Bad Things - Michael Marshall

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had made a good job of securing the house, though presumably that made it far harder to sell. The views from inside were one of its key selling points, and not everyone has the imagination for that when they're standing inside a cathedral-ceilinged coffin. I wondered at the financial reserves of a family who could buy a house like this, move out, and withstand it remaining unsold for a couple of years. Wondered also why they had not remained here. I had loved this house. Every room had something about it – its view, shape, or position in relation to the space where you had just left – that made you content to linger in it.

      Perhaps the owner's problem had not been with the place itself, but with the locals, who had evidently started to retro-fit a juicy little scandal over what had taken place, with Scott as their own JonBenét Ramsey and Carol and I as the unconvicted perpetrators of negligence, if not something far worse. Why they would wish to do that I had no idea, but it had been as well that the SUV driver had moved on when he did. A good idea, too, that I not make a nostalgic diversion to Roslyn or Sheffer on the way back, in case I was recognized and someone said something they might regret.

      I walked all the way around the house and found only one window, on the far side and at the back, where it looked like someone might have tried to break in. They'd got as far as levering one corner away and then given up. On the other side was a small storeroom at the end of the utility area, and for a moment I remembered it as it had been. Shelves, lined with produce bought from local markets. Backup supplies of batteries and bottled water – Carol had always seemed quietly convinced that the collapse of civilization was only a matter of time, and that it was best to be prepared. The smell of sheets, drying.

      When I got back around to the front I paused for a moment at the spot halfway along the deck where I had been accustomed to stand at the end of a day's work, or with my first coffee of the day. The very position, in fact, where I had asked Carol where Scott had gotten to.

      Being there should have felt momentous, or unusually horrible, but it did not. Just sad. The lawn below was overgrown and forlorn. The artisan yard furniture was absent, and I couldn't remember whether it had gone with my wife or if we'd left it with the house for the new owners. The latter, I thought. Either way, it was gone.

      I looked for a moment into the woods, remembering how on that afternoon I'd noticed the paths were getting a little unkempt. They were completely overgrown now, ferns covering the ground. About sixty yards from the house were the scant remains of a sturdy old cabin, a remnant from pioneering days. I realized that if left long enough the big house behind me might disappear even faster than the cabin was doing, and the thought depressed me.

      I went back down the steps and walked down the slope toward the final place I knew I should visit. The remaining light was reflecting off the lake at the bottom, turning it into a strip of blue-white glare. I kept my pace even as I walked out onto the jetty and until I reached the end, and then I stopped. Down here not much had changed. The lake stretched out ahead, the right fork of its L-shape disappearing out of sight at the end. Ours was the only house with direct access to this section. On all other sides trees came right down to the shore, and the shallows were dotted with fallen leaves, sodden scraps of brown and dark green and gold.

      As I stood there, I realized that, of all places in the world, this would be the one where I would most expect to lose control. It was, after all, the very last place where my son had spoken, and breathed, and been alive. But it did not happen here either. I felt wretched, but my eyes stayed dry.

      * * *

      I can only ever think about that afternoon in the third person. I do not think ‘I’ did this, or felt that, and despite the distance I've tried to put between it and me, my recollection is locked in the present tense. From the moment at which I emerge onto the deck, it's as if it's happening again now. Perhaps this is nothing more than another defence mechanism, a way of making it feel like a fantasy, continually fresh-minted in my head, rather than an event with a genuine place in history.

      But it has such a place. There was an afternoon, three years ago, when my son died in front of my eyes, when I'd dived into the water and then stood exactly where I was now, holding something in my arms for which I had made a sandwich four hours before; when I stood knowing that the person for whom I'd slapped cold cuts and cheese between bread, and then sliced the result into the preferred triangular form, had gone away and was no longer there; and that the wet, heavy thing that remained was nothing but a lie.

      What is the difference between those two states? Nobody has a clue. The local doctors and the coroner certainly didn't. All they could tell me was that Scott had been dead before he hit the water, and they had no idea how or why.

       I'm sorry, Mr Henderson. But he just died.

      This difference is why our species makes sacrifices, performs rituals, repeats forms of words to ourselves in the dark watches of the night. Gods are merely foils in this process, an audience for the supplications of metaphor in the face of the intractable monolith of reality. We need someone to listen to these prayers because, without a listener, they cannot come true, and therefore there must be gods, and they must be kind, else they would never grant our wishes – in which case why would we pray to them in the first place? It is a circular argument, like all neuroses, a hard shell around emptiness.

      If gods exist then they are deaf or indifferent. They commit their acts, and then move on.

      * * *

      I knew it was time for me to get on to the next thing, whatever that was. Finding something to eat back in Black Ridge, most likely, then a quiet evening in a no-frills motel room before flying back to Portland and finding a ride to Marion Beach. Good friend though he had been, I knew I wasn't in the mood for Bill Raines's offer of a night's drinking and talking up old times, for any number of reasons.

      As I turned back from Murdo Pond, however, something made me pause. A wind had picked up, and the leaves on the trees around the house were moving against each other with a sound like the papery breaths of someone not entirely well. The water in the lake was lapping against the jetty supports, like a tongue being moved around inside a dry mouth. The combination of the two sounds was disconcerting, and for a moment the air didn't feel as cold as it should, but then felt very cold indeed. It struck me that no one in the world knew where I was, and though that thought has sometimes been a source of comfort, right then it was not. Though I had owned this jetty, those woods, that house, it did not in that instant feel like a place where I should be.

      A stronger wind suddenly came down out of the mountains to the west – presumably the source of the cold blast I had just felt – provoking a long, creaking noise to come out of the woods. A tree that was dry and not long for this world, presumably, bending for the second-to-last time. Still I did not start walking. I found I did not want to go back toward the house or the trees. My feet felt unsecured, too, as if something more than the water's gentle movements was moving the jetty's supports. Gradually this increased in intensity, until it was like a vibration buzzing against one leg, as if…

      ‘You moron,’ I said, out loud. I stuffed my hand in my jeans pocket. The vibration was just my phone.

      I stuck it to my ear. ‘Who is this?’

      It was Ellen Robertson.

       Chapter 11

      I got to the Mountain View a little after eight o'clock. It was the only place in Black Ridge I could bring to mind, and I wanted to sound at least slightly in charge of the situation. I did not suggest my motel because you do not do that with women you do not know. She agreed and did not ask where the bar was. She said she'd be there some time between eight-thirty and ten, but couldn't be more precise and would not be able to stay for long.

      I walked back along the jetty, up the lawn, and climbed back over the gate. The house did not look like anything other than an empty dwelling, but I did not walk any slower than necessary.

      I did hesitate for a moment at the top of the rise, however, turned and said goodbye, before I walked off down the drive. It did not feel as if I had done

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