‘Come on, Hargrove,’ he said. ‘You’re just hearing things. Harold Crouch was messed up and crazy.’
Despite the lack of breeze, the air was icy. So it made no sense that Brendan had to wipe sweat from his brow. Slowly his breathing returned to normal and his heart slowed to a point where he could take his hand off his chest. He pushed play again but stayed on his feet. He walked back and forth, past the desk several times as the strange roaring sound filled the void Harold Crouch’s voice had left. He looked back towards the door and felt like he should check that it was open, that he hadn’t locked it. A nervousness persisted and made him feel like he might need to run for his life at any moment.
He picked up his coffee and downed the rest in a few gulps, straightened himself, smirked inwardly in an attempt to convince himself he was being childish and weak, and sat back down in his chair.
For years I thought I felt trapped, you know, with the farm in ruins, the money all gone. But I didn’t know what trapped really meant. When I turned to run… run from the vision of my own dead crying son, I saw Jenny standing at the door, Jas right next to her. I thought killing myself would end all the bullshit… all the shame, but my family – even dead – were looking at me for what I’d done to them, for how I’d stuffed everything up. So there I was, couldn’t run away... and couldn’t kill myself because I was too scared of what they’d do to me if I was dead as well. I don’t know anyone but me who’d understand that kind of trapped.
