John Boyne - The Absolutist

“It had nothing to do with you,” he said. “It was family business.”

“She was my sister,” I repeated, feeling the tears start to form now.

“It was family business.”

We said nothing for a few moments. A woman slowed down as she approached the front window, examined some of the meat on display, then looked up, appeared to change her mind and carried on walking.

“How did you hear, anyway?” he asked me finally.

“I met Sylvia,” I said. “Just today. After I got off the bus. It was a coincidence that we should run into each other. She told me.”

“Sylvia,” he said, snorting in disgust. “That one’s no better than she ought to be. She was fast back then and she’s fast now.”

“You could have written to me,” I said, refusing to speak about anyone but Laura. “You could have found me and told me. How long was she ill?”

“A few months.”

“Was she in pain?”

“Yes. A great deal.”

“Jesus Christ,” I said, bending over slightly, an aching pain at the pit of my stomach.

“For God’s sake, Tristan,” he said, coming around from behind the counter now and standing before me; it was all that I could do not to take a step back from him in disgust. “You couldn’t have done anything to help her. It was just one of those things. It spread through her body like wildfire.”

“I would have wanted to see her,” I said. “I’m her brother.”

“Not really,” he said in a casual tone. “You were once, I suppose. I’ll give you that. But that was all a long time ago. I think she’d pretty much forgotten you by the end.”

To my surprise, he put an arm around my shoulder then and I thought he was going to embrace me, but instead he turned me around and walked with me slowly towards the door.

“The truth is, Tristan,” he said as he guided me back out on to the street, “you weren’t her brother any more than you are my son. This isn’t your family. You have no business here, not any more. It would be best for all of us if the Germans shoot you dead on sight.”

He closed the door in my face then and turned away. I watched him as he hesitated for a moment in front of the display case, examining the various cuts of meat, counting them off in his head, before disappearing back into the cold room and out of my life forever.

“Perhaps I was wrong,” said Marian as we made our way back through the city, walking in the direction of the railway station. “I rather ambushed you, didn’t I? Bringing you in to meet my parents like that.”

“It’s all right,” I said, lighting a much-needed cigarette and letting the smoke fill my lungs and calm my nerves. The only thing that might have matched it for pure pleasure was a pint of cold ale. “They’re decent people.”

“Yes, I suppose they are. We drive each other mad on a daily basis but I suppose that’s par for the course. Given the choice, I’d like a home of my own. Then they could visit and we could be friends and there wouldn’t be any more of these daily confrontations.”

“I’m sure you’ll marry some day,” I said.

“A home of my own,” she insisted. “Not someone else’s. Like you have.”

“Mine is just a small flat,” I told her. “It’s comfortable but, believe me, it’s nothing like you have here.”

“Still, it’s all yours, isn’t it? You answer to no one.”

“Look, you really don’t have to walk with me all the way back,” I told her. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful but I’m sure I can find my way.”

“It’s all right,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t mind. We’ve come this far together, after all.”

I nodded. The evening was starting to close in, the sky was growing darker and the air colder. I buttoned my overcoat and took another drag of my cigarette.

“What will you do now?” she asked me after a few minutes, and I turned to her, frowning.

“I’ll go back to London, of course,” I said.

“No, I don’t mean that. I mean tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that. What are your plans for the future, now that the war is behind us?”

I thought about it. “Tomorrow morning I shall be back at my desk at the Whisby Press,” I said. “There will be manuscripts to read, rejection letters to send out, books to edit. We’re doing a presentation of future titles to some booksellers next week so I have to prepare a few notes on each one.”

“You enjoy working there, do you?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said enthusiastically. “I like being around books.”

“So you think you’ll stay where you are? Seek promotion? Become a publisher yourself?”

I hesitated. “I might like to try my hand at writing,” I told her; it was the first time I had admitted this aloud to anyone. “It’s something I’ve dabbled in a little over the last few years. I feel I might like to take it more seriously now.”

“There aren’t enough novels in the world already?” she asked, teasing me a little, and I laughed.

“A few more won’t hurt anyone,” I said. “I don’t know, I might not be any good, anyway.”

“But you’re going to try?”

“I’m going to try,” I agreed.

“Of course, Will was a great reader,” she said.

“Yes, I saw him with a book from time to time,” I said. “Sometimes one or two of the fellows might have brought something with them and it would get passed from hand to hand.”

“He was reading from the time he was three years old,” she told me. “And he tried his hand at writing, too. He wrote a completion for The Mystery of Edwin Drood in a most ingenious way when he was only fifteen.”

“How did it end?”

“In exactly the way that it should,” she replied. “Edwin came home to his family, safe and well. Eternal happiness ensues.”

“Do you think that’s the ending that Dickens intended?”

“I think it’s the ending Will believed would be the most satisfying. Why are we stopping?”

“This is Mrs. Cantwell’s boarding house,” I said, looking up the steps towards the front door. “I just have to collect my holdall. We can part here, if you like.”

“I’ll wait for you,” she said. “The station’s only across the road. Might as well make sure you get there safely.”

I nodded. “I’ll only be a minute or two,” I said, running up the steps.

Inside, Mrs. Cantwell was nowhere to be seen but her son, David, was behind the reception desk, consulting a chart, the tip of a pencil pressed to his tongue.

“Mr. Sadler,” he said, looking up. “Good evening.”

“Good evening,” I said. “I’ve just come to collect my holdall.”

“Of course.” He reached down and picked it up from behind the desk, passing it across to me. “Did you have a good day, then?”

“Yes, thanks,” I said. “We’ve settled everything regarding the bill already, haven’t we?”

“Yes, sir,” he said, following me as I walked towards the door. “Will we be likely to see you again in Norwich?”

“No, I don’t think so,” I said, turning to smile at him. “I rather think this will be my one and only visit.”

“Oh dear. We didn’t disappoint you that much, I hope?”

“No, not at all. It’s just… Well, I don’t imagine my work will bring me through here again, that’s all. Goodbye, Mr. Cantwell,” I said, extending my hand, and he looked at it for a moment before shaking it.

“I want you to know that I tried to fight, too,” he said, and I nodded and shrugged. “They said I was too young. But I wanted it more than anything in the world.”

“Then you’re a fool,” I said, opening the door and letting myself out.

Marian took my arm as we made our way across to the station and I was both flattered and upset by the gesture. I had waited so long to write to her, spent so much time planning this meeting, and here I was, ready to return home, and I still had not steeled myself to tell her about her brother’s last hours. We walked in silence, though, and she must have been thinking the same thing, for it was only when we entered the station itself that she stopped, removed her arm and spoke again.