Chapter 50 Chapter Forty-Nine

A wall, a gray wall.There was nothing in the small room except a short bench at the foot of the wall.He was sitting on a bench facing the door, which had a handle and a lock, a big lock.He closed his eyes, looked no further, and found that he could still breathe.It's a small room, Thomas nodded, it's a small room. At this time, the door opened, and the sudden light made him unable to open his eyes, and the fear of being seen made his body weak.A commanding voice called out, "Come out, man, let's go!" He was trembling, and the whole figure was welded to the bench.His ankles went limp at the thought of having to get up, get out, step out into the outside world, be seen.

"Come on, come out." Thomas stood up, wobbling a bit, but managed to get up.He opened his eyes wide, tried to look at the ground in front of him, and walked slowly towards the threshold, stepped out, into the day, into the corridor where other people were. "They're waiting for you upstairs, from Scotland, two women," said the man, as if he had been lucky to be interrogated by a woman.Thomas stood there motionless, and the man seemed to be looking at him, "You've got to have a proper adult talk to you and tell you what happened." The man was still staring at him: Thomas felt the need to show that he wasn't mentally ill.He looked up at the cop, a fat man, and was surprised to hear himself say, "Okay."

The policeman finally pointed reassuringly to a side door, letting Thomas go ahead. Go into a room, a bigger room with no windows.In a high corner sits a camera, perched on a plywood platform.A man sits at a table, gray hair, gray face, onychomycosis. The man smelled of cigarettes and sat slumped like Thomas.Thomas sat down on the other side of the table, finding it difficult to concentrate and listen.He has been investigated by Strathclyde Police in relation to a murder.He can answer or not answer, but will be convicted either way.He had a gun with him, and bullets, which was bad, and he was going to have to explain it.The man who smelled of cigarettes, the bored frustrated man explaining when it happened.Thomas didn't listen, and when he finally got his attention back, he was told to ask questions.But he really didn't know what to ask.

"Thomas!" the man reminded, "do you know what I mean?" Men's teeth are the same yellow as kippers, which is disgusting.He stood up slowly, walked around behind Thomas, pulled a chair and sat down against the wall.Thomas turned to see that he was holding a spiral notebook, turned to the first page, with a pen hanging from it, ready to write something.The man leans his head against the wall and closes his eyes. In this silent room they waited a long time. Ella comes over to say goodbye to him.The police are here.Moira let the police in, took them upstairs, and said "here he is" or "this is him," very curtly.They stood before him, in monotonous tones, reciting something like a prayer, and then they waited for his response, grabbed his elbows, pulled him up from the couch in Ella's living room, and told him , "get up" and "come on, stand up".

He felt like they were coming at a good time, like a school supervisor finding a lost new student in the hallway and leading him back to the classroom, like an unaccompanied child holding the hand of a flight attendant.Everything is too complicated for him, he can't read very well, all the flight schedules, all the time zones, it's too difficult for him to understand, because Mexico City is far away, he doesn't even know what It was time to eat, and Lars left on business the day after he arrived there. Ella got up and watched him from the doorway between the living room and the bedroom.Their eyes met.At this moment, two strange men in uniform patted his legs and pockets and found the bullet clip.Ella watched the stranger reach for the pistol.She licked her lips and took another look at Thomas.She looked hurt and depressed, and no consolation lies were going to help.She blinked her eyes and pressed her lips tightly together, a little bit reproachfully, a little bit apologetic.

Moira had changed clothes.She changed into her new pair of leather trousers and a cream blouse with a frilly front.Panting heavily, she tugged at the hem of her blouse, whose price tag was still hanging on the back. She couldn't go with her son, she told the police, because female, JL was very sick, she had already called, and the doctor could arrive any moment.No one else could go with Thomas.There is no one else.She tugged at the hem of her shirt so hard that her bra was exposed.Under the bra, on her stomach, was a crease that looked like a smile. Thomas was taken outside and sat in the back of a police car.He looked up, looked back at the door, and saw her, Ella, little Ella, standing in the huge entrance, watching him go away in the car.Her lips were slack, tears streaming down her cheeks.Moira was behind her, with her hands on her shoulders.Ella, rebellious Ella, bit Moira's hand.

