CHAPTER EIGHT: Evan

At first they said there was no high speed Internet service in the area; then they said there was, but it would take three weeks before the connection could be made. After Evan's fourth call, he won a small victory: two weeks. He was proud of his accomplishment. Evan worked hard to maintain his composure as he negotiated with the slow-moving people at the other end of the telephone in the Sympatico call centre. Think long-term, he said to himself. He was less able to restrain his rage at finding the new mobile phone he had purchased, with a one-year contract, worked only half of the time at the house. His first call to complain was fielded by a man with an Indian accent. The line went dead before he could report his problem. His second interlocutor was a pleasant young woman who said, Must be the mountains. He swore at her. She warned him that she would not tolerate such language; he told her if they didn't want people to fucking swear they should sell them phones that fucking worked. She hung up on him. He called back an hour later, with bruised knuckles, and a peace that had come from five minutes of shouting at the top of his lungs, followed by a half-hour of reading Psalms and a brisk walk around the outside of the house. This time he maintained his composure, turned the other cheek, and calmly suggested he should get a discount on his rates if he was only getting 50% service. The girl at the other end of the line had a cute French accent, her name was Annie, she told him that wasn't possible, and more, he was locked in to his one year contract, and there really wasn't any way for her to do anything about it. To cancel, he was told, would cost him almost as much as keeping the contract. When he hung up the phone the last time, he closed his eyes and banged his head gently against the table. Annabel had come upstairs to make tea. How did it go? she asked. He didn't answer.

With some experimentation he found that in his sister's old room, up on the mezzanine beside Julian's, he could connect to the network with much more certainty, which was not ideal, but what could be done? A new landline would be installed into the basement, along with the internet connection, and so at least they would be reachable on an official number. All was not lost. Still, he couldn't help getting annoyed at God for putting these obstacles in his path. If he was going to go to the trouble of believing in God, if he was going to make the effort to pray several times a day, nightly too, surely God could do him the favour of helping him, not hindering him, in his efforts to build a new church, a new flock, to celebrate the wonder of the Lord. It was clearly not fair, and he couldn't help feeling resentful that God was ignoring his very specific prayers about cell phone reception, though of course he knew these were stupid thoughts, they weren't productive, or holy for that matter. What about Job, after all, and tempting God? Still.

He tried hard to concentrate on moving things forward without letting all that negativity get in the way. One step at a time, one thing at a time. Let God's will be done. The Lord works in mysterious ways, and faith was the answer. Annabel was right about that. There were things to be happy about, signs that things were moving forward. They had made great progress on the office downstairs. They'd finished painting, the furniture had arrived, and they'd set it up just as he had imagined. Annabel's to-do list was slowly getting filled with the satisfying lines striking out text every time a task was completed. She teased him that there were many more lines on her side of the page than on his. Which wasn't fair. Her tasks were simple, easy to complete. Anyone could arrange furniture, clean things. He had to think about his projects, he had meetings to organize, people to talk to, long-term strategies to craft and implement. He had big decisions to make. Not that they weren't making these decisions together – Annabel was very good at planning details, he realized that and told her so, but he was the idea man of the two, they both knew that, he had dreamed of the big church, the university, it was his vision, his idea they were following here. He had to make it all happen, to keep it all in perspective, and that put a lot of pressure on a man, a lot of stress. He had to think about things, and Annabel asking him if he had done this or that on his list, that wasn't very helpful, really, when he was focused on the big picture, had to keep the long-term objective in mind. It didn't help his mood when Annabel had another flurry of questions for him. About accounting, taxes, non-profit incorporation, real estate laws, human resources, banking. He was getting to all of it, he told her, he had the papers, didn’t he? Jesus Annabel, will you just let me get these fucking things organized? They don't happen overnight. What do you think I've been doing all day?

He felt guilty about yelling at her, and told her so three hours later, and they had satisfying, quick afternoon sex to make up. She came quickly and he did too, and then a minute later, still breathing heavily, he jumped up out of bed, naked, and said: Back to work! Annabel laughed. She forgave him. You are the most beautiful woman in the world, he said.

