Excerpt
FROM T.M. WRIGHT’S THE PEOPLE ON THE ISLAND
Over lunch, we discussed the morning. Our discovery of the black-suited man was, of course, at the forefront of our conversation.
“I’m sick of these people,” Elizabeth said, and sipped her tea. She was having a chocolate scone with the tea, but had not yet touched it. “Where do they come from?”
“I think we should go and look at him, again,” I said.
Elizabeth broke off a small piece of her scone and popped it delicately into her mouth. She is a very courteous woman. Very aware of etiquette. “Go and look at him again,” she echoed as she chewed.
“Yes,” I said. “But more closely this time.”
She glanced sadly toward the window, which overlooks the water.
I said, “Perhaps we should even…turn him onto his back.”
She looked at me, brow furrowed, as if she were troubled. She looks at me like that quite a lot lately.
“Perhaps we really should do that,” I said. “Turn him onto his back. Look at his face. It’s possible we know him, Elizabeth.”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “We know none of these people.”
“But you’re so wrong,” I said. “We know them only too well. They’re simply what they are. They are organs, flesh, hair. And blood as thick as pudding. How can they be any more or less than that?”
“I don’t understand you,” Elizabeth said. “I don’t think I ever have.”
I nodded. “Maybe that’s for the good.”
She shook her head. “You only think it is, George.”
“And what of the woman in the parlor?”
Elizabeth sighed. “She’ll keep. Every one of these people will keep.”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s amazing, isn’t it?” I smiled a little. “They keep so damned well.”