Free The Ecliptic by Benjamin Wood

us?’
    ‘Everyone’s problems are their own, Mac.’
    ‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘But mine don’t seem to be improving. I’ve forgotten what the point of it was, anyway.’
    ‘The point of what?’
    ‘This. Being here.’ She was going to say more, but there was an almighty clatter of dishes. A stack of plates had toppled from Ender’s serving trolley. The old man was standing
in the middle of the mess hall, peering down at the debris, as though confounded by the physics of it.
    The boy rushed over to help. ‘Let me sort that out for you.’ He bent to pick up the fragments. ‘Do you have a brush?’
    ‘Go!’ Ender said. ‘This is not your job. I will sweep for myself.’
    ‘I don’t mind. Honest.’
    ‘
Çik! Git burdan!
’
    There was a very long silence.
    Fullerton stood up, wrenching off his gloves, ducking out of his apron. He returned them to the old man with a sarcastic bow. Noticing me at the table, he traipsed over, looking stung and
apologetic, but all he said was, ‘What’s his problem? I didn’t even do anything.’ He reached for the milk jug in front of Mac and drank straight out of it. The rolling lump
in his throat was oddly prominent. He had not shaved and there was a faint moustache above his lip, a dandelion fuzz about his cheeks that I could not help but think a tad pathetic. As he drank,
his fringe fell back, revealing a streak of raw pink acne at his hairline. It was possible that he had been awake all night. He seemed fragile, twitchy.
    ‘Didn’t you sleep?’ I asked.
    He wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his sweatshirt. It was baggy and bee-striped. ‘Couldn’t keep my eyes open,’ he said.
    ‘Well, sorry if we kept you up too late. Quickman gets a bit combative.’
    ‘You didn’t.’ The boy sniffed. He set the jug down so briskly on the table that it wobbled like a bar-skittle. ‘It’s going to take me all day just to clear my head
again now. Sleep is not my friend.’
    ‘Come off it,’ said Mac. There was a mound of raisins left in her bowl, which she had managed to sieve out, and now she was swirling them with one finger. ‘Try staring at the
ceiling every night of your life,
then
tell me sleep isn’t good for you. I’ll swap places with you any time.’
    ‘No, trust me,’ the boy replied in a heavy voice, ‘you wouldn’t want dreams like mine.’ With this, he angled his head until the neck-joints clicked on both sides.
His sweatshirt lifted, revealing the waistband of his boxer shorts and the neat balloon-knot of his bellybutton. Then he said evenly, ‘Will Quickman be around later, do you reckon?’
    Mac glanced at me. As though to give the boy a lesson in patience, she removed her glasses and wiped the lenses. Her whole face took on a sallow hue. ‘Quickman, let’s see . . . He
can be quite hard to predict.’
    ‘That’s true,’ I said. ‘But I’m sure he won’t miss lunch.’
    ‘Well, if you see him, tell him I was looking for him.’
    ‘Happy to,’ said Mac, slotting her glasses back into place.
    The boy gave a lethargic two-fingered wave, as though consenting to a yea-vote at the end of a tedious meeting. ‘Bye then,’ he said, and walked out, shutting the door behind him.

    The weather had been so severe that we had not paid a visit to the mansion roof all winter, knowing the frost and snow would make it perilous. But I could see no other way of
consoling MacKinney that afternoon. I insisted that she follow me up the attic stairs, into the rafters, where a bolted hatchway opened to a ledge just wide enough for two or three people to stand
on. She was doubtful about the conditions still, but I promised her that we would be safe. ‘It’s a little wet, that’s all,’ I said, climbing out onto the shingle.
‘There’s plenty of grip.
    Mac lumbered out of the hatch and patted the cobwebs from her knees. She took one glimpse of the view and exhaled. She was soothed by it, I thought—restored. For a long moment she stayed
quiet,