He had talked to the lawyer – the same lawyer who had handled his father's, and later his mother's estate, a crumbling old Eastern Townships Anglo, a family friend Evan only vaguely remembered from his boyhood. Conrad Grafton still had flaky skin (that's about all Evan remembered) and half-moon glasses with bits of dandruff on the lenses hanging around his neck. He registered his displeasure at Evan's proposed uses of his inheritance with a clicking of the tongue, and a thin whistle between his gapped teeth. You sure, he had said, this is a lot of money. Evan didn't have time for such small-mindedness, and he wasn’t happy when the old man said, What does your brother think of this? To which Evan had answered, It's none of his business, and if you don’t want to do this, I can get someone else. He was about to say: It's none of your business either, but he held his tongue. The old man shook his head and muttered, perching his glasses on the end of his long nose, shuffling papers on his desk.

In the past year Evan had learned something important: When you were certain about what you were doing, people respected you. Hesitate, show weakness, and they wouldn't respect you. And when you were doing the work of God, you were damn well certain about things, and a little Eastern Townshipper lawyer wasn't going to get in the way. Evan had never been so certain about anything in his life. In fact, he had never really been certain about anything, except this. This project. This dream. And Annabel, of course. So it didn't surprise him that this backwater upper-crust Quebec Anglo paper pusher would question his judgment. It had happened all his life, people were always questioning his judgment, questioning his decisions. His father had, his brother, even his mother used to sigh whenever she asked him, And what do you plan to do next? As if she was sure that no matter what it was, it would be the wrong thing. But he recognized now that people always questioned the important work in the world. Few people were strong enough to see what had to be done and then to do it. Look what happened with St. Paul and the lions. Or was it St. Peter? The Christians and the lions, anyway.

The problems with Internet, with the cell phone, these too were tests, he saw that now, tests of a different kind, and now that he looked at it like this, he was thankful for these glitches, thankful that God was testing him, so that he could prove he was worthy, prove his faith, prove his dedication to this great mission, this great endeavour. If Job could do it, he could too.

Bring some hiking boots, said Sylvain, the real estate agent. We'll take a look around the whole property. There's a creek, access to the mountain, you'll get a better appreciation of what the land is like if you take a look.

And we could build there? Evan asked into the cell phone, standing in his dead sister Natasha's empty room.

Sylvain answered, Sure you could, of course you could. There's a little shack – not winterized, but you could tear that down and build a nice house there.

The sun was blazing in the sky even though it was early morning, earlier than Evan would have liked, but he was awake now after his second cup of coffee. He thought about cycling down to the meeting – it was just around the corner, after all, a ten minute ride, down the hill and left at the T in the road that lead to the old ski hill and the big chalet that sat in front of the rusting remains of the chairlift. But he decided to take the truck. More serious that way.

Evan remembered the place well, from his younger days out here. He remembered climbing the mountain with friends, warnings of bears, hot afternoons picking berries with his mother and father. He didn’t remember the berries so much as the deerflies.

When he was in his early teens, thirteen maybe, fourteen, he had broken into the old ski chalet with a friend, Colin Ibbitson. There they found a young boy's dream: it was a big wooden building, built to look like a Swiss mountain retreat, taking up two floors, an old disassembled kitchen and a restaurant with a few picnic tables on the ground floor, men's and women's washrooms with rusting fixtures, but no water. Evan and Colin gathered up bits of furniture – a couple of chairs, an old round carpet, tattered posters, dust and trinkets, a big beer company umbrella, a rack of antlers. There, on the empty second floor mezzanine, they made a little club house by the back window, accumulating whatever they could find from their wanderings around the empty spaces of the dilapidated building. It seemed so big, so perfect for them. They smoked and sputtered over cigarettes, and discussed the possibility of bringing beer here, wondered how they might be able to get girls to this place, ideal as it was for all sorts of dreamed-of activities. A perfect place to fuck a chick, Colin said and Evan agreed heartily, though both knew their chances of fucking anyone, even here, were pretty slim.

