Free The Book of Evidence by John Banville

the fields. N e v e r w h o l l y anywhere, never with anyone, either, that was m e , always. E v e n as a child I seemed to m y s e l f a traveller w h o had been delayed in the m i d d l e of an urgent j o u r n e y . Life w a s an unconscionable wait, w a l k i n g up and d o w n the platform, watching for the train. People g o t in the w a y and blocked my v i e w , I had to crane to see past them. Yes, that w a s m e , all right.
    I picked my w a y d o w n t h r o u g h the silent house to the kitchen. In the m o r n i n g light the r o o m had a scrubbed, eager aspect. 1 m o v e d about warily, unwilling to disturb the atmosphere of hushed expectancy, feeling like an uninitiate at s o m e grand, rapt c e r e m o n y of light and weather. T h e d o g lay on a dirty old r u g beside the stove, its m u z z l e between its paws, watching m e , a crescent of white s h o w i n g in each eye. I m a d e a pot of tea, and w a s sitting at the table, waiting for it to d r a w , when J o a n n e c a m e in. She w a s w e a r i n g a m o u s e - g r e y dressing-gown belted tightly about her m i d r i f f H e r hair was tied up at the back in a thick, appropriately equine p l u m e . It really was remarkable in colour, a vernal russet blaze.
    Immediately, and not for the first time, I f o u n d m y s e l f 56

    picturing h o w she must be flossed elsewhere, and then was ashamed, as if I had misused the p o o r child. Seeing me, she halted, of course, ready to bolt. I lifted the teapot in a friendly gesture, and invited her to j o i n me. She shut the door and edged around me with a panic-stricken smile, keeping the table between us, and took d o w n a cup and saucer f r o m the dresser. She had red heels and very white, thick calves. I thought she must be about seventeen.
    T h r o u g h the f o g of my hangover it occurred to me that she w o u l d be b o u n d to k n o w something about the state of my mother's finances — whether, for instance, those ponies were making money. I g a v e her what was intended to be a boyish, encouraging smile, though I suspect it came out a broken leer, and told her to sit d o w n , that we must have a chat. T h e tea, however, was not for her, but for my mother — for Dolly, she said. Well! I thought, Dolly, no less! She m a d e o f f at once, with the saucer grasped in both hands and her agitated smile fixed on the trembling liquid in the cup.
    W h e n she was gone I poked about morosely for a while, looking for the papers that had been on the table yesterday, the bills and ledgers and chequebook stubs, but found nothing. A drawer of the little bureau f r o m my father's study was locked. I considered forcing it open, but restrained myself: in my hungover m o o d I might have smashed the whole thing to bits.
    I wandered o f f through the house, carrying my teacup with me. In the d r a w i n g - r o o m the carpet had been taken up, and a pane of glass in o n e of the w i n d o w s was broken, and there was glass on the floor. I noticed I had no shoes on. I opened the garden door and stepped outside in my socks. There was a smell of sun-warmed grass and a faint tang of d u n g in the rinsed, silky air. T h e black shadow of the house lay across the lawn like a fallen stage-flat. I 57

    ventured a step or t w o on the yielding turf, the d e w seeping up b e t w e e n my toes. I felt like an old m a n , g o i n g along shakily with my c u p and saucer rattling and my trouscr-cuffs w e t and c r u m p l e d a r o u n d m y ankles. T h e rosebeds under the w i n d o w had not been tended for years, and a tangle of briars rioted at the sills. T h e faded roses h u n g in dusters, h e a v y as cloth. Their particular w a n shade of pink, and the chiaroscuro of the scene in general, put me in m i n d of s o m e t h i n g . I halted, f r o w n i n g . T h e pictures —
    of course. I w e n t back into the d r a w i n g - r o o m . Yes, the walls w e r e e m p t y , with here and there a square patch where