Free Martin Sloane by Michael Redhill Page A

number of days, they could see that the Bible’s pages were easing apart. When they could almost see the surfaces of the pages, with those bright colours and the long-lost illustrations, they turned the kiln off and let everything cool, and then they opened the door after another day and got ready with the bottles of champagne.
    Molly’s face was pale. What happened?
    It fell to ash the instant they touched it.
    Jesus Christ, I said.
    So now the other half at Clonmacnoise is in a glass case and if anyone tries to discover the rest of its treasures, they’ll lose that little bit they do have.
    Molly stood bolt upright. And why is that story for me? she said. Why for me? It means don’t try to figure things out?
    I looked back and forth between them, lost in the sudden updraft of emotion.
    No, said Martin quietly. My father told it to me because something bad had happened to me, and I said that there was no reason for anything, that the world made no sense. My father was a religious man and this upset him.
    So what, you were just a kid.
    He said to me, just because you can’t understand why this is happening to you doesn’t mean there isn’t a reason. It’s just hidden from you, and you have to be able to appreciate life knowing you aren’t entitled to know all the answers.
    He advised you not to think about your life? Molly said.
    No. He was telling me to show some respect for both the beautiful as well as the darker mysteries, that’s all. He wanted me to understand that if something refuses to reveal itself to you, prying it apart could ruin something that was precious the way it was.
    Including this bad thing that happened to you?
    Well, it made me who I am, so I guess there was something good in it. If I think I’m leading a life worth leading.
    And are you? Molly said.
    I looked from her to him and back, not sure at all what had set this in motion. I leaned forward and gently took the fragile artwork from Martin’s hands. A prize in every box, I said. I slipped the Good Book of Mysteries back into place and drew out another box, one whose name I knew. This one has a happy ending, I said. Grand Central.
    Molly looked over at it and smiled softly. That’s pretty.
    And
I know this one, I said, clearing my throat nervously. It’s about a cinema.
    A little while later, Molly looked at her watch and announced she had half an hour to make her bus. She went into the house to grab her bag. My god, I said to him, as we crossed the lawn behind her, what was that about?
    I’m not sure. He sounded tired.
    But what did she
say
to you? Molly reappeared in the doorway. You’ll tell me after.
    She put her arms around me. It did me a world of good to get away for a day, she said. Her voice contained no hint of her previous distress. Thank you.
    Okay, I said, a little lost. I wondered if she had quickly checked through her bag and seen what I’d left there for her. I could see no hint of what she was feeling under what she appeared to be feeling. Calm and collected.
    We’ll talk, she said. I’ll call you. She turned to Martin. Thanks, she said.
    He reached forward and hugged her. She slung her little bag over her shoulder, carelessly enough that I knew she hadn’t opened it and looked inside, and kissed us both. I just stood there and watched her walk toward the road.
    Wait, I said, snapping out of it, we’ll drive you.
    No, I’ll walk, she said. I don’t get lost.
    But your bus is going to leave.
    I’ll be fine, she said, and she waved to us both and turned down toward where the main road led to the station.
    Martin went back into the shed to tidy up, and I stood in the doorway, watching him, waiting. Well, are you going to tell me what the
hell
that was all about?
    He shrugged. Maybe she’s unhappy, he said.
    She’s unhappy? Stop the presses. She seemed miserable all day. Is that what she wanted to say to you? He continued meticulously to shelve his things. Martin?
    He walked past me in the threshold and snapped