Mean Spirit

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Trust no-one, Seffi’s telling herself, as she does so often lately. Trust none of them. This has been a mistake, this is very wrong … even by my strangled standards.

Despite all the people, a party going on, she feels something hollow in the room. Sometimes, in her head, there’s the sensation of a bright white, penetrating light, turning to grey, turning to black.

And then, suddenly, Kieran’s here. A boy of eighteen or nineteen. Instantly she trusts Kieran, he’s so messed up and full of shame. He’s sending her a faintly fogged picture of himself: bare feet no more than three inches above the … hay?

No … rushes. Rush matting. On the floor of — light through slats, no glass … greenery … bars of sunlight — a kind of rough, rustic summerhouse. A gazebo.

Kieran’s hanging there. Seffi, sitting very still on her straight chair, in her claret-coloured velvet gown, hands enfolded on her lap, is aware of Kieran hanging.

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