The Hunger Trace by Edward Hogan

foresters because they forbade him to hunt on the king’s land. Christopher was sure this was true because he had seen empirical evidence: there was a skull in a museum in Nottingham alongside a crossbow bolt they’d found rattling around inside. They had dug up thirteen bodies in a row. Pretty conclusive, Christopher thought. This Robin was no spry youngster; he was vengeful and he stalked through the woods like Christopher did, slighted and furious.
    Christopher necked his drinks and took another round before he left. ‘I need the alcohol to face, erm, going home again,’ he told the regulars. Many of them could relate to that sentiment.
    As he walked up the hill, he prepared himself for a clash with the Turncoat Maggie Green. So he’d elbowed someone in the face. That was nothing compared to Maggie’s betrayals. He tried to list them: she rarely talked about his father, and when she did, it annoyed him; he suspected that she had not invited his real mother to his father’s funeral, even though it would have been an ideal opportunity for a reunion; she made him go to the ridiculous bird display. The list went on.
    When he got inside the big house, Maggie came down the stairs, which seemed to be spinning. ‘Are you okay?’ Maggie said.
    ‘I don’t want to hear it,’ Christopher said. ‘It was the bird’s fault.’
    ‘Why is David Wickes allowing you to drink so much?’
    ‘David, erm, Wickes is my friend.’
    As Maggie helped him up the stairs, Christopher tried to think of some of Groucho Marx’s sayings about women, to insult her with. A woman is an occasional pleasure but a cigar is . . . something. Women should be . . . something.
    It was difficult to remember the ones about women. When his father dropped him at school, he would say, ‘Go, and never darken my towels again.’ That was Christopher’s favourite; the last laugh of the day and it wasn’t even nine o’clock. Most afternoons, when his father collected him, Christopher would be upset or crying. His father would hold him in the car and whisper, ‘If I held you any closer, I’d be on the other side of you.’
    Christopher had a funny taste in his mouth and he thought he might be sick. Maggie tried to stabilise him. Christopher retched and stumbled towards the bathroom, with Maggie in tow. After he’d vomited, he dredged up another old Groucho quote, the same one he’d spontaneously remembered at the end of his father’s funeral, the last time he was this drunk.
    ‘I’ve had. Erm. A wonderful evening. Erm, erm. But this wasn’t it.’
    Louisa fell asleep for a long while, and when she opened her eyes Maggie was kneeling above her, dabbing a bag of frozen coffee below her lip. Louisa panicked and tried to get up, but Maggie pressed her down easily. ‘It’s okay,’ she said.
    ‘You don’t need to do that,’ said Louisa, noticing that Maggie had changed her clothes, and showered. Her skin smelled clean, and her hair glistened. She was dressed up.
    ‘Couldn’t find any frozen peas at home, so it’s a middle-class substitute.’
    ‘All that’s in my freezer is dead mice.’
    Maggie smiled. ‘Christopher came home. He did get inebriated.’
    ‘How long have I been asleep?’
    ‘Not all that long, actually. He must have hit it hard and fast. He threw his guts up in the bathroom.’
    ‘And there I was about to apologise for the mess in here,’ Louisa said, looking back at the soiled newspaper and feathers on the kitchen table. Maggie took the cold away, and Louisa’s face regained a little feeling. It was not welcome.
    ‘I don’t know what to do with him,’ Maggie said, quietly. ‘Christopher.’
    Not many people sought Louisa’s advice on human concerns. David had occasionally asked her opinion about one of his girlfriends. He had never asked her about Maggie, though.
    ‘You could ask what’s-her-name,’ Louisa said.
    ‘His counsellor?’
    ‘No. His mother.’
    Maggie looked away. ‘What could I ask her?’ she