Free Conrad & Eleanor by Jane Rogers

dog, which has been lying under the table with its ears flat, gets up and follows him to the door.
    â€˜You’ll need the torch,’ she tells Con. ‘The light’s gone out there.’ He picks up the big flashlight from the shelf above the coats and makes his way across the uneven yard. It has started to drizzle, the fine rain stings his cheeks. He looks down to the dog for solidarity, but it has disappeared. He unlatches the barn door then shoves it open with his foot and waits on the threshold until he can bring himself to raise the torch and direct its beam into the dark interior. For a moment he can’t see anything but the barn, the shape-shifting arena of his and Ailsa’s childhood dramas, and can’t smell anything but its familiar straw, damp earth and creosote. Then his nose catches an ugly whiff of human excrement. The light hits the body; unnaturally large, swinging slightly, the face made hideous either by the exaggerated light and shadow or by its own interior workings. Before Conrad can stop himself, he is outside again, leaning against the barn wall for balance. He bends to rest his hands on his knees, trying to breathe evenly, feeling the welcome drizzle on his burning neck and head. How can he go in there?
    But why should he expect strangers to deal with it? Then he realises that he can and must leave it to strangers, so the police can verify that it is suicide. He straightens, staring into the darkness of the yard and the yellow light of the kitchen window. Puddles glint treacherously. His open pores are drinking the rain, and he upturns his face and opens his mouth too, receiving the clean water gratefully. He waits in the yard until the dog gives a cursory bark and the first vehicle arrives. The doctor. Made capable by the shocked presence of a stranger who clearly knows his parents, Con enters the barn with him and positions the upended flashlight on a bale to give them some light. The doctor takes Ethan’s wrist and feels for a pulse. ‘He’s cold,’ he says. ‘He’s been dead a while. I’m sorry.’
    Con thinks he should touch his father’s hand but he can’t make himself do it. The smell is awful. ‘We can’t cut him down, can we?’
    â€˜The police will do it.’ The doctor is heading for the barn door and Conrad follows him out into the blessed rain again.
    â€˜Can you write a death certificate?’
    â€˜It’s one for the coroner, suicide. He’ll probably call a post-mortem.’
    Con’s ignorance embarrasses him. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve called you out for nothing.’ The kitchen door opens, spilling light across the muddy yard, and his mother appears in the doorway. ‘Go back in, Mum. There’s nothing for you to do here. Stay in the warm.’
    She hesitates, then slams the door. From somewhere the dog begins to howl.
    â€˜Want me to take a look at your mother? Give her something for the shock?’
    Con nods. ‘I just need to —’ He goes back into the barn. But there is nothing he can do out here. He picks up the flashlight, closes the door, follows the doctor into the house.
    His mother is sitting at the table and the doctor is taking her pulse. ‘I don’t want anything,’ she says. ‘I’m all right.’
    When the doctor has finished he offers, ‘What about something to help you sleep?’ and she shakes her head.
    â€˜Well,’ says the doctor. ‘Well, Nancy, I wish I’d known he was feeling so low. It shouldn’t have come to this. I’m very sorry.’ He stands for a moment with his bag clasped in his hands, then turns for the door. Conrad follows him out again.
    â€˜Thanks. Thanks very much.’
    â€˜Let me know if your mother needs anything.’
    â€˜Yes. Thank you.’ Con stands quietly in the drizzle while the car reverses, raking the sodden yard with its lights, then turns and disappears down the