Have you ever smoked pot? Evan asked, and when Colin said no, Evan said that he had, it was pretty good, he got it from his brother, and maybe next time they came out here they would smoke some pot. Most of that was a lie, all of it actually. He didn’t even know if his older brother smoked pot, but it seemed likely, considering the conversation Julian had had with their parents the last time he visited. Why should the government get involved, Julian had asked, in deciding what I am allowed to smoke? A martini's fine, but pot's illegal? Julian was always confident, even in intellectual battles with their fearsome father; and he remembered the old man backing down on this battle. Perhaps you are right, Julian, but that doesn't mean I have to like it. I'm old enough now to earn my irrationality.

Evan remembered being so angry with his father for giving in to Julian. He would never give in to Evan, certainly not about pot.

Evan returned three weeks later, with another friend, Michael McConnell. They had taken two bottles of beer from the fridge and smuggled them into his backpack, along with a pack of cigarettes (du Maurier, regular) that Michael had bought the week before, in preparation for the trip out to the country.

Michael had said, A pack of du Mauriers for my father, please. The man behind the counter didn't blink an eye.

Evan snuck in the window above the door, dropping to the floor as agile as Spiderman, a commando, a ninja, a cat. He opened the door for Michael. They went up the stairs to the clubhouse, and installed themselves. Michael produced a Playboy, stolen from his father, who, he reported with a casual air, also had a few porno tapes. Evan opened the beer, wrapping the bottle in his t-shirt to avoid cutting his hand on the cap as he twisted it off, as he had seen Julian do countless times. He wondered about those porno tapes as he handed a bottle of beer to Michael, then took a swig on his own. It tasted bitter, like drinking soggy grains and grass, and he shivered as he pushed the liquid down his throat, Mmm, that's good. Most refreshing thing in the world. Michael took a swig of his beer too, and grimaced. Don't you like it? Evan asked, and Michael said, Yeah I like it, it's just the first few swigs. It tastes better after two or three bottles. They only had the two bottles between them.

Evan lit a cigarette and coughed. It tasted like gaseous acid in his mouth.

They heard a loud bang downstairs.

They froze for a moment, and watched through the banister of the mezzanine as the front door started to open. Creaking open, like a horror movie. Lit with the sudden and overwhelming imperative of flight, they tore down the stairs towards the back door, where they had come in, and where they would get out.

They flung the door open, hearts pounding, they'd made it, they escaped.

Hey! came a call from behind them … Hey! Calice!

And they heard the thumping of running feet behind them. The stairs down from the doors were missing their slats so they slid down the banister, with a man, a grown man chasing them, hurling expletives. Tabarnac! Calice! Ciboire, vien icitte, hostie'd p'tit pieces de calices! Michael was ahead of Evan, on the ground now, tearing away at full pace, the backpack swinging on his little back. As Evan reached the ground, he felt a hand at his back, swatting at him, finally catching his t-shirt. He was pulled up short.

Calice! he heard again, and he was sacred to turn. He waited for a punch in the back of the head, was afraid he'd get one in the nose if he turned. Michael, looking back and seeing Evan and the man holding his shirt, stopped. He looked like he was deciding what to do. Their eyes met, and only then, seeing the look on his friend's face, did Evan realize he was truly caught. He didn’t want to see whoever was behind him, but he was roughly spun, and he flinched as he turned to face a sweating, grey-haired man with a crew cut and stubble on his cheeks, and dark eyes sunken into his skull. What are you doing here? The man hissed at him.

We, we…

We were exploring, Michael said.

The man looked at Evan, then Michael. He let go of Evan's shirt.

Michael had approached, still out of swatting range, but he was here to help. The man asked if they knew who had moved all the stuff around in there.

No no, Evan said, we just found it today.

