The Man Who Built the World Read Free Page A

ineffectual.
    ‘I’ve dealt with this on my own so far,’ he growled, leaning close. ‘I’ll finish it on my own. Stay out of it .’
    Rachel held his gaze, tried hard not to shudder. Tears rose in her eyes, and she wondered how she had ever come to fear the man she had once loved enough to have died for.
    ‘I’ll be late for the kids.’ She pushed his arm away, and he didn’t resist. She went out the door, not looking back.
    #
    As he heard the front door slam, Matt turned and flung the half full coffee mug across the kitchen. The mug smashed against the far wall, splashing coffee over the lino and the worktops. He slammed his fist into the door, once, twice, three times, the sound reverberating through the empty house.
    ‘Fuck it, fuck it , FUCK IT !’ he roared, striking the door with his sore hand one last time.
    His curse wasn’t aimed at R achel. He still loved her; he just wanted to escape this whole sorry mess. He had a book almost finished, one he thought might make them the sort of money he had always dreamed about and break him into the bestseller lists. They could pay off the mortgage and the cars, get the kids some decent Christmas presents for the first time in a couple of years.
    Over his career h e had a built up a small following, but his last couple of novels had been poorly received and had undersold, and now his fanbase was dwindling. All he needed was a couple of decent reviews and his career might go to a new level, but the new book had sat untouched on his computer’s hard-drive for over a month, and he could feel it slipping away. He generally churned out two new novels every year, and the advance he made from each one kept his family in a state of relative comfort, but if he failed to produce the goods the royalties of his back catalogue wouldn’t see them through another year. He no longer wrote for himself as he had in the beginning. He wrote now to feed his family. He wrote out of necessity.
    The fun of writing had gone. His books had became increasingly staler, the same characters and storylines rehashed over and over again, while writer’s block came more frequently now, sometimes lasting months at a time. And when he couldn’t write he had difficulty occupying his time, keeping his restlessness at bay. Restlessness and frustration made him drink. It became a vicious circle: writer’s block made him drink, and drink made it even harder to face that shred of storyline and give it life.
    And now this. Bethany . A name he never thought he would hear again.
    He would go to the funeral. He would pay his respects. He would speak to his father, even after fourteen years of silence – assuming his father would speak to him, of course – and he would be civil, as civil as he could. And then he would leave.
    There would be no one to call him when his father died. He would never have to know. It would be over, finished.
    He would return to Rachel next week, and try to save his marriage. He would try to stop drinking, and talk to the children he felt he barely knew.
    But would they even be here when he got back?
    He would never hurt her again, not ever. That had been a mistake, a stupid drunken mistake.
    Hadn’t it ?
    He squeezed his eyes shut, his mind reeling from the memory.
    Had he not felt a certain sense of pleasure as he struck her nagging face, sent her sprawling to the floor clutching at her cheek, all her whining and pestering knocked out of her with one swing of his fist? Did that sense of power not make him feel better, as though he had control over her?
    As though he had suddenly become a real man ?
    He felt a sense of deja vu , and shook his head, hating himself. No .
    He was nothing like his father. They were totally separate people.
    But were they ? Were they really? They had the same blood, after all.
    And hadn’t he proved just how alike they were on that long ago night out in the snow?
    The night he had left his family behind?
    (the thick, gnarly branch crashing down