Page 39 of The Angel Maker

“Yeah, clearly. What are you doing?”

The man gestured across the park with the camera, as though the device was his primary means of communication.

“I’m taking photos of the trees.”

“Yeah, I know.” The trees didn’t appear to be anything special to Chris. “I was just wondering why.”

The man looked at him curiously. Up close, he was much younger than Chris had been expecting. He wasn’t sure why—maybe it had been the coat. But now, he registered the jeans the man was wearing, along with what looked like a waistcoat over a… was that a band T-shirt of some kind? He had grandfather glasses that should have been ridiculously uncool on someone their age but actually suited his face. All in all, there was somethingout of timeabout the man, Chris thought. It was as though he’d traveled hurriedly through different periods of history and fashion, grabbing a single item at random from each to dress in, and somehow gotten lucky.

“To sketch from,” the man said. “I need something to use as a study.”

“A study for what?”

“A painting I’m working on.”

The man explained he was an art student at the university and thathe often took photographs to use as the basis for parts of his paintings. Chris had a hard time wrapping his head around the idea.Surely art was meant to come from your own imagination?James—Chris learned his name quickly—disagreed with him, arguing that most artists worked from models or reference material.

It felt like a cheat to Chris, but he wasn’t sure why. He stared across at the drab little cluster of trees. If you based a painting on a photograph, surely that meant everything was there already? You weren’t creating anything in the present; it was all just snapshots of the past arranged in different formations.

James took the points well but grew exasperated with him nevertheless.

“Everythingbuilds on what’s come before.”

“Does it really though?”

“Yes.” James sighed. “Do you want to go for a coffee? I’ll try to explain a bit better. We can even talk about something else if you like. You maybe?”

Chris sensed the shutters coming down inside him.

“I’m not interesting,” he said. “And I’ve already got a drink.”

“Okay.”

James looked disappointed. He took a step back. Chris found himself fighting a familiar sensation in his chest. He was so used to protecting himself—pushing people away. Keeping safe. But that wasn’t how he had to be, was it? He could be free to make choices with his head. And when he looked at James, he realized what he wanted to do was talk to this person some more.

So Chris held out the carton of coffee.

“But I’m happy to share,” he said, “if you are?”

This had become something of a joke between them after that.

Whenever Chris made coffee in his apartment, he made only one and they had to pass it between them. Takeout from cafés always consisted of just a single order to share. It was ridiculous on one level—not to mention impractical—but it had become a part of their life together. A ritual neither of them were willing to break.

Chris sipped his coffee now, weighed what was left, then held it out to James.

“You finish it,” he said.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. It’s pretty much gone anyway.”

James took it.

Chris looked across at the stand of trees. At that moment, the clouds broke a little and a flood of sunshine passed over the park. The light caught the edges of the branches, creating a glistening web of complexity. And just for a moment, it was as though he could see a pattern there. The leaves drifting down became black notes fluttering through a mesh of broken musical staves, and as he tried to follow them, there were a few seconds when he couldalmosthear the music they made.

“What are you thinking?” he said.

James frowned.

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