was a brick, boy. His instrument of choice. I tried to stop him, but I went down alright.’
The old man straightens up, his mouth the same bitter gash that is his daughter’s mouth, and lets his hair fall.
‘I was conscious, most of the time. I saw it, I saw most of your getting. But I couldn’t move. Your mother couldn’t speak, and still can’t.’
He smiles then, in horrible satisfaction. It is unbearable for Luke. The room has gone dark, and he doesn’t know why. He finds it hard to breathe; he doesn’t fully understand his grandfather’s words; he knows they mean something about his own life. It has to do with his mother, how he was made the wrong way.
‘That brick summed up everything,’ says the old, dry voice. ‘It was his personality. You see things clearly when you’re on the floor, broken and bleeding. It was the imprint of his personality, I should say. There is a relationship – in such moments – that surpasses explanation.’
The old man shudders visibly, pulls himself back within his own skin. He glances at Luke, apparently surprised to see him there. He looks down at his teacup.
‘Perhaps,’ he says quietly, ‘that is why you have so little to say.’
Luke’s face has pulled into a rictus of weeping, but there are no tears. He limps out and disappears into the blinding light.
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