Boneland. Alan Garner

on the voice,’ said Meg. ‘Have you heard it before?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Did you recognise it?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘A real person?’

      ‘—Yes.’

      ‘You don’t sound too sure.’

      ‘I think,’ said Colin.

      ‘Oh, you “think”,’ said Meg. ‘Now. Let’s unpick this. You hear a voice you’ve not heard before, and you “think” it’s the voice of someone you recognise. Dead or alive?’

      ‘I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I must find her.’

      ‘You just hold your water. So it’s a “she”.’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘How can you tell? A whisper is voiceless. Hard to differentiate.’

      ‘She calls me Col. No one else does. No one else knows. It’s just between the two of us. At secret times.’

      ‘“Did” or “does”? “Knew” or “knows”?’

      ‘Does. Knows.’

      ‘So it’s all in the present.’

      ‘It depends on whether time is linear,’ said Colin.

      ‘Who is she? Was she?’

      Colin began to cry.

      ‘Who, Colin?’

      ‘My sister.’

      ‘What’s her name?’

      ‘I—can’t remember.’

      Meg took Colin by the hand.

      ‘Come up, love. Come up.’

      She helped him from the chair and walked him across the room to the French windows.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I never cry.’

      ‘Why not? I do. Does me a world of good. You’re always apologising. Stop. Let it go. You’re OK. Let it go.’

      They stood, hand in hand, looking at the sunlit gardens of spring. Wrench by wrench Colin’s tears turned to dew on his cheeks.

      ‘What’s that rock over there?’ he said.

      The distant flat horizon was broken by a bluff.

      ‘Beeston,’ said Meg. ‘Shall we start now?’

      ‘Start what?’

      ‘Scraping off the crud.’ She took him back to the chair, sat herself opposite and opened his file. ‘This is the most God-awful collection of tunnel-visioned codswallop I’ve seen in all my born puff. There’s not a trace of insight, imagination, flexibility, humanity, humility in it. Apart from Eric. It’s you that has to conform to the preconceptions of others, and when you don’t you’re closed down with dope to make you go away. Wuthering dry wankers. They don’t want to learn. I’m being unprofessional, of course. You understand.’

      ‘What does it say?’ said Colin.

      ‘What doesn’t it? About the only thing missing is athlete’s foot.’

      ‘Oh, I have that,’ said Colin. ‘I have that, too. Tinia pedis. In summer, by and large, or when using occluded footwear for long periods. I treat it symptomatically. I wash the affected part first and dry it well; then either spray with a fungicide, avoiding inhalation and the eyes, or I can use a cream, twice daily; usually a miconazole nitrate base. It’s important to continue the treatment for ten days after the symptoms have disappeared, to prevent them from coming back.’

      ‘That’s true,’ said Meg. ‘Most people do stop too soon. Shall we go on?’

      ‘Yes, of course,’ said Colin. ‘But it can be a most aggressive itch.’