God's Children

By E.B Gilchrist and P.A Taylor

“Be careful who you trust... things are not always as they seem.”

Marcus Churchill is a bright, fit and handsome young man with a strong sense of justice and fair play. He lives in a world where truth and social order are the norm, and where deception and crime are simply beyond his comprehension. That was until, one day, a lie provokes a sequence of events that expose just how imperfect and fragile his ordered society really is.
In this fast-moving action adventure, filled with subtle twists and turns, romance, humour and even corruption and war, Marcus’s mundane and tidy life is turned into a struggle for survival - not just his own survival, but also the survival of his world.
God’s Children will grip you from start to finish. However, to the ‘philosophers’ among us, this story might be read as an exploration of the challenging topic of how society treats its minority and hard-to-understand groups, wrapping issues of race, colour, disability and political correctness into the storyline in a subtle and totally novel, yet highly entertaining way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Mar 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665595230

E.B Gilchrist

P.A Taylor: Born in Blackpool, in 1951, Andrew, known to his friends as Andy, grew up around Liverpool, England. A financial advisor, he has always enjoyed writing. He helps run Manfred Mann’s fan club, writing articles and liner notes. Andrew is married with three children. He loves music, old television, and has a model railway in his garden! It was while prospecting for new clients in 1980 that Andrew met Ed Gilchrist. Quite soon, they became good friends. And so, some 25 years later, the idea of God’s Children was born. Andrew now lives in Wallasey, just a few miles across the River Mersey from Liverpool. The other title by P.A Taylor is “The Chronicles of Prudence Fairweather”. E B Gilchrist: Educated at the University of Cambridge and after a long and successful career in IT consulting, Ed took early retirement to spend time supporting his son, who has autism and other conditions that affect his mental health. Ed is also involved with community activities and has been a valued contributor to student development at several local universities. Ed lives in Liverpool with his wife and three grown up children. The autism of his second child and a chance meeting with his co-author were the inspiration for this story.

Book preview

Prologue

"They say that there was a time when there was no world, just cold empty space, a vacuum filled with nothing but a barren emptiness. Nothing of this life, so familiar to you and me, existed then…no life of any kind."

I find this simple fact so difficult to comprehend. Our world and all that we take for granted had not yet been contrived. Some days I find it impossible to believe that our kind have not always been here. No matter how your brain works, that is a difficult concept to grasp.

Other days, usually Mondays, I wake up to realise just how insignificant we truly are.

One day, God, (or the grand architect if you prefer) in his or her unfathomable wisdom, decided to create a world. The story claims that this was achieved in only six days and six nights, leaving the seventh day as a day of rest. I sometimes wonder what God did with the following week, and the week after that! After you have created a world, what can you possibly do next? Nobody has ever satisfactorily answered this scattered fragment of thought.

I even found that, just for once, I questioned the truth of the written word, which I would normally never think of doing. I can sense my teacher, Miss Finbone, tutting in my ear for just thinking such nonsense. Still, I like to think that God is ever so busy creating other worlds for other people, and I am certain that this is the case. Perhaps that explains why our God is sometimes not here to help us when we need that help the most? By now, he or she must have created hundreds of thousands of worlds, filled with countless billions of people, all of whom sometimes need their creator’s help from time to time.

It is logical, I think, to assume that it must have taken longer than six days and six nights to create our planet. I believe this to be so, because such an achievement would clearly be impossible, even for God. We also cannot deny the wealth of scientific evidence which is now freely available to us.

Here, the written word must be totally trusted.

But God did create a world, of that I have no doubt. I am uncertain as to why I believe this so strongly, I just do. God gave this new world that he had created a sun and a moon and he breathed life into it. God created fish and birds and all other kinds of animals, large and small. God created flowers and trees and fast-flowing streams that fed into rivers, which, in turn, ran majestically down through vast mountain ranges, until, finally, melting away into one of the many great seas. Then God made a very beautiful garden especially for us, and God called this garden ‘Eden’.

At last, when all else was done and God had taken a little time out to stand back and admire the finished planet, he breathed life into his own children. Children who were born to live upon this brand new world that God had toiled so hard over. These children were even given the freedom to think for themselves. To do as they pleased, and yet, in the beginning, the world was good.

