The street lights had just come on and the breeze had turned cool but he didn’t know what time it was. He looked up. Some of the trees along the road had leaves while some were bare. It was March, April or May. Pete was at the bar getting a round in; probably a stout and an ale of some sort. He wondered how late they’d stay out and how he’d be feeling tomorrow morning. The results of the second autopsy had contradicted the first. Now there were calls for a third. Some things were uncertain; others were being obscured.
The host of the radio show said:
The author has tried to invent a language to describe the underclass – people experiencing social alienation. He has used a hollow and degraded form of our language – a vernacular of degradation that offends our middle-class sensibilities. It degrades his subject, describing people as less than human. I would prefer novels with more tragedy and murder – stories that are rich and delicious. Too many novelists only look at a sliver of life. I would prefer a tapestry; something involving, something real.
The listener sat up in bed and nearly fucking choked on his coffee.
The kid was in the water, gasping for help. The brother jumped in. It was freezing. He reached the kid and put an arm round him. He looked and saw a channel where the ice had broken. The kid was lifeless. He had to be quick. The cold was forcing his lungs shut. He surged for the bank and rolled the kid onto the grass where the friends wrapped him in their jackets. The kid let out a moan and started to cry. He was looking at the water and shaking his head. The brother’s body slipped beneath the surface.