’ she said, and continued her reading.

Colin scanned the books. ‘You have a fascinating library. Eclectic.’

‘Yes, I have.’

‘I could make myself a tome here. That’s a pun; which is a play on words to exploit ambiguities and innuendoes in their meaning, usually for humorous effect.’

‘Oh, ha-bloody-ha. Sit down.’

Colin sat in a deep leather chair on the other side of the marble fireplace from the chaise longue. By the chair there was a low table on casters, and an open box of tissues. He was facing the windows. The chaise longue and the woman were silhouettes, the light on the silk picking out her form.

Colin held the tumbler in both hands and drank.

She shut the file, swung her legs round and sat forward. Pendant earrings broke the light, and her eyes were violet green.

‘And—Action. You’re Colin. I’m Meg. What’s up?’

‘I—’

A clock ticked. There were crystal chandeliers.

‘Do you like crows?’ he said.

‘I can take ’em or leave ’em.’

‘I—’

‘“I” what?’

Colin drank again.

‘I—don’t know.’

‘Well, I’m buggered if I do,’ she said.

‘I—’

Colin emptied the tumbler. ‘What am I supposed to say?’

‘What do you want to say?’

‘I—’

‘Where’s the pain?’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Colin.

‘So why have you come? Because you’re in pain. Right? Something hurts. Right? Go there.’

‘Go where?’

‘Go to where the pain is most and say what it tells you.’