In the silent room, the door opened, and two people walked in - one was round like Santa Claus, and the other was very slender.He looked up.Two suits, one dark blue and one black.The slender one was small, big-nosed, and beautiful; the other was tall, broad-shouldered, dimpled, blond, pregnant, stern, and belligerent. The folder was on the table, a green cardboard folder with sheets of lined writing paper filled with scribbled notes, and a number of photographs, the tops of which he could see. profile.Name.a magnetic tape.He had never seen a cassette tape before.Peeling off the wrapping paper and putting it into the tape recorder, a wasp-like buzz filled the room as pregnant women asked his name.

"Thomas Anderson." He was surprised that he could speak, that his voice sounded good. She asked him if he knew what was going on, and he replied yes.The next question was the date, and that Monday, he really had no idea what she was asking.The sentences were too long and twisted, and by the time she got to the end of the sentence, he had forgotten what the beginning was. They look at each other for a moment, and she asks if he’s okay.he said yes. "Do you know Jonathan Hamilton, Gordon?" He gasped and shrugged. "The boys at school call him—" She glanced at the notes, "Squeak."

"I'm in the same school as him." "do you know him?" He looks at the woman.The pregnant woman was staring at him intently, her eyelids downcast.The pretty little woman stared at the table.This is an important question.This is a trap. "No, I don't know him." This is a trap.trap! "He said he knew you." "We don't know each other." It's true. "Have you spoken to him since leaving school on Tuesday?" "No." "Did you not call each other?" Can only say no, say no. "No." "Did he call you?"

The phone's SIM card is in the toilet at Biggin Hill Airport.They could not prove that Squeak had called him or that the number was his.It's in the toilet. "We didn't know each other." But Downey had his number, the same as Squeak's.lie to them.Just deny everything. "He called me, but I didn't know him, I didn't even answer the phone, I didn't know him." It's true, it's true. "You don't know him?" "No," he said with certainty, knowing he was safe, knowing it was true. "How do you know he called you if you didn't answer?"

