Loss of Separation Read Online Free PDF Page B

they were aware of who I was, whether I had burned something of theirs. Maybe I had burned evidence that would have inculpated them. It wasn't worth thinking about; it would tear me up. But I decided to start paying more attention to the objects laid at my door, and to who was collecting them, placing them there.
    I couldn't work out how this had started. It felt as though it was more natural to me than breathing. It was vital and dull in equal measure. It was like drinking water.
    Deeper in the box, under the toys and the trinkets, a message written in red ink on lined notepaper: burn the oceans, burn them all, ACCEPT THE CRAW, BASTARDS, BASTARDS. GOD HELP THOSE BABIES TO REST. WINTER BAY 1672.
    I placed the box under my bed and spent the best part of half an hour getting dressed. I had developed a system for pulling on my socks that involved pretty much my feet and nothing else. It was amazing what you could do with your feet when there was no other option. I rested when the clothes were on, eyes closed to the warm throb in the middle of my back.
    The vertebrae in the middle of the dorsal region are heart-shaped. Those bearing peculiarities are the first, ninth, tenth, eleventh and twelfth. The way these bones lock together. The way they are designed. Separate, but needy. The faceting. The recesses for the tubercles of the ribs. I'd read the text books when I was able. I wanted to know what was wrong with me, to a tedious degree. I must have said the words, what does that mean? to the surgeon and the doctor and the physiotherapist maybe a thousand times in the past three weeks. I knew so much about the damaged parts of my body, and the body in general, that it became too familiar. It became so familiar, it became alien again, like a simple word recited so often that it loses its meaning. I examined the skeleton and saw what the child sees: a grinning, emaciated monster. That these were inside us, wrapped in meat and membrane and mucus, was a horrible thought. Something other than what looked human, but that, maddeningly, also looked human, was trapped in all that wet muscle, its mouth leering behind the visible lips no matter what the owner's expression. The skull was always happy. It knew it would have its day.
    I shuffled through to the kitchen and stood for a moment by the island in its centre, enjoying the blocks of amber sunlight on the wall opposite the windows. I opened the pack of pain relief and swallowed a handful of pills and vitamins with a glass of water and headed back to the front of the building, where the books on the shelves waited for fingers that never came to slide them out. Well, they would today, even if it was only temporarily.
    Ruth's corner was all set up for her. Blanket over the chair, her favourite cushion. A box of Dr Stuart's herbal teas. A book on the go: Joe Tasker's Savage Arena. The till was open, empty. A dish of dry cat food for Vulcan lay on the windowsill. The silence and stillness of the shop seemed somehow wrong. Not because the shop felt like somewhere that ought to be all bustle, but because it didn't seem likely to ever change. It was like being in a mausoleum.
    I browsed the stacks for a while, making little appreciative murmurs whenever I saw an author whose work I admired. The books were in good condition, generally, although I thought the prices were on the stiff side.
    I made some tea and sat in Ruth's chair. I pinched a couple of biscuits from the pack peeking from the half-opened drawer. I thought about the B&B Tamara and I had bought on the seafront. The keys were in my pocket but I had not been able to bring myself to unlock that door and enter a new stage of my life. It was a shared project; the business was partly Tamara's. It was all there on the legal deeds. Her name. Intractable proof that she existed. Exists. Just in case I needed to be reassured. She had to be here before I could put what was left of my back into making a success of the venture. I needed something