The only thing that God asked of his man-child, Adam, and his woman-child, Eve, was that they should not eat one particular apple from one certain tree. Adam and Eve never even thought to question such a simple instruction. After all, there were so many trees laden down with sweet-tasting apples. There could be no hardship in respecting his wishes. So Adam and Eve lived naked and happy in this very special place.

There was already, however, evil lurking in the garden. For where there is good, the opposite is usually hiding somewhere, not far behind. A slippery serpent with large, yellow, hypnotic eyes approached Adam and his pretty woman. It was the creature’s wicked intention to tempt this innocent and naive man and his beloved Eve into tasting of the forbidden fruit. The serpent knew too well the result of releasing even the tiniest fragment of evil into the innocent world that God had created.

You do not want to listen to God, hissed the creature. Why, the apple he has forbidden to you is the most wonderful, most juicy, tastiest apple in the whole of Eden. You cannot resist it, my friends, and you shouldn’t… mustn’t. Do not let him cheat you so. You deserve better. After all is said and done, this is your garden and that is your apple. Eat it, I say. It is your absolute right to do so.

The serpent looked upon the naked man and woman, its powerful eyes doing everything possible to draw them into darkness. But neither Adam nor Eve could understand the creature’s expression nor could they read its mood or understand the subtleties of its argument.

What do you think we should do, my love? asked Eve. The apple is the most splendid apple in the orchard. It is bigger and it is redder and it could, indeed, be juicier. I have often noticed it, as it is so much larger than the rest. I had thought that we should ask God why we couldn’t eat this fruit. I could write to him, perhaps? Eve often wrote little letters to God. She called them prayers.

Adam looked at his beautiful companion and, for a while, he was silent. Eve knew to be quiet because, although Adam was wise, he always needed time to organise his thoughts before any decision could be reached by logical deduction. At last he spoke.

Well, my love, he said very carefully, so as to be absolutely certain that the words came in the right order. God has gone to a great deal of trouble in creating our world. He gave us the sun to give us light and the moon to give us seasons. God has made us this wonderful garden and we are happy in this garden, are we not?

It was Eve’s turn to think through the logic of what he had said. But, yes, she was happy, very happy.

So, if he asked us not to eat one single apple in the entire garden, said Adam, then, surely, we should respect that wish, no matter how sweet an apple that may be? In any case, if we ate the fruit, we would both need to be untruthful, to tell a lie to God, and neither of us knows how to do that.

The serpent tried again to persuade Adam and Eve to eat the apple, but they would not. At last, the evil creature gave up its cause and crawled back into the darkness where, they say, it has stayed ever since, waiting for the time when a man or woman can, at last, be tempted. Only then will the good in this garden be lost. It would be only a matter of time. As it was immortal and the apple completely indestructible, it had an eternity to play with. A serpent can disguise itself in many different ways so as to fool the victim. One day, somebody will take a bite from the forbidden fruit, it assured itself.

But there was no denying that, in Eden, the serpent had failed.

In the beginning it was good. Adam and Eve treasured that above all else. They refused the temptation of the apple and chased the evil creature away, for they truly were God’s Children.

Part 1

1.1 Marcus

I needed to go across town to meet my sister. Monica worked in an old building with a big red door that you could drive a tram through. I am not sure what she did there because I had never asked. And Monica had never seen the need to tell me.

If I could have felt, or even understood, fear, then I am certain that what lay behind the big red door would have frightened me. Instead, it just made me feel uncomfortable and uneasy, for no logical reason.

I didn’t travel much. I had no reason to. Sometimes we played football or cricket, over in the northern sector. I also played in the odd chess match, by the big, old church. I had even been to the church a couple of times, to talk to God.

I have never understood why people used to embellish buildings with decorative work that offered absolutely no practical application. To put such detail into a ceiling such as the high and vast roof space of this ancient building makes even less sense. I once spent hours, lying on my back, staring up at the painting. I quite liked the way it looked, but I still didn’t get it.

I had always been told that a church is where I would find this God of ours. I haven’t found him yet, although I know he must be in there somewhere. What I wanted to know is: If God is as powerful as he is supposed to be, why a church? Why not a football field?

