The gentle tones of a Marvin Gaye compilation played in the background. It was apparently one of Bethany’s favorites, though Matt could never remember her listening to anything, least of all music. Painted over everything like a coat of mildew was the smell of age; of old buildings, old people – now that most of the children had been dispersed back to the village – and old memories. Just what did these people remember of Bethany? Clearly so much more than he did. Eight years old when he left, she was now a twenty–two-year-old woman lying cold and lifeless in a coffin. More than half her life had passed since he had last seen her. Matt knew there was a possibility she had even begun to talk, perhaps go to school and youth clubs, have sleepovers with her friends. Maybe she had even got herself a job. It didn’t seem likely though, and his father would surely have said. She had taken her own life with sleeping pills. Swallowed an entire packet, his father had told him, and then lain down to rest for the last time.
What do You think about The Man Who Built The World?
