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

little excessive. He needed to curb the spending of money he didn’t have, the endless stream of girls, the creative binges that lasted for days and left him exhausted… But still, anything was better than seeing him so low.

Yeah, this was good. He was showing signs of being a happier, more confident person than he ever had been. And so long as that was the case, then all the other behaviours would iron themselves out.

He’d be fine, I told myself. It was all fine.

I remember Mr Robson saying: “I want you to tell me the real reason you don’t want to run anymore.”

“I’ve told you the reason!”

I glared at him defiantly. He held my gaze with hard, piercing eyes, the muscles in his jaw working. I looked down at my school shoes.

“I’ve told you the reason, sir,” I repeated more respectfully.

“And I don’t believe you, Lewis,” he said sternly.

I shrugged, exhausted. Mr Robson might not have seen me running lately, but in my fitful dreams I never stopped. Night after night, my feet pounded the canal path, never taking me forward.

“Look, Lewis, the school are aware that you have been though a… distressing experience lately. But in the face of adversity we need to pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off and get back in the saddle. That’s everything that this school stands for. We’re all about raising resilient young men, and I wouldn’t be doing my job if I were to make concessions and excuses for you and allow you to wallow in self-pity.”

“I’m not wallowing—”

“Then what is it? Because I don’t buy this excuse that you’re too busy focusing on your exams, especially when all your teachers and your own mother informs me that’s certainly not the case. And even if you have got a lot else on, is it acceptable to let your teammates down? Is it all right to just waste all the hard work and training you’ve put in? I don’t think so.”

He waited for me to respond, but I just stared at the school logo on the breast of his polo shirt, feeling anger rise in me. Whatever he thought he knew, it was all bullshit. He knew nothing.

“I think you’re scared, Lewis.”

“I’m not scared,” I scoffed. “What would I even be scared about?”

“Failure,” he said without missing a beat.

I rolled my eyes dismissively and shook my head.

He sighed, the severity in his features softening slightly, and shifted his weight. I could see his fingers wiggling inside the pockets of his regulation navy-blue tracksuit trousers.

“Your mother told me you were the one who ran to get help—”

“I just don’t want to run anymore!” I snapped. “Why is it such a big deal? I’m bored of it. I’m just sick of running, that’s all there is to it!”

“And I said, I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t know what you want me to tell you! I hate running! I don’t ever want to run again, okay? Ever!”

“Master Lewis—”

“Just fuck off!”

My voice echoed down the empty school corridor, bouncing off stone walls that had stood for hundreds of years, no doubt without witnessing such an offensive outburst. I could feel my face burning with anger. Mr Robson didn’t look mad. He just looked disappointed.

But just then, Dr Turner, the Headmaster, appeared at the end of the corridor, fresh from the morning chapel service. He strode towards us, his black gown flowing behind him. He studied me coldly as he approached.

“Master Lewis!” he barked. “My office. Now.”

I remember her asking me: “Did you see his face? Once he was dead?”

I nodded slowly, gazing at the shadows on her bedroom wall. My head felt woozy from the alcohol.

“What was it like?”

No one had ever asked me that question. No one, apart from Hellie, would have dared.

“Empty,” I told her, “like he’d left. Like he’d upped and gone away in the time I’d been gone, and what was left was just an empty container.”

We were sitting on her bed, her body warm next to mine. She hugged her legs and rested her head on her knees, waiting for me to tell her more.

“And so pale,” I continued, “like all the blood had drained out of him.”

“Did he look peaceful?”

I shook my head. “No. Not peaceful. Kind of… shocked.”

“I remember watching my baby brother asleep in his cot,” she said. “His eyes were just a tiny bit open. He looked so still and peaceful. I didn’t know he was dead.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I studied her pale, angular features. Her hair, white in the glow of her bedside lamp, fell around her face in gentle waves.

“I didn’t want to tell anyone he was gone, so I just stood there looking at him.”

“Why didn’t you want to tell anyone?” I asked, a shudder running down my spine.

“Because then they would have moved him. And it would have all been over.”

I leaned my head back against the wall, feeling the faint thud of music coming from the bedroom next door. Out in the corridor, two girls, drunk, laughed loudly on the way to their rooms. Tonight had been fun – kind of. We’d drunk cheap beer in the student union bar. She’d even got me to dance. And for a while I’d forgotten about everything. After all, hadn’t that been the whole idea of coming here? I might have told my parents it was an opportunity to see Manchester Uni, get a taste of student life. Maybe I’d want to apply here next year, I told them. After doing far worse in my GCSEs than predicted, and having made a shaky start to my A levels, I think they were pleased I was taking any interest in my future. But in reality I just needed to flee, get away from everything that had happened back home – the night of the fairground, my own rage and fear, my suspension from school, Libby dumping me. And for a while it had worked. For a while I’d put it all