Free The Bones of You by Gary McMahon Page A

overrun. The grass along the west side of the plot, behind which the embankment rose toward the motorway, was lined with trees that were in the process of shedding their leaves. The ground beneath them was covered in a layer of brown and yellow mulch.
    I sat in my car and stared at those near-denuded trees, and was overcome by a sensation of bleakness. How the hell had it come to this, with me driving out to a crappy service station to pick up my daughter every other weekend? Didn’t I deserve a normal life, one like other people enjoyed? Wasn’t I good enough for that?
    I rested my forehead on my knuckles, which were gripping the steering wheel so tight that they hurt, and tried to push away the self-pity. Life was hard, people were often harsh, and everybody had their own problems. These problems were mine—I had created them. Nobody had forced me to take up with an addict and have a child with her. I had made my own decisions, followed the paths I had chosen, and whining about the results would help no one.
    I got out of the car, locked it, and strode across the car park toward the little café that was attached to the side of the main services building. Inside the building, there were a few shop units, a Burger King, and an M&S that sold fancy sandwiches, but we preferred the unassuming little café. It didn’t even have a name, just a stencilled sign saying “Food & Drinks” above the main window.
    I went inside and sat down, waiting for the waitress to approach me. I scanned the menu, but I wasn’t hungry. Nothing appealed. Everything looked the same.
    “Hi.” The waitress was small and thin, and looked about nineteen years old.
    “Hi. Could I just have a black coffee, please? I’m meeting someone. We’ll order something more substantial then.”
    “No problem.” She walked away, glancing around the small café, checking that everyone was satisfied.
    Below the hem of her short skirt, her legs were pale and veined. I noticed a bruise above her left ankle. It looked bad, was turning dark through age. I wondered how she’d sustained the injury. She didn’t look particularly sporty, but perhaps she’d stumbled off a curb or fallen off a bike…why the hell was I bothered by this? More and more lately, I was finding it hard to focus. My mind kept shooting off on tangents, latching onto things that didn’t really matter.
    I had my paperback in my jacket pocket. I’d read half a page when the waitress returned with my coffee.
    “Thanks,” I said, putting down the book on the table.
    “Good book,” said the waitress. “I read it at Uni.”
    “I’m enjoying it,” I said.
    She smiled, walked away.
    I watched her as she headed toward a table in the corner. The sunlight came through the window and caught in her hair, turning the tips of her brown locks gold. She looked beautiful for a moment—like an extraordinary being trapped inside an ordinary moment—and then everything returned to normal. She moved out of the sunlight. Her hair was all brown again. She was human after all, just another plodding being making her way in the world.
    I took a sachet of brown sugar from the small white bowl at the center of the table, tore off the end, and added the sugar to my coffee. Perhaps if I concentrated on these small, everyday rituals, I’d regain some of my focus. Like Zen: a universe of peace and beauty found in the banal choreography of an ordinary life.
    I was just about to open my book and resume reading when I heard the door open. I looked up, and they were standing there, in the doorway, looking for me.
    Jess saw me first. Her face seemed to open up, like a hand showing the world that it is empty of weapons. My heart curled and clenched, a small fist inside my chest. Her hair—white-blonde, like her mother’s—was done up in bunches and she was wearing faded jeans with a padded red jacket. On her hands she had a pair of wool mittens. They were red, too, to match the jacket. I noticed her little