Blame by Paul Read

Author:Paul Read
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781785079207
Publisher: Legend Press

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Mariana’s father parks a can of Labatt Blue in my hand and slumps down opposite, cracks one open himself. I stare at the beer in horror. His wife and daughter are discussing the play in the kitchen and I fear I’m going to have to sit through some kind of ‘man chat’.

‘So where’d you end up then?’ he asks.

‘Just went wandering.’

He sips his beer.

‘Like Johnny Cash, eh?’

‘I guess. You don’t happen to have a soft drink, do you? I don’t actually drink alcohol.’

‘No? Why’s that?’

‘Allergic.’

‘Oh, you poor bastard. Grab yourself something from the icebox.’

He reaches for the television remote and begins chuckling at one of the late-night chat shows as I slouch to the kitchen, switch the beer for yet another soda.

‘So where’d you go?’ he asks upon my return. He doesn’t unpeel his eyes from the screen.

‘Um. I found the Flatiron. Went down to Lower Manhattan and saw a very misty Statue of Liberty. Had a Coke in a bar.’

‘Which one?’

It turns out The Old Peculiar is quite a well-known dive. Mariana’s father assures me I’m lucky ‘nothing too shady’ happened and that my drink was ‘almost undoubtedly’ spiked.

‘My drink wasn’t spiked.’ Chance would be a fine thing, I hear a deep part of myself whisper.

He swigs again. ‘I bet it was,’ he says, serious.

We watch the TV for a while, laugh at the prescribed moments. On the shelf behind the television, Mariana’s parents have the same framed photo of the peering, tired-eyed ‘uncle’ Mariana displays on her mantelpiece in Southgate. Next to it is a picture of Mariana’s school-age self, hinting at the woman this child would go on to become. Most notably in the large, acerbic eyes and wide, toothy grin.

I announce my intention to take a shower and go to bed.

‘Be my guest,’ Mariana’s father says.

On my way past a low shelving unit, I catch something with my hip and a sickening crash speeds Mariana and her mother from the kitchen, screaming their worry like opera singers. I apologise profusely and attempt to gather together the splinters of orange and blue pottery while Mariana’s mother tries hard to assure me the vase wasn’t ‘too expensive’. Her father remains in his armchair, smug and chuckling, as though proved right about the inevitable, dizzying dangers of visiting local hobo hangouts.

I’ve removed my diary from my bag and settled down into the bed, when there’s a knock on the door.

Mariana sticks her head round. ‘Decent?’

I stretch and casually push back the sheet to expose my torso, though I haven’t done so many press-ups lately. She might as well take a look. As she enters the room, she remarks how skinny I appear. I hide myself again and place the diary on the bedside.

Mariana perches on the edge of the bed and looks straight at me, something that might be mirth flinching behind her irises. She wears a darker version of the dress her mother wore, but the exposed skin is lighter, the neck smoother. She’s left the door ajar.

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