The silence was still deafening, the ears continued to scream with a sound generated only by them: but his mother was calmer, assessing the extent of her damage, still not knowing what had caused it. He was fourteen; the divorce was in process; his father had already moved permanently to Los Angeles.

That night between him and his mother had taken place over a year previously.

*

He sat with ringing ears and wondered if he had really tried to kill his mother.

No of course not, she wasn’t there when he lit the fuse.

But had he not waited until he saw her carrying the washing in the basket from the house and then put the match to the gunpowder?

No, he had not done that.

No, for sure, in the name of Our Lord Jesus Christ he was not crazy. Where did that religious fervour come from?

*

He was beaten by his mother with a wooden spoon.

Three dining chairs were piled onto him as he sat in the green and brown striped Parker Knoll chair; then these were tied down with string. He had no desire to move even if he could because he would be beaten again.

Ever was still smallish and was yet to experience the viral pneumonia that would nearly kill him and keep him bedridden for months. It was during this illness, an illness that hit him when he was fifteen, that he grew.

Not in proportion, as his body grew but his legs stayed short. He emerged months later from his bed six inches taller; six inches taller in his body. His legs later caught up by a couple of inches but he looked a weird one for a while.

A scrawny, out-of-proportion weird one.

His mother was still alive, though.

Next time.

Eh?

*

He was telling this story to Lomita.

He was pushing her around the indefectibly groomed sidewalks of Beverly Hills, where the grass seemed to know that it is not allowed to grow over onto the sidewalk and where women, mostly women, walked with sun-visors at a quick pace wearing trainers and tracksuits. This was the activity of the streets, the prolonging of life through the speed walk. He wanted so much to unload the burden of his Oedipal experience on Lomita but felt that it threw an obvious question mark over their relationship.

Although he didn’t think in any way he was looking for a relationship with a mother figure. Lomita was more intent on discussing how they, or how Ever, was going to deal with the showing of his father’s paintings on Wednesday. How would he deal with whatever they revealed themselves to be?

*

The Good the Bad or the Ugly.

Even the Mediocre. Which would it be?

Lomita was thinking this through; she couldn’t believe that she was being pushed through these empty streets by a man who was contemplating murder. On every other level he was a sensitive, caring human being but this madness had blocked his life and she was surmising, being pushed, that this wasn’t the whole story: the whole reason for seeking this retribution for his father.