Where the heart should be, mutters Adeline to herself. I shall cut around where the heart should be.
She is sitting with his body on the beach, amongst the bust tyres, bottles and rinsed lights of the day. She has dragged him here to start the day, at the very edge of England. Bless this day. She makes the sign of the cross, and closes her eyes tightly, not wishing to appear ungrateful. Ever since the messenger had arrived at her door, in its feathered mask and its gleaming wings, she has been at pains to remember her manners. She does this in regular little admonishments to herself, which she flourishes in her head, like a courtier. Or a Sunday School teacher. Cut the coat according to the cloth, she says now. And picks up her serrated knife.
Behind her the sky is the deep saturated blue of childhood. She must work quickly before the light reaches its zenith and the others being to emerge, blinking into the day.
She tugs the pariah vest, a shoddy god-knitted thing, closer to her body. Toes the corpse to make him roll face up, squats beside him and commences where she most dislikes. She begins with the cut of his jib.
The copyright of this post belongs to Claire Steele