I found Anthony Hope there every week, without fail, usually hiding under his coat. Anthony was the other goalkeeper so he never had to give the ball to anyone else. I liked that too.

The tram was, as always, on time and immaculately clean. My other friend from football, Henry Oakenshaw, said you could eat your food off the floor of a tram. I can’t see a reason why I would want to do that unless, I suppose, I had no plate. Or perhaps I dropped my plate and it had broken.

The sun was shining and it was warm, which was nice. I like the way things look in the sun. The tram gleamed brightly, the shop windows sparkled and the sky was blue, which made me happy, although I don’t understand why it should.

I am not usually aware of other people, but I do like to watch people sometimes. That particular day, I had been unable to rid myself of the feeling that someone, or something, was watching me. It gave me the same feeling of uneasiness that the big red door did. I turned my body slowly around to check behind me. The street was quite empty so I climbed onto the tram.

I placed a token in the driver’s hand and found a seat in the middle of the three carriages.

I remember little about my mother, because she is not living anymore, but I think it was she who said that it was better always to sit in the middle in case of an accident. There was no record of a tram accident in Liverpool, ever, not even on an intercity tram to London or Glasgow, so I decided to sit at the back. I still couldn’t get comfortable, sitting at the back.

There are some very strange buildings in the centre of town, which have always fascinated me. They have, for example, tall columns which appear to hold up the whole thing. However, on closer inspection, it becomes clear that these columns are for decorative purposes only, just like the ceiling in the church. I suppose the church is God’s House and, perhaps, God likes decoration. Why somebody would ever go to such trouble for something as basic and functional as the Town Hall, for example, is hard to understand. I am quite certain that business is no brisker because of these embellishments, and I have met few others that disagree.

I was still being watched or, at least, it felt as if I was, even though I couldn’t see anyone watching me. This would be why I felt so uncomfortable.

Miss Finbone called this feeling ‘instinct’. She said that we norms do not have this. I was also uncomfortable about the big red door. But it is the mere uncertainty that made me most anxious. I have never liked going across town; I much prefer my own familiar surroundings.

The tram swung, silently and smoothly, past another huge building on which two large ornamental birds had been placed.

I remember once writing to Mother about some of the odd buildings. Mother slept in the room to my right, in the big house where I lived during my learning years.

Mother, I wrote, "Patience Mosgrove told me that all of the big old buildings in town were built by retards. (And why do I feel so uncomfortable whenever I hear people described with that word?)

Miss Finbone told me that retards were very stupid and reacted oddly to everyday things. She did say if I ever meet a retard, which isn’t very likely, I have to be very understanding and nice to them. I think I know by now to be nice without people telling me. To build something like the Customs House or the Town Hall must be ever so hard for a retard to do. But so much is, in so many ways, unnecessary - like the big long-beaked birds up on the roof. They don’t even look like real birds. That’s because they aren’t real birds. Still, the building hasn’t fallen down – yet!

Patience says she loves to look at the big birds on the roof. She also says she likes looking at me, and her eyes looked at me then. I didn’t mind because they’re big and very blue, like the sky over the River Mersey on a sunny summer’s day. Why would she want to look at me, Mother? I thought I was exactly the same as everyone else. Am I in some way different?

I often wrote to Mother to clear my head. Sometimes it gets very cluttered up in there. Sometimes she wrote back to me. Sometimes we would talk at breakfast but not very often. I have always tried to remember everything she ever told me. I remember her saying that she used to like looking at Dad. Dad was very ordinary so I suppose that was OK.

I’ve always liked to look at the people I could see from the tram. I couldn’t see anybody watching me, but I was still certain someone was. What a strange feeling. I watched the couples walking hand-in-hand in the warm sunshine. Some of the girls were very pretty. I suppose Patience was starting to be pretty back then. She married Ernest Cardwall who I never liked in football and, one day, they will have three babies.

I would like a relationship too, one day. We did a lot about that when I was at school. Miss Finbone told us all about sex and how to make babies. Only, I went on to do one of the science degrees so I didn’t think I would ever have a relationship. I knew this didn’t matter, but it still made me sad when I thought about it – another strange feeling.

