The Dumb House by John Burnside Page B

but it was not me.
    I had never seen a naked woman. She was thin, but her breasts and hips were large, and the sight of her thick, dark pubic hair excited and frightened me. I could not take my eyes off her.As we stood there, face to face, I had the idea of touching her wet skin, of stroking the hair, but I hurried on, walking backwards so I could still see her, afraid to turn my back on her white body.
    I waited outside Mrs Olerud’s house for three hours. It’s strange, how a neighbourhood changes when the people leave. A silence falls; the arrival of a delivery van becomes an event; animals appear and move through the gardens in virtual slow motion. It always seems something has just happened, moments before, but when you look there is nothing.
    I didn’t notice the boy at first. Like one of the animals, he seemed to emerge from nowhere. I hadn’t seen the front door open, but he might have come from the back of the house. He was standing on the path, looking towards the end of the road, as if he was expecting someone. I was sure he hadn’t seen me. I got out of the car, clutching my bouquet of flowers, and walked over to the gate.
    â€˜Hello, Jeremy,’ I said.
    He looked angry. It was obvious that he remembered who I was and didn’t want to admit it.
    â€˜Is your mother home?’ I asked.
    He moved his head almost imperceptibly. I leaned down to open the gate and he retreated a few steps, holding his arms out, as if he could prevent me from entering by sheer willpower. I noticed he was holding something in his left hand.
    â€˜What have you got there?’ I asked.
    He looked at his hand. It was shaped in a loose fist, cradling something that must have been breakable, or precious to him. Slowly his face broke into a half-smile. He took three steps forward, looked up at me and, holding out his hand, turned it over and unclenched his fingers, like a conjuror performing a trick.
    He was holding a baby mouse. It was tiny, almost bald, and quite motionless.
    â€˜It’s a mouse,’ I said, in my best adult-to-child voice. He gave me a look of contempt. He didn’t want my kindness. Showing me the mouse had been some kind of trick on his part, some act of deception he alone understood. I held out my hand.
    â€˜Shall I take it now?’ I asked him.
    He pulled away his hand and stepped back.
    â€˜But it’s dead,’ I said softly.
    He shook his head.
    â€˜You know it is,’ I said. ‘It was only a baby. You should have left it in the nest.’
    I thought he would cry. His expression showed that I was responsible for the death, that the mouse would have remained alive, warmed in his clenched hand for hours, if I hadn’t turned up, to tell him otherwise. He lifted the animal to his face, and stroked the naked body against his cheek. Then he turned, ran back across the lawn and vanished around the corner of the house.
    I had no intention of following. I pushed open the gate and walked in. Now I could see that the front door was open, and slightly ajar. It might have been like that all morning, but when I knocked nobody answered.
    I walked around the side of the house to look for the boy. The garden at the back was dark, overgrown with deep weeds, the kind that ran and trailed through the trees, old man’s beard, bryony with its red, venomous-looking berries, tall stands of dock and nightshade along the fence. It was still wet. The sun hadn’t risen high enough over the roofs to penetrate this far and, even if it had, the air here was dark and heavy and it was probably never dry at the far end, where it had once been planted with shade-loving plants, aucuba and holly andelaeagnus. I felt that, if I walked to the end of the path, I could disappear, just as the child had done. I couldn’t see him but I knew he was there, crouched in the centre of his own private wilderness, watching me.
    The back door was wide open, but I was certain he hadn’t gone