You can't come here, the man said, it's dangerous. You're not allowed. Where do you live?

Up the road, Evan said.

Every fucking year someone comes in here, you could get hurt. Stay the hell away or next time… He raised his hand, to show Evan and Michael that next time they wouldn't get off so easy.

Their hearts still thumping, they laughed with nervousness the whole walk back to the cottage. Do you remember, Michael kept saying, and Evan answered, And then he…ha ha … and I thought …

That was ten years ago now, a whole decade, and Evan was about to do something so much more interesting now. He wondered if the same old grey-haired guy, with a little gold crucifix around his neck and grey chest hair, was still the caretaker. Maybe he would be Evan's employee, eventually. He wasn't ready to buy the whole mountain outright. Not yet, but some day. He wondered how much it would cost. Millions he guessed. But, he thought, he might be a land-owner adjacent to the mountain, might become a member of the hunting and fishing club that owned the mountain, and the chalet too, and so he'd be the one telling the caretaker to keep kids out of the place. He liked that idea.

The club that owns the mountain now has nature trails open to the public, but not many people use them, said Sylvain, the real estate agent. He sucked on a cigarette and leaned on his old maroon Chevrolet K Car, parked in the weedy gravel parking lot in front of the chalet. He looked to be in his forties, with a fat face and greasy black hair. There was something about middle-aged men smoking that suggested weakness to Evan. It was only seven months now since Evan had quit, but even when he was still a smoker, seeing grey hair and cigarettes together made him skeptical about the moral judgment, the intellectual capacities of the smoker. Didn't they know how dangerous those things were?

Sylvain dropped his cigarette and ground it with his heel. His slack face bounced into the smile of a tired man used to smiling. Come on, he said, let's take a walk, take a look at the property. He had a big thick French accent, but he seemed happy to talk English.

Past the chalet – completely boarded up now, with the charred signs of a fire – the parking lot gave way to a gravel road leading into the forest. Past two little houses, the road continued, where another small house – more a shack – sat nestled in the woods by a little creek, on five acres of forested land. Which meant, Sylvain said, coughing, that a big, real big, house could be built here.

What about, Evan asked, something more like a conference centre? A retreat?

You mean like one of those corporate places? Team building and that?

Yeah, Evan said, sort of. Something like that.

And of course, Sylvain, lighting a new cigarette and surveying the little clearing, said, Sure. You could do a deal with the guys who own the mountain too, I bet. Get all the access you wanted, for hiking and cross country skiing and all that. Whatever you like. We'd have to check the zoning for it if it's going to be a business, but we've got some friends on the council, so I'm pretty sure deals can be made.

He winked, and Evan pictured him on the hockey rink in the days before helmets, with his greasy black hair flowing behind him, the sharp shredding sound of ice skates. It had been a long time since Evan had skated.

You could build a nice big building here, Sylvain continued, see this is solid rock, over there, see, coming out of the ground, that means you can blast out a nice good foundation. Water and all that shouldn't be a problem, and there's already hydro coming in here so you'd just have to hook it up. It's a juicy little property and the price is right. Surprised it's still on the market. Why don’t you take a look around?

Evan left the agent, who sat on a tree stump by the house and continued smoking.

He was glad he wore his hiking boots, as he clambered down the shallow hill, to the muddy edge of the creek. It gurgled at him, sounding cold and fresh, and he hopped onto a stone in the middle of the stream, almost losing his balance, then  stood for a moment listening to the music of the water. He remembered swimming in the watering hole that this creek fed into, on the other side of the parking lot, the water icy cold, painful. He remembered hearing stories of skinny dippers, and though he'd never seen any himself he could still feel their mythical presence radiating beauty and sex.

