Authors: Frederic Lindsay
She
had
heard
him
like
that
often,
she
told
herself,
ideas
in
a
spate
like
drunkenness
as
he
jumped
from
one
to
the
other.
And
on
the
other
hand
–
for
something
was
wrong,
this
wasn't
like
those
other
times,
however
much
you
might
want
to
pretend
it
was –
my
God,
hadn't
he
almost
died?
At
one
point:
'The
air's
full
of
lies.
We're
surrounded by
them,
swimming
in
them.
Lies
and
half
-
truths.
And
euphemisms
like
candy
to
sicken
you
on
sweetness.
You
get
sick
with
longing
for
the
unvarnished
this-is-so.
If
I
was
in
advertising
I'd
have
a
picture
of
a
tramp
on
a
bench
staring
at
two
Andrex
toilet
rolls,
one
wrapped
on
the
bench,
the
other
draped
over
it.
And
I'd
put
the
caption:
"Bums
love
them.”’
At
another:
'Benjamin
Lee
Whorf
who
had
a
hypothesis.
A
Choctaw
Indian
could
only
see
the
world
in
one
way
because
of
the
structure
of
tenses
he
had.
Language
made
the
world.
Take
that
too
literally –
some
do –
and
reality
would
be
what
we
think
it
is.
The
crew
of
a
flying
saucer
looking
down
one
morning
and
seeing
the
whole
world
dislimn
–
Ben
Nevis
and
Tibet
levelling
down
into
the
plain
and
the
sand
moistening
under
the
Bedouin,
till
everywhere
is
much
the
same
–
and
one
little
green
man
turns
to
the
other
and
says,
“Oh,
oh,
they've
all
learned
Esperanto,
big
mistake.”’
And
at
another,
'Freud
practised
hypnotism,
did
you
know
that?
Eh?'
'Yes,
as
a
matter
of
fact.’
'I
thought
you
might.
He
came
from
Vienna.’
'Yes
.’
'Like
Hitler.
Another
hypnotist.’
'If
you
say
so.’
'At
the
headquarters
of
Krupp
Industries,
the
secretaries
on
the
fifth
floor
could
hear
the
screams
from
the
basement.’
And
this
time
Monty
Norman
hadn't
answered,
losing
his
balance
as
he
slithered
on
the
smooth
surface
of
the
burn,
hating
all
of
this.
Without
thinking
she
put
out
her
hand
to
steady
him
when
he
seemed
about
to
fall.
As
he
pulled
away
–
her
instincts
always
out
of
place
–
she
saw
under
their
feet
folds
of
lank
grass
as
leached
under
the
ice
as
drowned
child
flesh
might
be.
All
right
at
first,
after
an
hour
or
so
out
of
bed
she
realised
she
was
cold.
Something
had
gone
wrong
with
the
heating.
Nothing
happened
when
she
turned
the
thermostat
valves
to
full
on
the
radiators.
In
the
cupboard
under
the
stairs
the
Potterton
box
showed
both
lights
on
at
red,
for
hot
water
and
central
heating.
In
the
garage
apart
from
the
little
blue
lick
of
the
pilot
light
there
was
no
flame
under
the
boiler.
She
went
back
for
a
jersey
and
gloves
and
then
outside
to
where
the
grey
Calor
gas
tank
bulked
awkwardly
placed
at
the
side
of
the
house.
The
padlock
on
the
gauge
cover
wouldn't
work
loose
and
she
took
off
her
gloves
to
fiddle
with
it.
By
the
time
it
wrenched
free
she
was
almost
weeping with
the
pain
of
her
fingers,
numb
and
white
at
the
tips.
The
gauge
showed
the
tank
still
a
quarter
full.
Her
first
thought
was
of
Maitland
who
had
been collected
by
Sam
Wilson
after
breakfast
and
carried
off
to
Balinter
for
a
faculty
meeting.
To
disturb
him
with
a
call
for
help,
it
was
the
kind
of
thing
you
had
to
do
at
once without
a
thought,
otherwise
it
seemed
too
feeble.
She
could
phone
an
electrician
or
a
plumber;
a
heating
engineer
assuming
it
was
the
boiler
that
had
gone
wrong;
there
was
no
one
in
the
village
though.
Weren't you supposed to have them serviced
?
Maitland
should
have
seen
to
it.
There
was
an
electric
fire
stored
at
the
back
of
the
garage
for
throwing
out.
The
first
thing
was
to
get
warm.
She
carried
it
into
the
living-room,
panting
with
the
unexpected
weight
of
it.
Switched
on
it
fizzled
and
gave
off
a
smell
of
frying
dust.
She
put
on
both
bars
and
the
convector
for
immediate
warmth,
and
then
filled
the
basket
in
the
hearth
with
paper
screwed
up
to
burn
slowly.
As
the
flames
ran
up
through
them
she
added
sticks
and
sat
on
her
heels
watching
until
it
was
time
to
lay
two
split
logs
on
top.