The boy blinked: because he agreed. They knew him well enough to accept the signal, but he scraped his feet like a draught horse, a social-something he had learnt, because he didn't know what to say next. They were standing among the statues in the backyard. The boy had been weeding and trimming edges. Gratitude had made him obedient. Heavy birds were landing in the hill trees. The shadows of the outstretched arms also pointed to the hour: Vern had left for the late afternoon shift. ‘In fact, if you don't watch out…’ Flies gave a wink. ‘Before you know it,’ Wheelright picked up, ‘Vern'll do a bronze of you one day.’ ‘How would you like that?’ nodded Les. Young Shadbolt could only rub an eye, ‘That'd be a laugh.’ One of the first things his uncle had done was outfit him with rubber-soled shoes in case he was struck by lightning. At his feet now earthworms suddenly exposed to the universe wriggled in panic: oily fingers, just amputated. Holden squashed them with his heel.
What do You think about Holden's Performance (2011)?