It was dark back here by the creek, rich and moist and cool in the shade of the trees that loomed up above. He looked up to where the little shack stood. There was room here, he thought. The land looked solid, he could build two maybe three buildings, if they cleared out the woods. Five acres, the agent said. Five acres abutting on a whole mountainside filled with forests and nature trails. And just around the corner from the cottage. It was almost as if … yes, it was as if God had put this land here, for sale, for a reason. How else to explain it? He might not have come to visit this place if he hadn't had troubles with the Internet. Buying land like this wasn't in the original business plan, and maybe he would have been too busy following other paths if the Internet had been easy to install, maybe he wouldn't have bothered to come look at this property. And yet here it was.

He realized that their original modest plans were perhaps too tame. Renting space in a strip mall somewhere, building up a Ministry. Sure, they would have to do that too, of course they would. But here was a chance to build a real compound, a campus for Christ at the foot of Mount Echo, a campus from which they could proclaim the glory of the Lord, they could shout the sounds of redemption and have it Echo across the province! This project was bigger than some strip mall. That wouldn't do it justice.

He scrambled up the far side of the creek now, scaled up a big rock that jutted out of the side of the hill, and perched himself on top of it. He saw it all now, like in a vision. He saw the building grow up before him, not just one, but three beautiful buildings, a chapel, a lecture hall, a residence, all in shining white. He could see it, he could taste it, he could hear the applause.

So, Evan said, his mouth full. What are you writing about? They were eating a late supper, evening light still pouring in through the picture window. Evan looked out at Mount Echo and calculated where the property was, just to the left there, at the bottom of the overgrown ski runs that remained – so many years later -- like a thick river of green running down the middle of the mountain. Julian had made dinner, their father's old specialty, sugar and whiskey-rubbed steaks cooked on the old Hibachi barbecue.

His work on the garden was finished, he told them, as finished as a garden ever is. It would be maintenance and weeding for the rest of the summer. He could finally concentrate on his writing.

You haven't answered yet, Annabel said. What are you writing, exactly?

Evan waited for Julian to chew, swallow, and answer the question. But Julian just looked down at his plate, and then put another forkful into his mouth.

Well, Annabel said, is it a secret?

Julian swallowed and wiped his mouth. Oh, he said. Well. No. He cleared his throat. But it's not so easy to describe.

More geology? Evan asked.

In a way. You could say that. Bigger though. About the whole world.

He didn’t look like he wanted to talk about it and Evan was happy enough to change the subject. The last thing Evan wanted was a long discourse on plate tectonics, especially not with Annabel there, he'd have to negotiate a fight about geological time, the age of the Earth, the origins of life. He could just picture it: Julian dismissive; Annabel enraged. Change the subject, he thought. Ask him about the garden.

But it was Julian who did the subject changing: What did you do today?

Went to look at some land, Evan answered, relieved, and proud too. He liked the sound of those words, "land," "real estate." They had heft.

He was surprised that Julian hadn't asked him more about their project yet. True they'd been on different schedules, this was only the third meal that they had shared in the last four days. Still, he felt almost hurt that Julian hadn't given him a hard time about their plans. He had expected a fight, his scientific brother mocking his faith, mocking his new calling in life. He'd been steeling himself for such a battle from the first moment he saw that other car in the drive. Waiting to defend his new belief in God, his new Church, waiting to defend Annabel from Julian's derision. Instead Julian – after that strange performance the other night – had remained holed up in his room typing, or digging in the garden, or else off walking in the woods. It was odd that in such a small house, they could see so little of each other. And odder still that Julian had just shrugged off his religious conversion, shrugged off their project. It was almost as if he just didn’t care – which wouldn't surprise Evan, Julian had never cared much about him anyway.

But he seemed more distracted, disinterested, than usual, as if Evan and Annabel weren't even here. As if nothing Evan could do now was worth noticing, which as he thought about it, wasn't much different from how Julian had always treated him. That was it, he realized, he's ignoring us because he just couldn’t care less. Because he doesn't believe we can do anything worthwhile here. Anything important.

Yeah I was looking at some land, down by Mount Echo, Evan continued, dropping his voice a couple of octaves to covey the import of his day's activities. Ten acres. He pointed his fork at the mountain for emphasis.