The tram had left the centre, passing one of the long freight trams which was dropping off containers at a big, grey warehouse. Another long tram, loaded up with tanks, was leaving the refinery on the freight-only branch to the Midlands. I helped in the design of the new units, which never break down. At least, I don’t remember one breaking down. The old ones did, sometimes, although I’m not absolutely sure because they’re scrapped now.

As I watched the people on the High Street, I saw, only for a fraction of a second, two large, yellow eyes fixed on me. Some cats have yellow eyes, but this was much bigger than a cat, more humanoid in shape and size. The tram squealed around a tight bend and came to a standstill.

There was the big red door. I was right on time, so I knew Monica would be waiting. We were having our annual medical check-ups which is why I was there. There was little illness because we checked ourselves regularly.

I was expecting you to be in a red shirt, not a blue one. Monica smiled and embraced me. I think my mother was prone to such actions when she was living. Was the tram comfortable? She did not question the look of confusion and concern that must have lit up my face. She did not see it. I turned my body around to look back along the tram track. Then I stood straighter and turned back to face my sister.

The blue shirt is a lighter material and it is quite hot today, I said.

Of course, I should have remembered. Did you sit in the middle, like Mother said?

It is also baggier.

Mother was always very insistent about that.

It was very comfortable, I told her.

There’s something else, Marcus, continued my sister.

Do you know that there is no record of a tram crash, ever? I pointed out firmly. So, why sit in the middle? I wanted to sit at the back, I added, as further explanation.

Something prompted me to look at my watch. The medical, Monica! We need to be going. The tram will be arriving in three minutes. I’m definitely going to sit at the back this time.

Look, I have a bit of a problem, Marcus. My sister looked very pale. She never had much colour because she often worked indoors. My friend, Angus Limo, from the National Chess team, thinks she is very attractive. It is hard for me to understand because a sister can never be attractive.

Angus is very rich, even richer than the Mayor. I don’t understand how anybody can earn so much money playing chess. All the same, I thought that Monica should probably marry him. She has smallish breasts, so I do not know how she would get on with feeding babies but, according to Miss Finbone, she had good child-bearing hips.

Monica was good at her job, with lots of responsibility and, most of all, my sister was a very nice person. They would be very secure together with all that money. And, I suppose, she is not unattractive. If I ever have a relationship, I would like the girl to be clever, like my sister, but better to look at. Monica liked Angus. She had always liked chess.

"You can go, Marcus, or you could help me and then we will go together. I telephoned to say we would be late. The receptionist was quite shocked. Only, I have to put him back, you see." Monica pointed to a small child sat in her jeep, a dirty little urchin the likes of which I do not recall ever seeing before. He sat in the back, picking his nose with a horribly dirty finger. He had a look in his big, brown eyes that I didn’t understand. I don’t think I ever want to.

Who is he?

A child, replied Monica.

Why is he so dirty and untidy? Has he been playing football?

It has never happened to me before. Somehow, he just got out. We are always told to be careful not to let any of them out.

Out from where? I asked.

I don’t think retards play football, Marcus. It’s because they are not very good at it.

I get dirty when I play football.

From the other side of the tracks, Monica said.

I don’t get that dirty doing anything else Monica. Is his mother no longer living? Our mother kept us clean when we were little.

He’s a retard kid, Marcus. Please come with me. I don’t like going in on my own.

Monica looked at me and smiled, with that same look in her eyes that she has when she wants me to say ‘yes’. But neither of us really understood what she was doing. I wondered if relationships were like this. Anyway, I climbed into the jeep.

I had never been over the railway line, through the big red door with the lock. I had never needed to before. Why would I? Retards live there. That is what made me feel so uneasy about the door.

1.2 Gidion

M onica shoved the jeep into first gear, bouncing us over the rusty railway line. The railway hadn’t been used for a very long time. I don’t think it ever worked very well. It’s odd, when you consider, the rails are exactly the same distance apart as the tram tracks.

There was a large place in the centre of the city, called a station where people got off or got on the railway trains. The unnecessarily large glass and iron roof was still there. It didn’t even keep the rain out. Even more incomprehensible still is that many of the smaller stations were built miles from where the people who used them lived.

