The End is Where We Begin by Maria Goodin (open ebook .txt) 📕

between us like a guilty secret. As the car pulled away, I saw Laura run out into the street. She stood in the road, watching the car drive away. We never saw Rocket again, and I never told Laura exactly what happened that night, or his role in it. I never told anyone.

Peter and Carole have never known the true circumstances of their only son’s death until now.

“I’m so sorry for my part in what happened that night,” I say, looking up at the ceiling, unable to face Max’s parents. “I’m so sorry that the choices I made…”

“There’s nothing for you to be sorry about,” I hear Carole say, her voice croaky. I can hear she’s been crying. “What happened that night… it was just a terrible tragedy. But none of you were to blame.”

I can hear her words, but, just like Tom’s words, I can’t take them in. I don’t believe them. I won’t believe them. Because I don’t want to be free of this. Because I don’t know what it would feel like to be free of it. And I don’t think I deserve it.

“Mate, I don’t know what you heard the paramedics say about one minute,” I hear Tom say, gently, “it could have been anything. But the fact is, by the time help arrived, he’d been gone a while. I know I was yelling at them to resuscitate him, so you might have thought he’d just gone, but we… well, we…”

“We already knew,” Michael finishes. “One minute, five minutes… none of it would have made any difference.”

I can hear what they’re saying, but I can’t accept it. How can something you’ve believed for sixteen years be so suddenly overturned?

I hear shuffling behind me, feel a warm hand gently touching my arm.

“You were such a good friend to him,” Carole tells me. “I remember him running out of school on his very first day, telling me he’d made two new friends.”

“Fwends,” corrects Peter quietly.

“That’s right,” laughs Carole, “fwends, he called you. And then later, of course, he met Michael and the four of you… you were always together. Always laughing. That’s what I remember. The laughter that used to come through the ceiling from his bedroom. I used to think what on earth can they be doing that’s so funny?”

I want her to stop. I want her to be angry, to hate me. It would feel easier that way.

“We didn’t tell you what happened that night,” I tell her, “we lied to you, to everyone—”

“I told them,” pipes up Tom from behind me. “I told them a long time ago.”

So I was right; Tom was the only one to stay in contact.

“I don’t know why I said we should keep quiet about the details of that evening,” continues Tom. “That was my idea and it was a stupid one. I think I was scared, that we were all scared. The idea of the police getting involved, having to talk about it and maybe having to face those men again… it just all seemed too much. But lying about it was just another burden to carry.”

“We’ve known about what happened for years,” says Carole, “and we’ve felt anger and hatred and all kinds of emotions towards those faceless men. We’ve blamed them. We’ve wished revenge on them. But, ultimately, they didn’t kill Barclay. No one did. We’ve had to learn to let go—”

“How?” I ask, desperately, pushing my hands through my hair, unable to fathom how they, his parents, have been able to move beyond this in a way I haven’t.

“It’s been a struggle,” says Carole, calmly. “We couldn’t stay in Timpton. We tried, but everywhere we looked we were reminded of him. We visit him often, and my sister tends the grave, but we couldn’t stay there. And I know what we said to you boys the day of the funeral, about keeping in regular contact, but it wasn’t fair to ask that of you, and in the end we couldn’t have handled it. It would have been too hard, seeing you all grow up without him. It’s been nice to have the odd bit of news from Tom over the years, but I don’t think we could have coped with much more than that. Not until now.”

“But the main thing that’s kept us going,” says Peter, “is our faith. That’s what’s got us through. God forgives. And we try – challenging as it might be – to live by God’s word.”

“But if we’d – if I’d – just done things differently—”

“Listen to me, son,” Peter say firmly, suddenly appearing by his wife’s side.

He puts his two large hands on my shoulders and turns me towards him.

“Look at me,” he says.

I struggle to raise my head and meet his eye.

“Look at me,” he orders again, inclining his head towards mine.

I take a deep breath and gaze through his glasses, past the tiny smear on his thick lenses, into his green eyes.

“This wasn’t your fault,” he says, firmly. “This wasn’t your fault. We have never blamed you. And there is nothing – hear me? – nothing for you to be sorry about.”

I shake my head, looking away, a lump rising and lodging itself in my throat. I feel Peter’s warm hand wrap itself around my jaw, turning my face back towards his. I try to pull away, but he steadies me with a heavy hand on the shoulder.

“You did nothing wrong,” he insists. “Nothing.”

I tip my head towards the ceiling, hot tears springing to my eyes, but he places his hands on either side of my head, makes me face him again.

“God loves you, but he doesn’t forgive you for this, because you don’t need his forgiveness. And you certainly don’t need ours. It was just something that happened. And you didn’t – you hear me? – you didn’t make it happen.”

I exhale heavily, all the air rushing out of me, a sharp pain stabbing me in the gut as the tears escape.

“It was not your fault he