Better Left Buried Read Free Page B

There’s a brownish stain on the right knee.
    â€œDon’t worry.” I take the letter from her hand. “I’ll deal with it.”
    â€œBut…” Mum starts to protest, then sinks under the effort and gives me a grateful smile.
    â€œDo you want a cup of tea?”
    She nods. “Would you mind?”
    As I wait for the kettle to boil, I hear her pad back upstairs and then the sound of the taps running in the bathroom. I unfold the letter.
    It’s from the university.
    I scan through it. Signed by Mr Brian Thomas, the head librarian, it says Max’s books are months overdue. Underneath is a list of maybe a dozen of them, with names like Thermodynamics of Chemical Processes and Reaction Kinetics .
    Oh god. I guess no one told him what happened. I tuck the letter into the pocket of my jeans, and pour Mum’s tea.
    I force myself to go up to Max’s bedroom. I hate coming in here. I hate even walking past on the way to the bathroom. My brother’s room feels like a black hole in the heart of the house, sucking all the light, all the joy from our lives.
    Like a memorial. Or a dirge, playing on a loop in the background.
    I open the door to a rush of memories. And pain. There it all is. His books, his old laptop, that giant King Kong poster on the wall, the Warhammer figurines he used to play with. On the windowsill his collection of Rubik’s cubes in different sizes, every one neatly solved. Everything in here a stabbing reminder, and somehow a reproach. Max – unbelievably – has gone, but his things remain. Abandoned. As if we’ve all turned our backs on him.
    I close my eyes for a moment, pressing all the feelings down, and drag my attention to the books on the shelf. There’s dozens of them, all the ones he used for his exams at school, and plenty more. Half my memories of my brother have a book in them.
    I read each title carefully, comparing it with the list on the letter. Pick out a couple and throw them onto the bed. My heart contracts as I touch them. Max probably handled these that last week he was home; after all, he was holed up in here most of that time, only coming down for meals, leaving us wondering what was wrong. Had his final exams gone badly? Had he fallen out with someone?
    â€œJust leave me alone, Sarah.”
    I’d opened the door to ask if he wanted anything from the shops. He was sitting in the chair, staring out the window as he said it.
    â€œLeave me alone,” he repeated.
    So I did. I left him alone and the next day he’d gone. Without a word to anyone. We rang, left messages, but didn’t worry much when he didn’t return our calls – Max was always slack about stuff like that. We assumed he’d gone back to London, was busy finishing up at university.
    But ten days later the police were standing on our doorstep.
    Max had been found in our summer house in Sweden. His heart had stopped. That was all they could tell us. No one knew why. Nothing revealed at the post mortem, though we’re still waiting for the inquest.
    His heart just stopped. Dead.
    A swoop of nausea. A picture in my mind, imagined, of my brother, lying naked on a cold, metal mortuary table.
    Leave me alone, Sarah .
    I shake away the image. Remember why I’m here. Check the list and scrutinize the bookshelves again, but I can’t see any more. I go through the desk and the drawers, but there’s no sign of them. They must be in the garage, in the boxes that came back from Max’s room in London – no one’s had the courage to deal with them since Dad dumped them in there several weeks ago.
    â€œSarah?” Mum’s voice calls from the bathroom. “Are there any clean towels?”
    I doubt it, I think, making a mental note to grab the pyjamas she was wearing and shove them in the wash. Hard to believe only a few weeks can reverse everything. That my lovely, busy, capable mother, who held down a full-time job