MORNING SERIAL

I HAD been there just a few days and it seemed an island of shipwrecked souls.

Even the tourists seemed to not know or care where they had landed. Illie seemed an anomaly, even in my limited experience. He had hinted at having returned to a place he had fond memories of. That was not so unusual in people closer to the end of their lives than the beginning.

He had wavered as he mentioned his wife, and it was easy to see that a man who had achieved a great deal, perhaps against great odds, came home every night to something safe, constant, salvational. It’s difficult to really understand how to go on in the absence of such a presence. I thought of Clare and how benign would be her inevitable departure from my life. My only thought was making sure that when she left she could tell people that I did not leave her financially screwed. A low bar.

I took a swig of the brandy. It had a remarkable body to it and I could feel the blood awaken from my cheeks to my forehead. I would have sworn in court that the liquid went down through me and lit me up every inch as it went like an x-ray machine. I was probably revelling a little in the feeling when I heard the tentative sound of footsteps in gravel, made all the more succinct by my heightened state. And so I startled a bit – my eyes had been closed as I enjoyed the brandy, and opening them I stumbled a little. I must have looked quite drunk.

In the hazy light was a young girl, and it took me a few blinks before I recognised her as one of the girls from the funeral.

“Illie says dinner is ready,” she said. And when I didn’t speak, just glared at her, she said, “He sent me for you.”

“Yes, of course, of course,” I said, not sure why I was coming across as so dishevelled. “Thanks for fetching me.”

I followed her back toward the house, and we went on without speaking, she a few yards ahead of me, placing her dainty steps along the path in the lowering light.