Julian looked up from his plate and squinted, almost as if he was trying to place Evan, as if he didn’t recognize him. You're looking at land? What for? And then he looked out the window, following the line of sight created by the fork.

Going to build a church there, a whole campus. Evan felt a wave of fear as he said these words out loud. He could feel Julian's eye's hardening, there was the look he remembered from his younger days, that look of distain. Disapproval.

What do you mean exactly? Julian asked.

Evan cleared his throat. Power, he thought. Confidence. Certainty. Faith. Do not let him push you around, not in front of Annabel. Not in front of anybody.

He explained it again, this time controlling his voice, willing strength into his vocal chords, so that he wasn't warbling like a little boy. We're going to build a ministry here, Julian. I told you that. A ministry of the New Hope Church of Christ. And we need space for that, need land to build.

But, Annabel jumped in, that's longer term, right Evan? I mean we're not really planning to buy now, Julian, we're just starting to look at prices and things for the future.

Evan glared at his wife as he heard Julian say, Oh that makes sense. Don't go buying the first thing you see.

Not necessarily, Evan said, first to Annabel, then he repeated it at Julian. Not necessarily. I mean if the right piece of land comes up, at the right price.

And how are you going to finance this? Julian asked.

Asshole, Evan thought

Evan, she said as she unfastened her bra, using that flat tone he hated. The tone she used when she gave speeches at meetings of the youth wing of the Church, about the responsibility of young leaders to the community. She had that look on her face too, her lips skinny, a certain colouring in her cheeks, as if she were absorbing light, and not reflecting it.

He felt the anger building as he watched wife's body with its displays of superiority. He hated her when she was like this.

Evan, she went on, slipping into her pyjamas, this doesn't make any sense. We have a $25,000 grant from the youth development wing of New Hope to get this project off the ground. We don't have the kind of money you are talking about to invest in real estate now. And it doesn't make any sense anyway. We have to approach this in a logical way. Get established here. Lay out the plan, make our connections. If it works, when it works, she corrected herself and touched his arm. He took a step back, didn't like the patronizing feel of her fingers on his flesh.

When it works, in six months or so, we can talk to John about more money. About the next phase. We need to do this step by step and not get ahead of ourselves.

She didn't have enough faith, that was the problem. This was big, bigger than she realized. And Evan had money, he had three hundred thousand dollars in stocks and bonds, his inheritance, it was his, his right, and if he wanted to buy land with that money, he could do it. The $25 thousand grant was just a drop in the bucket, proof that they had an idea here, but he had a big idea, not a small one.

Why do you think that land, he asked, just around the corner, is for sale? By accident? It's exactly what we talked about. Exactly what we wanted. Exactly what we have dreamed of. It's there, he said, for a reason, Annabel. And you know we have the money. I've got lots of money.

But it’s too soon, Evan. We can't go … she kept talking, but he had stopped listening.

He lay down on the bed, picked up a magazine. He flipped at the pages so roughly he tore one. He considered getting up and just leaving her, if she wanted to talk so badly she could talk to herself, why should he have to listen to this negativity, listen to all this criticism of what he was doing, his choices and decisions from his own wife?

He was the head of this family. As if that stupid lawyer Grafton wasn't enough, with his flaky skin and know-it-all tone trying to keep him away from his own money. Now his wife was doing the same thing. What's wrong with all these people? She's supposed to be on my side, she's just like the goddamn Internet people. And the cell phone. Everyone putting up roadblocks. Well, I don't care about roadblocks, they won't stop me.

Are you even listening? Annabel asked.

I don’t want to discuss it any more, he said.

She glared at him for a moment, looked like she was going to shout, but instead she closed her eyes, and as if she was talking to a misbehaving Sunday school class, she said: Evan, that just isn't good enough.

