Page 19

She blinks, rubs her face. ‘What?’
‘Have you always lived here? In Skentel, I mean.’
Lucy shakes her head. She glances back down at the phone. ‘I went away. For a while. Then I came back.’
‘You have a picture of Fin I could see?’
Lucy winces from her son’s name as if it’s a blade. Moments later, she reverses her grip on the phone. Abraham leans closer. Suddenly there’s no air in his chest.
Angel, he thinks.
Fin’s face is unforgettable, his features just wonky enough to melt a heart. His glasses create a cartoonish effect, magnifying his eyes and making them seem far too close together. He doesn’t smile, hebeams– a wattage bright enough to light a cave, all pink gums and baby teeth and gaps for adult ones to fill. His nose is a wrinkled button. His ears stick out so far he’ll be teased about them mercilessly when he’s older. Never has Abraham seen a picture of someone so naively radiating love.
Three hours ago, Fin Locke was sitting in class. Then a knock at the door spirited him away.
Abraham’s fingers twitch.God, I praise you for your compassionate heart. Give me the relentlessness of the good shepherd who goes after wandering sheep and never gives up.
‘He’s a lamb,’ he says. The words stick in his mouth like paste. ‘We’ll find him. We’ll find them both.’
Lucy’s eyes lock on his. He knows the commitment he just made is a lifebuoy, something for her to clutch while she struggles to stay afloat.
‘You want to see a video?’
He’s seen the photo. He doesn’t need to see a video. But Lucy’s need to share matters more. Abraham nods. While she returns her attention to the phone, he glances out the window: marching trees, glimpses of dark ocean; white breakers and black sky.
The boats have fanned out further since his school visit.
Bless them. God bless them.
Whatever that means.
‘Here,’ Lucy says, holding out the phone.
Onscreen, a kitchen hoves into view. He sees a rectory table. Behind it, tall windows offer a panorama of sea and sky.Wild Ridge, he thinks.The big house up on Mortis Point. What a place for a kid to grow up.
Lucy must be filming. Abraham hears her stifled giggle. He can’t imagine the current version of her making that sound – the day’s events have created a doppelgänger.
Fin enters the shot, holding a sheaf of papers. The boy walks stiffly, glasses off-kilter on his nose. He’s wearing a shirt and purple waistcoat. At his throat is a velvet bow tie, comically large. He sits at the table and imperiously shuffles his papers. A flicker of annoyance crosses his face. ‘Mummy, you’remeanttointroduceme.’
Another barely suppressed giggle from Lucy. ‘I am pleased to introduce Master Fin Gordon Locke. Weaver of words, teller of fine tales, storyteller extraordinaire.’
She waits.
Fin waits. Then he shakes himself. Not a subtle flinchingbut a struck-by-lightning full-body twitch. ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Me.’ With an extended forefinger he precisely readjusts his glasses. Blinking owlishly, he peers at the camera.
Every mannerism, every little tic, seems designed to elicit laughter. Abraham wonders if the boy knows he’s funny or is utterly unaware.
‘TheBogwort,’ Fin says. ‘Astoryby Fin Gordon Locke, aged seven and a half. Weaver ofwords, teller oftales, storyteller ex … extra … extra what?’
‘Extraordinaire,’ Lucy says.
‘One of those.’ He clears his throat. Then he does it again, louder. The bow tie jiggles. One wing flops down.
Abraham grins. His stomach tightens. Hard not to laugh. Harder not to cry.
‘Once,’ Fin says, ‘there was a hunchbacked old man calledBogwort. He hadsilverhair,orangeeyes and long green ears liketrumpets. Bogwort wasverygrumpy, becausehebelieved everyone thought he wasugly, even though theydidn’t.
‘Bogwort waslonely, too. What was so,sosad is that hecouldhave had lots of friends if he hadn’t made peoplenervousof him, andfrightenedof him too. But I don’t want you to worrytoomuch about that, becausethisisn’t going to be one of thosesadstories at all but one to cheer youup, cos you’ll see thatactuallyin the end somenicethings happened to Bogwort. Because hedeservedit. And that’s what peoplegetif they’re good.’