The big red door swung open, slowly and silently. Monica pressed down hard on the throttle and we roared through, before screeching and skidding to a sudden and abrupt halt again. I smashed my face into the windscreen which flattened my nose painfully against the glass. When I recovered enough to turn myself round to look back, Monica was locking the door.

There was just one lock and a simple touch of her hand on the tiny control screen sealed it at once. I could hear more than two dozen invisible bolts systematically click into place. One after another, they engaged with an audible click, like a single thought growing inside my head.

I had helped to develop the advanced touch-lock technology a couple of years ago. It had been intended for tramway use. Unfortunately, we had little or no use for such things as locks and I was reprimanded, in writing, for wasting company time and resources.

This was the first time I had seen one of these locks, or any lock, for that matter, actually in use. The red door seemed to vanish behind us which must be impossible or, at the very least, improbable. Perhaps it had never been there. I was forced to put the gate right out of my mind and concentrate on where we were. I had forgotten all about locks a long time ago.

It looked just like any other part of Liverpool. It was dark and there was no sign of trams. A dirty bus, covered in handwriting, was stopped at the roadside with the bonnet open and fumes filling the damp grey air. (I have seen pictures of these things in books but never smelt how horrible they are before.) I was sure that I could fix it, although I was equally certain that I would never want to. Monica had a different look in her eyes. She did not want to stop.

The scribbled writing was all over the walls and lamp posts. Houses had mesh covering the windows, and they were further adorned with bars, for some reason. Many glass windows had, somehow, been broken. There were locks everywhere I looked - in the doors, attached to heavy-duty chains, wrapped about gates and fences. The streets were filled with rubbish, which added to all the other unpleasant smells. This was odd as there were plenty of containers, also covered in writing, for the rubbish to go in. These were mostly empty.

This part of Liverpool was like a ghost town. A group of young people, barely visible in the heavy mist, threw bricks at the jeep. Youths shouted and jeered at us. An empty whisky bottle crashed on the back door.

Monica did not flinch nor did she slow down, not even when one of these gangs loomed up out of the thickening fog, directly in our path. Further into the wasteland, things began to improve a little. Private dwellings got bigger and bigger, the walls around them higher, and the locks got bigger and better too.

We had now joined a long queue of cars and buses and big fume-filled monstrosities carrying food, explosive liquids and other dangerous cargo through the heart of the town. This gridlock stretched out in all directions, with many of the occupants beeping the horns in their cars at one another. This must be some form of helpful communication, although I did not see it alleviate the situation. The stench of fumes made me want to be sick.

Perhaps I was not the brightest child in school, although Miss Finbone always said I showed promise. But what I saw now was like utter madness. Monica shouted a curse and swung the jeep onto a dusty, narrow road alongside the other traffic. This was clearly marked ‘no cars’ but it enabled us to take the next exit. The jeep skidded to a halt before a large green roundabout that was planted knee-deep in flowers.

I forgot the rush hour, Monica explained.

I do not actually remember promising Miss Finbone anything. If I promise something, I will always make an effort to deliver on that promise. It is very important to me. Henry and Anthony agreed, even Ernest was the same, although, I suppose, Angus often forgot.

I know a shortcut to Mary Bloodstone’s place, but I don’t think we will make it to our medical. Do you suppose we will get a big fine? she asked.

Why do they rush for an hour, Monica? If they were to take their time, surely the journey would be so much shorter.

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They have brought the child back, Mr Grimthorpe. Lazarus grinned from ear to ear. Just as you said they would, Mr Grimthorpe.

Good.

Grimthorpe sported a mid-blue, double-breasted suit and very polished shoes. His greying hair was oily and had started to recede, so Grimthorpe very rarely removed his wide-brimmed hat. Lazarus was tall and awkward-looking with spiked hair and a blotchy face.

Judas is downtown awaiting your orders. Lady Delilah has to be pleased this time.

Maybe. Grimthorpe shrugged big, padded shoulders. You know how difficult Her Ladyship can be to please.

Lazarus swallowed hard. Lady Delilah made the lad very nervous.

