other hand – and stared out through the rear windows, across a patchwork of muddy-green squares, to the thin, skeletal trees on the ridge of the hill, their last rust-coloured leaves long since gone. Below them were sludgy farm tracks, criss-crossing the fields as they traced the outline of the woods, but there was no life in any of it. No breeze. No movement. No vehicles .
No people .
Just silence .
She dug a grave next to the old well a few hours later, carved a rectangle of mud out of a fresh blanket of snow, digging down with a shovel. When she’d gone about two feet – muscles tired, joints aching – she paused, arm resting on the handle of the shovel, and looked back at him through the French doors. He was still lying next to the fire where he’d died, covered with an old rug from the bedroom. Her vision blurred. She didn’t cry much any more – she sometimes wondered whether she was even capable of it now – but she cried then: tears ran down her cheeks, tracking the bones and muscles of her face, her eyes taking in the shape of the dog, so small under the rug, lying there like rubbish waiting to be dumped. When she wiped the first wave away, more came; when she wiped them, they were instantly replaced. After a while, she gave up trying and just stood there, shivering in the cold, alone on the edge of the silent fields, one foot sinking into the damp earth. When she finally placed the body into the hole, she found herself muttering a goodbye to him, over and over – ‘Goodbye, my baby; goodbye, my baby’ – her words gradually softening as the tears came again and again, her voice drifting in and out like a radio losing its reception .
An hour later, when he was finally in the ground, motionless and cold beneath the earth, she retreated into the warmth of the house. A fire crackled in the front room, the stone chimney licked black, the smell of old wood and pine in the air. She thought about making some food, knew she should probably eat, but decided to grab an open bottle of wine instead and returned to the chair in front of the fire. The flames curled and twisted. Wood popped. Black smoke coiled in the throat of the chimney. The wine passed through her body, warming her from the inside, and, as it settled in her stomach, she removed a photograph from the pocket of her trousers and gently unfolded it on her lap .
Her eyes filled with tears again as she looked at the picture .
‘Goodbye, my baby.’
She would miss the dog, the companionship, the sensation of weight at her feet, of being able to reach out and touch something. But she knew, even as she’d had one foot in that grave, snow falling around her, that her tears hadn’t really been for the dog .
She looked across the office at Garrick, his eyes on her, fountain pen hovering above the pad in his lap. He had a covering of grey stubble, but otherwise he was immaculately turned out in a royal-blue suit and red tie, the trousers perfectly pleated, his shoes polished to a shine. Above him, on the wall, was a heater, whining gently; on his right was a desk with a computer and an in-tray .
‘Why don’t you tell me about what happened that day in July, six years ago?’ He studied her, and when he got no response, he leaned forward, his shaved head catching some of the light coming through the only window in the office. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I understand that this must be difficult for you.’
‘Do you?’
‘Of course.’ He set the pad and the pen down. ‘You’ve been seeing Dr Poulter for six years, and now he’s retired you have to get used to someone new. I am completely aware of how strange and, perhaps in its own way, frightening that will be. If it helps, I’m a little frightened myself.’ He paused, dropping his voice to a pretend whisper. ‘I’m conscious that, if I want to keep my job, I have to make a good fist of this.’
‘So it’s really about your career?’
‘Actually, it’s about you,’ he said, almost as if
No people .
Just silence .
She dug a grave next to the old well a few hours later, carved a rectangle of mud out of a fresh blanket of snow, digging down with a shovel. When she’d gone about two feet – muscles tired, joints aching – she paused, arm resting on the handle of the shovel, and looked back at him through the French doors. He was still lying next to the fire where he’d died, covered with an old rug from the bedroom. Her vision blurred. She didn’t cry much any more – she sometimes wondered whether she was even capable of it now – but she cried then: tears ran down her cheeks, tracking the bones and muscles of her face, her eyes taking in the shape of the dog, so small under the rug, lying there like rubbish waiting to be dumped. When she wiped the first wave away, more came; when she wiped them, they were instantly replaced. After a while, she gave up trying and just stood there, shivering in the cold, alone on the edge of the silent fields, one foot sinking into the damp earth. When she finally placed the body into the hole, she found herself muttering a goodbye to him, over and over – ‘Goodbye, my baby; goodbye, my baby’ – her words gradually softening as the tears came again and again, her voice drifting in and out like a radio losing its reception .
An hour later, when he was finally in the ground, motionless and cold beneath the earth, she retreated into the warmth of the house. A fire crackled in the front room, the stone chimney licked black, the smell of old wood and pine in the air. She thought about making some food, knew she should probably eat, but decided to grab an open bottle of wine instead and returned to the chair in front of the fire. The flames curled and twisted. Wood popped. Black smoke coiled in the throat of the chimney. The wine passed through her body, warming her from the inside, and, as it settled in her stomach, she removed a photograph from the pocket of her trousers and gently unfolded it on her lap .
Her eyes filled with tears again as she looked at the picture .
‘Goodbye, my baby.’
She would miss the dog, the companionship, the sensation of weight at her feet, of being able to reach out and touch something. But she knew, even as she’d had one foot in that grave, snow falling around her, that her tears hadn’t really been for the dog .
She looked across the office at Garrick, his eyes on her, fountain pen hovering above the pad in his lap. He had a covering of grey stubble, but otherwise he was immaculately turned out in a royal-blue suit and red tie, the trousers perfectly pleated, his shoes polished to a shine. Above him, on the wall, was a heater, whining gently; on his right was a desk with a computer and an in-tray .
‘Why don’t you tell me about what happened that day in July, six years ago?’ He studied her, and when he got no response, he leaned forward, his shaved head catching some of the light coming through the only window in the office. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I understand that this must be difficult for you.’
‘Do you?’
‘Of course.’ He set the pad and the pen down. ‘You’ve been seeing Dr Poulter for six years, and now he’s retired you have to get used to someone new. I am completely aware of how strange and, perhaps in its own way, frightening that will be. If it helps, I’m a little frightened myself.’ He paused, dropping his voice to a pretend whisper. ‘I’m conscious that, if I want to keep my job, I have to make a good fist of this.’
‘So it’s really about your career?’
‘Actually, it’s about you,’ he said, almost as if
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