The Killing Circle

Instead, he is far away, in the care of others. I wish it were my arms that held him, my comfort that will send him off to sleep. No matter. We’ve had our bedtime stories. There will be my voice for him to hold on to.

Goodnight, son. Sweet dreams.

They may find me, of course. And maybe even before my breath has turned to crystal in my chest. The radio said they were looking for me, following the directions Sam gave them, the Norths and Wests and Easts he read from the stars. Odds are it will be too late to make any difference. And yet, even as I resign myself to the inevitable, there is a renewed struggle to stay here, in this moment, a thinking, remembering thing. Fighting for another minute, for the possibility of dawn. Of seeing Sam again.

There is even the time to dream of revenge. A plan to sell the house on Euclid, leave the city altogether and disappear with Sam, make ourselves safe. Then, a thousand miles away, I will set myself to work. To take something from Angela, the only thing that might matter to her. The Killing Circle. If I make it out of here, maybe I’ll write it myself. Stick a knife in her heart. Steal back the book she’s been assembling from the stories of the dead.

But these are only lullabye thoughts. The drifting weightlessness before the crash. For the first time in what feels like forever, I’m not striving for anything, not searching. No envy, unrequited admirations, the hollow yearning to be noticed. Not afraid.

Last thoughts?

There’s the notion I might have some kicking around, perhaps a lesson or two of the kind you find at the end of novels. Something affirming and buoyant. I’m sure I could come up with something if I had the time, but I don’t. Because here it comes: a wool blanket being pulled up over my shoulders, my head. Darkness. Blocking the light from the inside out. But before it takes me I surprise myself by laughing. A terrible, shaking, coughing mirth that echoes through the empty rooms of the farmhouse. A ghost sound. The laughter of a man without a story who sees that what has brought him here might have made a good one, if there was only someone else, one Dear Reader to tell it to.

Acknowledgments

My thanks to those who have helped this book—and helped me to write it—whether as listeners, questioners, editors or friends: Maya Mavjee, Julia Wisdom, John Parsley, Peter Joseph, Anne O’Brien, Anne McDermid, Martha Magor, Vanessa Matthews, Sally Riley, Lesley Thorne, Brent Sherman and Sean Kane.

About the Author

Andrew Pyper was born in Stratford, Ontario in 1968. He is the author of international bestseller Lost Girls, selected as a New York Times Notable Book of the Year and currently in development by John Malkovich for a feature film adaptation. The film rights to The Killing Circle have been sold to the award-winning producers of The Last King of Scotland.

Andrew Pyper lives in Toronto.

www.andrewpyper.com