Free Wild Abandon by Joe Dunthorne Page B

a number of masked, ambitious wwoofers who wanted to show their commitment to the community came into his room, chanting his name and wearing robes with deep hoods, to take him at last, Patrick would stay still, shaking in his bed and, given his family history, in addition to previous addictions, perhaps suffer a fatal embolism. If his heart held they would simply lower the rainbow-colored pillow onto his face, pin his arms and legs down, and continue chanting until his body stopped moving. Then they’d lay his arms across his chest in an X and in the morning, they would say: “So peaceful, he must have known it was his time.”
    They would dispose of his body in the compost, and he would be replaced, for there were tens and tens of people who’d take his position, and they were younger and supple and spoke more than one language.
    His only option was action. He could not stand still waiting for them. He would have to duck through the low double doors, step out of the porch and into the moonlight, swinging his blunt implement, smashing the keyboard first, which was something he’d been wanting to do anyway, then targeting Freya, who was more dangerous than her husband, thencracking Arlo’s skull like the top of an egg, on and on, one after the other, notches on the table leg, though even in Patrick’s wildest delusions, Kate was not involved.
    Last of all would be Don. Patrick would drag his unconscious body to the deep part of the river, where he would wait for him to wake up, then, as though absolving himself of every wrong, washing away every bitterness, skimming off his misery, Patrick would baptize Don, again and again, under many different names.
    Breathing hard through his mouth, Patrick kicked out the double doors. As he stepped outside into moonlight, the cold landed the first punch, smacking him in the nose. He couldn’t see the keyboard. He couldn’t see the hooded figures. There was a bonfire smell. The market garden was still covered with a patchwork of tarps, rugs.
    As he stepped along the slate path that led toward the yard, the cold ran up through his feet, his ankles, rattled past his knees, and settled in his stomach. He tried to be positive: in just his underwear, he would be that much more nimble while they, in their ungainly robes, would be like sacks of steak to tenderize. He thought of punching Don again, this time with the ring that was a present from Janet, and leaving a cattle brand on his temple. He looked back at the dome, checked the roof. Nothing. He looked up into the bare ash tree; it creaked of its own accord. But then, at last, there was laughter. A knowing, hollow laugh.
    As he made his way across the yard, the sharp gravel made him wince. Keeping close to the south wall of the big house, he stayed out of the patches of moonlight. He was shivering. Mud clotted the thick hairs on his calves. As he walked downthe stepped wood-chip path, he saw there were some people around a small fire at the bottom of the garden, which was not unusual for a Friday night.
    His mind swiftly reordered the previously stated narrative to make sense of the new information. They would tell him he was paranoid. They would put a flammable blanket round him. They would ask him whether he should consider laying off the green lassis. Then they would tip him on the fire and beat him, burn him, dance, and raise a glass to his great sacrifice and, by morning, his bones would be nothing more than ash, sprinkled over the beetroot patch and returned to the earth.
    Who will come looking for me?
    Nobody. They’ll keep signing for your pension, so that even after your death, you will still fund the community.
    It was Janet, Freya, and Kate seated on three kitchen chairs, with Freya in the middle and one big blanket around all their shoulders, each with a mug. They were leaning into one another. There was a bladder of wine at their feet. The reason Janet had sent her boyfriend away, Patrick now decided, was that she