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

didn’t want to contradict her. In fact, Mrs Dray had started to look a bit flushed and her voice had gone all high-pitched, just like the time Annabel Woods’s hair got tangled up in the climbing rope during PE and Mr Craven, the caretaker, had to cut her lose.

My mum patted my hand, which seemed to signal the end of our conversation. She made a move to stand, but I didn’t want her to go. These moments between us seemed so rare now. She was working on some big project called a PhD, and I was halfway through constructing the Millennium Falcon out of Lego, so we both had our commitments. Plus, I’d noticed that the older you got, the less your parents fussed over you. Not so long ago, whenever I fell over, I would be scooped up into strong arms, kissed and told I was a brave boy. Now I got told to stop being so clumsy and look where I was going, or my dad would ask me if I’d had a nice trip, which was only funny the first five times.

“How do you get asthma?” I asked quickly.

My mum settled back into her seat, reluctantly it seemed to me, and shrugged. “You can be born with it. Or develop it.”

“Can you catch it?”

“No.”

“Can you give it to someone else?”

“No.”

“Can you still do normal stuff if you have asthma, like running and football?”

“You can still do everything, Jamie.”

She ruffled my hair and stood up. She was off to do her own thing, whether I liked it or not.

I slurped the last of my Nesquik, images of the “incident” at school today coming back to me. I supposed it had been pretty horrible. I pushed the images away. It was nothing serious or scary, I would try to remember that.

Still, that night I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, all I could see was Mrs Dray with her flushed cheeks. “Breathe,” she was saying again, “breathe, breathe.” And she was taking deep breaths herself, demonstrating how it should be done, as if the problem stemmed from forgetfulness.

“Breathe. Just breathe.”

Chapter 3

Action

When Michael’s name flashes up on my phone, I’m in two minds whether to answer. The thing is, I’ve decided on a plan of action, and I’m nearly almost certain it’s the right one. So I don’t want him talking me out of it. I don’t think.

My mood swings easily with the weather, and today, with a bit of sunshine, I might have been feeling more confident about my plan. But although it’s a warm day, there are grey clouds in the sky and I’m plagued by a sense of something ominous approaching. Perhaps I should turn back.

In my hand, my phone continues to ring.

The canal water is dark and murky, dotted with the odd drinks can and limp crisp packet. A coot bobs along, searching hopefully for something to eat.

Red for moorhen, white for coot. Don’t forget it.

I never did.

I pass a narrowboat tied alongside the towpath, an algae-stained laughing Buddha on the deck. I look away, not wanting to see inside those little windows, not wanting to be reminded.

“Hey,” I say, quickly answering my phone before it rings off. All of a sudden I just want to hear a familiar voice. And maybe, just maybe, be talked out of this.

“Hey. You all right?” asks Michael.

“Yep. You?”

“Yeah, good. You on a job?”

“No. I took the day off.”

“You what? You never take a day off. What you doing?”

“I’m just… I’m out.”

“Out?”

Oh go on, I think, just tell him. Not because I want to be talked out of it, because I don’t, almost certainly, but maybe a second opinion…

“I’m down by Camden Lock,” I tell him.

“Oh, yeah? Stocking up on yet more incense and leather bondage gear?”

“Yep, you know me.”

“Too well, clearly. Seriously, what are you doing there?”

“I’m just… there’s a… like, an art exhibition thing I want to go to…”

There’s a confused pause.

“What?”

“An exhibition. Like where artists show their paintings.”

“Yes, I know what an exhibition is, thanks, mate. What are you going to that for?”

Not far ahead, people are standing about on the towpath. Are they looking at paintings? Is this it?

I look over my shoulder, back along the section of path I’ve just walked. The van’s parked just ten minutes away. I could be home in fifty.

“Libby’s exhibiting some of her work,” I say.

There’s a long silence.

“How d’you know that?”

“I found her. I just did an internet search. She’s got a website.”

Again a long pause.

“So… what? You’re there to see her?”

As if he’s already talked me out of it, I find myself grinding to a halt. I even take a couple of tentative steps back in the direction I’ve just come.

“Yeah, that was the plan.”

Was? Is! Is the plan.

“To talk to her?”

“Yeah.”

“And say what?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“Well, I haven’t exactly mapped it all out.”

Why did I answer my phone? Now I’m getting doubts in my head. I make a swift turn and head back in the direction I was going in the first place. I know what I’m doing. I do.

“So you were really serious about this?”

“Yes, I told you I wanted to find her—”

“No, you said you’d been thinking about finding her, not that you were going to do it.”

“Well, I thought about it a lot. And I decided to do it.”

“Are you sure about this?”

“Look, you’re the one who told me I had to sort myself out.”

“Yeah I know, but I thought it would be more of a mental thing, like working through some stuff in your own mind. Not so much… doing.”

“If I could just work through it in my own mind, I would have done that, wouldn’t I?”

Michael falls silent.

“You told me I had to move on from the past,” I remind him. “You said it. And you’re right. I do. I need to tie up some loose ends. Make my peace with the past, or whatever, and move forwards. A fresh approach. And I don’t know