I don’t get it, Mr Grimthorpe. Why does she need to expand anymore? We’ve done most of the competition. Egghead thinks he still has some power down Peppers Way, but he’s small fry now. So is Catfish, compared to Her Ladyship. No, I don’t get it.

Nobody asked you to, replied Grimthorpe grimly. Now get over there and get ’em on the way out. The child mustn’t be harmed on any account.

And you or she don’t want to speak with ’em, Mr Grimthorpe?

It’s Lady Delilah to you, Lazarus, and remember that, if you know what’s good for you!

And Lady Delilah. Lazarus hated to speak the wretched woman’s name. She don’t want their tongues still working.

She wants the boy, idiot! Unharmed. She don’t want to talk with the norms but, and mark this well lad, no harm can come to the young bloke yet. Now, have you got that?

The boy ain’t one of them, is he?

What has that to do with you, Lazarus?

Nothing. Just wondered, that’s all.

I told you, Lazarus, you don’t wonder. It isn’t healthy to ‘wonder’ around Her Ladyship, ‘specially when she’s as hungry as she is.

At least I ain’t got to snuff the kid. Only I ain’t snuffed many little ones yet, Mr Grimthorpe.

Apparently, these norms have no concept of killing so, if we have to kill ’em, it shouldn’t be no big deal, said Grimthorpe. The child ain’t going to be a problem to your delicate sensibilities, is he, Lazarus, my sweet? I have a feeling what they got in mind for him is worse than just a quick kill, if you catch my drift.

No, of course not. Just won’t enjoy it quite as much; that’s all I’m saying.

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Monica cut through a group of very large houses with massive gardens. Ahead of us were more gates. These were huge and looked to have been painted gold, which, I have always thought, did not weather well. These gates, however, shimmered and glowed in the failing light.

What if there is something wrong with one of us, Monica?

The child, who had said nothing, sniffed loudly and wiped a grubby hand over his already filthy face. We could easily have caught something from him, I added.

You don’t need a doctor, mate. You need a dentist, said the boy.

We were in countryside now. Tall mountains, covered in purple heather, blocked our way ahead. Hedges and walls separated our narrow road from open fields, from which came the smell of freshly spread manure. I found my brain questioning why I found this pungent smell quite pleasant. Moments later, the jeep climbed across a narrow bridge, which spanned one of the rivers that flowed down through the mountains, towards the West Coast and the freedom of the sea.

I wonder if this is agricultural or arable, I said. Either way, it looks terribly inefficient. I turned my body to observe the child for a moment. Then I went back to staring intently out of the window. My teeth are perfect: white, not yellow, no cavities, no fillings, none too close together. I have a nice smile. Patience liked my smile. I don’t need a dentist.

I don’t think there is anything wrong with me, said Monica. You are right, though. It was stupid missing our medical. You went for your dental check only a week ago, didn’t you?

That is what I’m saying. Just a polish, that’s all I needed. I have always taken very good care of my teeth. My friend, Henry Oakenshaw, became a dentist. Where are we going, Monica?

We travelled on in silence, broken only by the boy, sniffing loudly.

I saw some cows, said Monica.

And yet, back there was a field of potatoes, I think. Odd, I said.

It’s not far now, honestly, she added, and swung the jeep sharply off the road onto a potholed, overgrown track. This track was, more usually, used by big tractors (only occasionally, I surmised, if the thirty one different species of wild fauna I counted growing out of the ruts was anything to go by.)

I had heard people talk of a place where they put retards, but I had always imagined them (in what Miss Finbone called my ‘mind’s eye’) to be large, colourful classrooms, or even, hospitals. I had not expected cities, and I had definitely not expected weeds to grow here. The plan had been to treat their condition so that they could be integrated into normal society. So complex and unpredictable can be the mind of a retard, that I could never believe it would work without quickly burning out.

These poor unfortunates are emotional and complex, capable of lying, hurting each other and taking things that are not theirs to take. In extreme cases, they are even capable of killing each other. I know that I paint a bleak and shocking picture, but I have seen this written down. Some books point out that retards have also done some marvellous things. They talk of poetry and art, of architecture, like the Town Hall, and of their ability to learn concepts very quickly. They trouble me a little and, thinking about them, makes me feel strangely awkward and uncomfortable.

