Enduring Love Read Online Free PDF

internally to produce a head on a thickened stick. And seeing that, I became aware that what I had taken for calmness was
absence
. There was no one there. The quietness was that of the inanimate, and I understood again, because I had seen dead bodies before, why a prescientific age would have needed to invent the soul. It was no less clear than the illusion of the evening sun sinking through the sky. The closing down of countless interrelated neural and biochemical exchanges combined to suggest to a naked eye the illusion of the extinguished spark, or the simple departure of a single necessary element. However scientifically informed we count ourselves to be, fear and awe still surprise us in the presence of the dead. Perhaps it’s life we’re really wondering at.
    These were the thoughts with which I tried to protect myself as I began to circle the corpse. It sat within a little indentation in the soil. I didn’t see Logan dead until I saw his face, and what I saw I only glimpsed. Though the skin was intact, it was hardly a face at all, for the bone structure had shattered, and I had the impression, before I looked away, of a radical, Picassoesque violation of perspective. Perhaps I only imagined the vertical arrangement of the eyes. I turned away and saw Parry coming toward me across the field. He must have been following me down closely, for he was already within talking distance. He must have seen when I paused in the shelter of the trees.
    I watched him over Logan’s head as he slowed and called out to me, “Don’t touch him, please don’t touch him.”
    I hadn’t intended to, but I said nothing. I was looking at Parry as though for the first time. He stood with his hands resting on his hips, staring not at Logan but at me. Even then, he was more interested in me. He had come to tell me something. He was tall and lean, all bone and sinew, and he looked fit. He wore jeans and box-fresh trainers tied with red laces. His bones fairly burst out of him, the way they hadn’t with Logan. His knuckles, brushing against his leather belt, were big and tight-knobbed under the skin, which was white and stretched tight. The cheekbones were also tight and high-ridged and together with the ponytail gave him the look of a pale Indian brave. His appearance was striking, even slightly threatening, but the voice gave it all away. It was feebly hesitant, neutral as to region but carrying a trace, or acknowledgment, of Cockney—a discarded past or an affectation. Parry had his generation’s habit of making a statement on the rising inflection of a question—in humble imitation of Americans or Australians or, as I heard one linguist explain, too mired in relative judgments, too hesitant and apologetic to say how things were in the world.
    Of course, I didn’t think of any of this at the time. All I heard was a whine of powerlessness, and I relaxed. What he said was “Clarissa’s really worried about you? I said I’d come down and see if you’re all right?”
    My silence was hostile. I was old enough to dislike his presumption of first names and, for that matter, of claiming to know Clarissa’s state of mind. I didn’t even know Parry’s name at this point. Even with a dead man sitting between us, the rules of social engagement prevailed. As I heard it later from Clarissa, Parry had come over to her to introduce himself, then turned away to follow me down the hill. She had said nothing to him about me.
    “Are you all right?”
    I said, “There’s nothing we can do but wait,” and I gestured in the direction of the road, one field away.
    Parry took a couple of steps closer and looked down at Logan, then back to me. The gray-blue eyes gleamed. He was excited, but no one could ever have guessed to what extent. “Actually, I think there is something we can do.”
    I looked at my watch. It was fifteen minutes since I had phoned the emergency services. “You go ahead,” I said. “Do what you like.”
    “It’s something