He stood up and tossed the magazine on the bed, opened the closet and pulled at his jacket. It wouldn't come off the hanger. He yanked at it, and still couldn't get it off. He felt his wife's eyes watching him. Goddam it, he yelled, and ripped at the jacket. The wire hanger bent and twisted, freeing the jacket, then clattered to the floor. Fucking hanger, Evan said, and he kicked it. Fucking … jerk.

What are you doing? Annabel asked, but he didn't answer. He slammed the door of the bedroom on his way out, but the light press-wood of the bedroom door didn't have enough heft to give much of a slam, which infuriated him even more.

Where are you going? she asked, following him out to the hallway.

He could hear tears coming into her voice – these were tears of rage, and he'd seen them before, didn’t want to see them now. Good, he thought. Good. Serves her right. I hope she has a good cry when I am gone.

Where are you going? It's midnight Evan!

He grabbed the flashlight from the counter, threw open the glass French door, and stepped out onto the balcony. She'd followed him, was about to come outside with him, but he slid the glass door closed, sealing her inside. He marched away from her, down the stairs of the balcony, towards the road.

It was cool and crisp outside. The sky was big and dark, covered with pin-prick stars. He switched on his flashlight, and crunched his way down the gravel driveway, and out onto the road. An evening walk, just like he remembered his parents used to have, though they always did it together, and he couldn't remember them fighting like this. His parents had their disagreements, he guessed, but he did not recall his mother once challenging his father's decisions about what was best for the family.

***

He walked towards the mountain in the quiet of the night. Far-off, he heard the hum of a car engine, growing louder and louder until the diffused glow of headlights shone from behind a hillock, illuminating the trees on either side of the road. He waited with a sort of glee for car to crest the hill in front of him. It came, first as individual rays of light shooting up from the dark, then a sudden blinding flash and roaring motor.

As a child he had imagined those flashing lights coming from alien spaceships, and he was always disappointed when the vehicle drove past him, just another car.

Evan stepped towards the ditch as the big dump truck thundered by him, clanking and jangling. He felt the swirling wind and dust of its passing, and turned to watch the red tail lights as it tore ahead, disappearing beyond the next bend in the road. All was dark again.

He was calmer already. He walked into the middle of the road. He remembered game he had played as a kid out here. He would lie down in the middle of the road, he and Derek Archambault, right on the yellow paint that bisected the asphalt. It was such a terrifying thing to do, even though they could hear the cars coming from miles away, had ages to jump out of the way, but still, lying there in the middle of the road, the back of your head pressing into the concrete, the little stones digging into your head, your shoulder blades, and just the thought of a car coming was enough to get you all worked up, adrenaline pumping. Lying there you couldn't help but feel the danger, the knowledge of what a parent might say, the feeling that you were violating some fundamental laws of the universe. Like defying gravity.

He wondered when he had been out here last. After his father died. When he came out with his mother, before he moved to California.

He turned off the flashlight, and lay down in the middle of the road, staring up at the stars. He closed his eyes and listened to the gentle wind, the trees, distant frogs croaking, crickets, the silence of the night in the mountains, the sound of the huge huge sky with its stars. He put his hands under his head, just as he had when he was a kid, crossed his feet. He could fall asleep now, he thought, there was something so peaceful about being out here where he should not be, lying in the middle of the road like this in the dark night, the danger of it, but also the pleasure of doing something everyone would tell him not to do.

He did not feel the adrenaline of childhood now, but a growing calm. The warm asphalt below him seemed to be absorbing his stresses, the earth itself receiving all his problems. The Internet, the land, Annabel, Julian, the project, the pressure, the money, that lawyer, the cell phone, all of it. All of it fading into the earth below, pulled down into the centre of the earth. The night air washed over him, cleansing his skin of worries too, he almost saw them floating out of his body and into the cool air, into big night sky that encircled everything, that contained everything. He felt suspended between the hugeness of the sky above him and the massive earth below, floating between the two. Here between heaven and earth, in perfect balance.

Everything was going to work out.

It was quiet. He could hear the cars coming from miles away …