Page 92 of The Man Made of Smoke

He began pounding his small fist against his chest.

The hollow sound echoed around the toilet. It was sickening to hear, and even though I knew there was nothing really there in front of me, I still felt the urge again to walk across and comfort him.

But it was too late for that.

That’s why you punish them if they do the right thing?

Yes! If they do the wrong thing, that means they were bad people all along.They’rethe worthless ones—not me. They don’t see or care about anyone. Every second they keep silent, I can pretend to myself that it wasn’t about me.

But if they see? I thought.

If they care?

Then it means the man was right.

The boy stopped hitting himself. And then suddenly he was directly in front of me, screaming into my face.

AND I CAN’T BEAR THAT!

Despite myself, I took a step back, bringing my hands up. The wave of white-hot rage burning in front of me offered a glimpse of what his victims must have faced in their final moments. The self-hatred simmering inside him bursting suddenly and horrifyingly into flame, and—

I heard the door to the corridor behind me opening.

Immediately, the vision before me disappeared.

The light was normal again. The boy was gone.

I stepped quickly over to the sink, my heart pounding.

Help me, the boy whispered.

I pressed down hard on the tap. Once. Twice.Work.In the mirror, I saw a father and son walking into the toilets behind me. The man was encouraging the child with a gentle hand on his back.

“Just go in there, champ. I’ll be out here the whole time, I promise.”

I looked back down again. The water was running now. I made a show of washing my hands, watching in the mirror as the little boy stepped nervously into one of the cubicles and closed the door. The lock clicked. His father folded his arms and waited.

I moved over to the hand dryer. The roar of it filled the air.

Help me, the boy whispered again.

I can’t, I thought. It’s too late.

So what are you going to do?

I tried to get myself under control.

What someone should have done all those years ago, I thought.

I’m going to find you.

Twenty-Six

John parks on the road by the cemetery.

When he turns the car engine off, the world is silent apart from the gentle rush of the breeze outside the car. There is a grand arch of stone beside him, through which he can see leafy trees and neatly tended grass illuminated by the midmorning sun. He has come to this place twice a year for the last four years, and every time has been struck by how tranquil it is here. Walking into the cemetery always feels like you’re stepping out of the busy outside world and into a quieter, more restful one, the atmosphere settling on your skin like soft spring dew.

He follows the wide path between the old and ornate headstones that are closest to the entrance. As the main path curls around, smaller ones begin to lead away to the sides. There’s no apparent rhyme or reason to the design; the cemetery is its own little city. Over the years, he has come to think of the paths through it as streets and the plots where people are buried as homes. It’s a comforting idea, he supposes. It suggests that your loved ones haven’t left you entirely, just moved, and that there will always be an address you can find them at when you want to.

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