The Book of Other People Read Online Free PDF Page B

indicative of low velocity and a perpendicular descent, and haloing every drop was a tiny flare of threads, of starring. The tiles were fairly smooth, but still confused his fluid into throwing out fine liquid spines. Glass would be better, holding his finger close over glass might give him perfect little circles: the blood, as it must, forming spheres when it left him and the width of each drop on impact being equal to each sphere’s diameter. You could count on that.
    He’d been in the kitchen, being with the blood. He’d allowed the drops to concentrate at his feet, to pool and spatter, patterns complicating patterns, beginning to look like an almost significant loss. Twenty drops or so for every millilitre and telling the story of someone standing, wounded, but not too severely and neither struggling nor in flight.
    He’d been in the kitchen and laid his own trail to the French windows. Tiny splashes hazed a power point in the skirting board, dirtying its little plastic cover - white, the kind of thing you fit to stop a child from putting its fingers where they shouldn’t be. No reason for the cover, of course, their household didn’t need it - protection from a danger they couldn’t conjure, an impossible risk.
    He’d been in the kitchen marking the reflections with his blood. Then he’d paused for a few millilitres before he needed to swipe his whole arm back and forth in mid air, blood hitting the dark glass of the doors in punctuated curves, the drops legging down before they dried, being distorted by motion, direction, gravity. He’d pumped his fist, then tried to cup his hand, catch some of his flow, then cast it off again, drive it over his ghost face and the night-time garden outside, the dim layers of wind-rocked shrubs, the scatter of drizzle, thinner and less interesting than blood. He’d thrown over-arm, under-arm, tried to get a kick out of his wrist until the hurt in his hand felt anxious, abused. Then he’d rubbed his knuckles wetly across his forehead before cradling them with his other palm, while his physiology performed as could be predicted, increased heart rate jerking out his loss, building up his body of evidence. Read the blood here and you’d see perhaps a blade that rose and fell, or the clash of victim and attacker: blows and fear and outrage, shock.
    He’d been in the kitchen and she had come in. Never even heard her unlock the front door, nor any of the usual small combinations of noise as she dropped her bag and shed her coat, made her way along the corridor and then stood. He’d only noticed her when she spoke.
    ‘Jesus Christ, Frank. What have you done. What the fuck are you doing.’
    He’d turned to her and smiled, because he was glad to see her. ‘I’m sorry, the soup’s not ready. It’ll be . . .’ He’d glanced at the clock and calculated, so that she’d know how to plan her time - she might want a bath before they ate. ‘It’ll be about nine. Would you like a drink?’ He could feel a distraction, a moisture somewhere near his right eyebrow.
    ‘What the fuck are you doing.’
    He’d smiled again, which meant that he might have seemed sad for the second or two before. ‘I know, but nine isn’t too late.’ He needed to apologise and uncover how she was feeling - that would help their evening go well. Time spent paying attention to people is never wasted. ‘Unless you’re really hungry. Are you really hungry?’ Her hair had been ruffled, was perhaps damp - a pounce of bad weather between her leaving the car and reaching their doorstep had disturbed it. Skin paler than normal but with strong colour at her cheeks, as if she was cold. Her suit was the chocolaty one with this metallic-blue blouse, a combination which always struck him as odd but very lovely. ‘You look tired.’ It was the fit of the suit. So snug. It lay just where your hands would want to. ‘Would you like a bath? There’ll be time. Once it’s ready, it doesn’t spoil.’ She’d kept