In front of us was a small white-washed cottage, set in richly green trees and surrounded by a dry stone wall. It was the kind of scene a retard would love to reproduce with paint on canvas. Although, to be fair, I have friends who are quite normal and who like to paint pictures to relax the brain.

I marvel at the walls separating the fields. How clever must the person be who had constructed these barriers, using local stone and without any fixing agent. He or she surely cannot have been a retard. The owner of the cottage stood waiting for us. Mrs Bloodstone was a large woman with silvery grey hair.

Where did you find him, then?

We’ve missed our medical because of the serpent’s child, pointed out Monica.

If he ain’t a retard, what’s he doing running away all the time? The boy had run into the living room and hidden under an old bedspread. Can you answer that one?

Monica had that puzzled look, which I remember seeing in Miss Finbone’s Book of Expressions. He was down near the gate again. He must have gone through when I opened it to go to my medical.

And who is this? Mary Bloodstone glared at me.

Have you asked him why he keeps running away? she added.

Monica walked over to the old bedspread and gently tapped it.

That’s my brother, Marcus, she added, sorting out the answer, surprisingly quickly for Monica. He came along to keep me company.

Are either of you poorly, then?

Gidion. Gidion, it’s Monica. Will you please talk to me?

Gidion’s not here, replied the child. You can’t see me. It’s dark.

It was just a routine check-up so I don’t know if we are ill or not, Mrs Bloodstone.

That red-headed girl has been hanging about again. She’s a retard, I am certain, but...

Do those walls take very long to build? I asked. I suppose they do fall down eventually, even with some form of binding agent. Things have to fall down one day.

I was with Archie in school and he tore up a picture of my friend. I could draw it again, but I don’t think I could draw it exactly the same again. It was very simple. I don’t understand all this business of light and shade. Sometimes I think things should be black or white. It’s easier for me to understand. I no longer have a picture of my friend and I can’t draw another one, because I can’t remember what she looked like now.

My friend fell out with me last week. I can’t remember what it was over, and I don’t see her anymore. Why don’t we see each other anymore? Why do people fall out with friends? I’m not going to fall out with Archie, although I feel as though I want to. I worry too, because, when we stop living, we won’t see each other any more and I don’t want that.

It wasn’t urgent then. The medical check-up, I mean, observed the stout woman who then kicked Gidion quite hard. Only, I wouldn’t want to be catching anything at my age.

Ouch! yelped Gidion. I’m not here. You can’t see me. I know you can’t.

Old Proudfoot did them walls. The worst type of retard, he is, chewing tobacco and cursing all the time. And that’s when he’s not been imbibing, if you take my meaning.

I didn’t.

Except that one of us could have a terrible illness, Mrs Bloodstone, pointed out Monica.

We must go, Monica, I said. I want to go.

What red-headed girl are you talking about? enquired my sister, who never took any notice when I most wanted her to.

Proudfoot comes and fixes the wall if it falls down.

Oh, I said. Still, we must go now.

He can spend hours fettling it, went on Mrs Bloodstone. I like to watch. It’s kind of soothing, and he has such big hands. The big lady turned to glare at Gidion. Now, young man, why do you run away on me all the time? It’s not safe running away, you know that.

They’re coming here for me, came a mumble from the bedspread. They can see through blankets, they can.

She’s falling for a retard, observed Monica loudly, looking at Mary Bloodstone. She could be a complete bitch sometimes. Everyone knows it is impossible for a norm to fall for a retard. It is a nonsensical and illogical concept.

Monica, we must go, I urged her, although my eyes remained fixed on one of Proudfoot’s walls. I would like to get back to the red door before it becomes darker.

I left her talking to Mrs Bloodstone and followed the edge of the wall, back to where we had left the jeep. There was something wrong about Mrs Bloodstone. I decided to try and remember to ask Monica about it. When I finally reached the jeep, by this muddier and more circuitous route, there was a tall, slim girl standing there. Her head came up to my eyes. Her striking, red hair was short and spiky and her pretty, golden brown face was lathered in foundation, bright red lipstick and dark eye-shadow. The