Free Tyme's End by B. R. Collins

brought me here.
    All of a sudden he twists to look at me, so quickly that twigs crack under his feet. His eyes don’t quite focus on my face. ‘If you knew, for sure, one way or the other – suppose you knew, for sure, that she’d killed herself . . .’
    I say, ‘Yes?’
    But he doesn’t finish what he was going to say. He says slowly, ‘I think it does matter. I wish it didn’t. But I think it does.’
    It’s hard to keep track of what he’s saying. ‘You mean, if my mother had –?’
    â€˜No.’ A split-second shake of his head. ‘Of course, but that’s not what I mean.’ He gestures at the memorial. H. J. MARTIN WAS FOUND DEAD ON THIS SPOT . ‘Suppose it wasn’t an accident? Suppose it happened because –’
    He stops. He shakes his head again, as if there’s an insect buzzing in his ears.
    I swallow. The heat surrounds me, suddenly oppressive. My mouth tastes stale and sour, tacky with sugar. I say, ‘Shall we go back? I’m thirsty.’
    It’s as if he hasn’t heard me. Maybe he hasn’t.
    â€˜My grandfather knew H. J. Martin. They were friends. My grandfather was Martin’s heir,’ he says, and his words are quiet, precise, without any trace of the American accent he had before. ‘He inherited Tyme’s End, and – and a lot of money. A huge amount of money. And he –’
    There’s a pause, filled with birdsong and a siren from a long way away. I feel dizzy, unreal, as if I’m not really here. And Oliver is staring into the middle distance as if someone’s standing in front of him.
    â€˜I think my grandfather murdered H. J. Martin,’ he says.
    There’s another split-second silence. He turns to me and he’s smiling, like he knows that what he just said is ridiculous, melodramatic, unbelievable.
    I say, ‘Er . . .’
    And then suddenly he spins on his heel, ducks behind a tree, and I hear him vomiting.

.
    .
    V
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    I don’t know what to do. I push my hands into the back pockets of my jeans and kick at the bracken, so that if he looks round he’ll see that I’m not watching. He coughs wetly, and I hear liquid splattering on to the ground. There’s a pause, and I think it’s over. Then he gasps and makes a kind of rasping, barking noise. He spits, and makes another noise, halfway between a sigh and a groan. I look at him, in spite of myself, and he’s wiping his mouth on his forearm. He glances up but I can’t tell if he’s seen me or not. He pushes his hair off his forehead with his other hand, and it sticks up, clumpy with sweat. He stands up, bracing himself against the tree. He says, ‘God. Excuse me.’
    â€˜Are you all right?’
    He smiles, coughs, and spits again. He digs at the earth with his toe, wincing. ‘Of course. Can’t you tell?’
    â€˜OK,’ I say. ‘Stupid question.’
    â€˜I didn’t mean that,’ he says, but it doesn’t sound like he cares much, one way or the other. ‘Look – let’s go.’
    I nod. He walks past me and down the road the way we came. I follow him. I feel faintly sick too, as if it’s contagious. I want a drink of water. My T-shirt is sticking to me.
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ he says, without looking round, so the words are almost blown away by the warm breeze. ‘I shouldn’t have brought you here. It was a really bad idea.’
    I hurry to catch up with him, feeling the sweat break out on my forehead. ‘Wait. Will you wait , please, Oliver –’
    He slows down and stops, but he’s still staring straight ahead. There’s a long blotch of damp on the side of his chest and I can smell alcohol.
    â€˜What you said,’ I say. ‘About your grandfather. Did you –’
    â€˜Forget it.’
    â€˜So you didn’t mean it?’
    He looks at me. His expression is so hostile