All the Broken Places

by John Boyne

“That’s right,” she said, winking at me, as if we shared a secret. “You have it now. Edgar was such a gentleman. Always turned out so well. I don’t believe I ever saw him without a shirt and tie.” I smiled. It was true that Edgar had taken particular care in his appearance and, even on holidays, had not liked to “dress down,” as they say. He wore a pencil mustache and there were those who said he looked a bit like Ronald Colman. The comparison was not unjustified. “I tried to kiss him once, you know,” she continued, glancing toward the window and, by the way she said it, I knew that she’d forgotten to whom she was speaking. “He was years older than me, of course, but

I looked toward his glass. There wasn’t much left in it, and I hoped he wouldn’t ask for another. I was tired and wanted to settle down in front of a film. I finished my own, hoping he would take the hint. “Downstairs went for three even,” he said eventually, and I frowned. “Mr. Richardson’s flat,” he clarified. “Three million quid.” “How do you know that?” “I’m in the building trade, Mother. I have my sources.” “Do you know who’s bought it?” I asked. To my disappointment, he shook his head. “I don’t know his name.” “A man then?” “Well, no, I just assumed—” “Why would you assume that?” He rolled his eyes. “Fine. I don’t know the buyer’s name, or sex,” he said. “But whoever it is

some

“My plans and…” He had the good grace to look somewhat embarrassed. “His own, I mean, your own plans for, you know, your flat.” I looked away, glancing toward the bay window that faced out onto the street and behind which, presumably, sat Madelyn Darcy-Witt. A small shadow appeared, darkening the curtain. The face of a child. A small boy. So, he was at home. I had yet to see him in the flesh but had heard his voice as he and his mother left or entered the building. He seemed like a quiet sort, and I wasn’t sure if this was a good or a bad thing. “So, will you talk to her?” asked Oberon, and I took my shopping from him now, my mind elsewhere. “I will,” I agreed. “But only to find out what she wants to do and where she’d prefer to live. I won’t try to persuade her either way. It’s not my place to do so. But I am glad for you, Oberon, truly. You’re right, it does sound like a tremendous opportunity and it’s good of you to factor your grandmother into your plans.” He seemed satisfied by this, and I made my way into the building, closing the door behind me. For a moment, I stood quietly in the lobby, hoping to hear sounds from Flat One, but all was silent. And yet, for some inexplicable reason, I felt certain that the boy was standing on the other side of the door with his ear pressed against the woodwork. Or, perhaps, standing on a chair and watching me through the spyhole. It was only when I went upstairs that it occurred to me that Oberon hadn’t stopped in to see his grandmo...

what?” “That M. Toussaint might be in love with me.” It was impossible not to notice the expression of amusement on his face. It was as offensive as it was infuriating. “You think I’m joking?” “He’s an old man,” protested Émile. “Thirty-five at least. And

right. Had he really spoken to me in this way? Before I could

closing it firmly behind us as he pushed

about it. Threatened to knock Kurt’s block off. That’s why we came to Sydney.

never forgotten it,” I said, the words catching

be in behind the locked door.