The Binding

by Bridget Collins

Novels, they call them. They must be much cheaper to produce. You can copy them, you see. Use the same story over and over, and as long as you’re careful how you sell them you can get away with it. It makes one wonder who would write them. People who enjoy imagining misery, I suppose. People who have no scruples about dishonesty. People who can spend days writing a long sad lie without going insane.’

I said, ‘It wasn’t about Alta. It wasn’t about you.’ Pa took a few steps into the middle of the room. ‘Don’t say that,’ he said. ‘You’re not the kind of son who would forget his family like that. Whatever you did with – that boy … It wasn’t because you wanted it. You’re not like that.’ I stared at him. He wanted me to be malicious, and jealous, and vindictive; he wanted me to have done it out of hatred. Because otherwise I would be – like that …