"This..." How did he know? "Here, his name appears on the screen." "What's on the screen?" "Squeak." Thomas blushed, for what she said next was obvious: "You don't know him, but your phone has his number? And his nickname?" Thomas' face was flushed red, he was trembling, and said in a trance: "Her address is in Lars' cell phone." There was a short pause, "When did you get it?" "January." "That was many months ago. Why did you go to her house?" "Lars—" "Lars sent you?" Now that the answer came, she was hungry, and when he was searching for a sentence from the bottom of his heart, she interrupted him.He looks at her hands, lowers his eyes, and tells her how hard it is to talk.She sat back, giving him more space. "Lars took me out. Sunday. The Sunday before that Monday. Ice cream." Lars takes him out for ice cream.eat ice cream.It's like he's Ella.There are other men in suits in the ice cream parlor with their kids, unhappy men and unhappy kids, everyone kind of alike.Thomas was the oldest child, and Lars bought him the biggest ice cream, knowing there was bound to be bad news.He thought Lars had cancer.But not cancer. "What did he say to you that Sunday?" The memory weighed on Thomas so heavily that he could barely shrug his shoulders. He is dusting the ice cream with seasoning.I also have a wife.He dipped the ice cream in vanilla sauce, and the ice crystals held the balls together.I have other children.I'd love to see you, his name is Phils.Phils.Phils.Then there's a photo of Phils smiling.He had reached the fruit part, meaningless, as if the damage to the body caused by the disease-prone cream could be lessened by the canned pineapple.He's coming to St. Augustus for school.The two of you will become friends.Then, everyone knows you're a bastard.Everyone will laugh at you in your face because you will never be the only son again, never be the only son.Thomas asked his father, why did you abandon me?His father told him not to be a child, and then waved to the waiter for the bill. Now, in this room, two women watched him and listened.Thomas said, "He's got another family. Another son. Coming to my school. I'm so mad. I thought it was her." He looked at the green folder. "Sarah." "Did you tell Squeak about it?" "Just because he has a car. We don't know each other." No, they don't, they really don't. "You went to her house just to kill her?" "No, just to scare her. Lars." His voice faded to a murmur, floating intermittently in the air - impressing him - standing up - don't eat shit - —knew he would like it. Did he kill Sarah Errol? Muttered whispers floated in the air like a black cloud, repeated muttered words like a storm, beat on the table, and then a loud cry—did he kill Sarah Errol? Thomas looked at the pregnant woman in front of him, at the saint who gave birth to a new life, blond and blue-eyed, just like Mary when Christ was born."Worse, standing there, watching, doing nothing, worse," he cried. Moreau showed him pictures taken in the house, the bedroom, the kitchen, Sarah Errol on the landing, her face gone, her head gone, her life gone.He thought of the horse on the famous painting "Guernica", he thought of the lucky wasp dying, and he lost all language.except for one word.He said it over and over, always in the same tone, like a mantra: Worse. They took him back to the small room and put him to sleep. Moreau stood in the security queue at Gatwick Airport, 70 people ahead of her, but she was ready, holding her laptop and a zipped plastic bag with nothing but a colorless lipstick in her hand, and she waited.The last flight home.They are lucky.Leonard was behind her, carrying notes.The fetus was dancing in her pelvis like two cheerleaders, cheering for life, telling her not to give up, not to be depressed. It was the toughest interrogation she had ever done.She was frustrated and exhausted before she even started.She saw Thomas Anderson's despair, and though he said little, she knew what he was thinking.Lars had already killed him at the ice cream parlor.Lars destroys his meaning and his identity with ice cream.Destroyed the meaning of his mother.There is another one.With the existence of another son, the love for another son, Lars destroys the meaning of his existence.Moreau knew from his own experience that doubts about his father's love tormented him more than anything.He suspects that the father loves the other son, is kind to the other son, and is proud of the other son.There was that same look in Danny's eyes, that lack and doubt, that kids in this world are loved and he didn't.This was the last thing Moreau could bear to see in him, and this was what she had been avoiding all these years. The line moved slowly, and those around her began to unpack bags and unlace their shoes for security. The killing was her father's fault.Lars Anderson's fault, not Thomas', not Danny's.They were told too early that they were unimportant and that their divine mother was just a cormorant.Sarah Errol wasn't Thomas' fault.She couldn't be his fault because he was too young to know that real contempt was stopping the cycle of damage, stopping everything, and letting another boy be his true brother. As the line got closer to the security arch, Leonard leaned closer to her and said, "Is he telling the truth?" Moreau shrugged his shoulders back, "I think so, what do you think?" Leonard stepped back, smacked his lips, and thought for a while, "You think he's just watching?" "What do you think?" "I don't know...he might be delirious because his father died too." "His sister is also sick, the policeman present said." She suddenly saw herself as a child.Danny looked at her horribly on the playground and she started crying like a little girl, covering her mouth and sobbing, trying to wipe the tears away with her sleeve. "My God!" Leonard handed her a pack of tissues, pretending not to notice. They passed through the security arch, and the security inspector moved Morrow aside to be searched.The security inspector is a woman in her fifties, and the wrinkles on her face show her motherly love.She caressed Moro's belly, glanced at the pregnant woman's red eyes, and when she touched her legs, she asked, "Are you all right, honey?" "Yes, I'm fine." The security inspector stood up and looked at Morrow's stomach, "How many months?" "Four months." She looked into Mo Luo's eyes and didn't believe it at all. She thought that Mo Luo was trying to sneak onto the plane and give birth on the plane. "Twins," Moreau explained. "Oh," the security inspector laughed, "no wonder you cried." After checking, the security inspector patted Morrow on the back and wished her good luck.Moreau picked up his bag. Morrow and Leonard walked to the coffee shop closest to the boarding gate. "Want coffee?" Leonard asked. "Give me a cup of tea, I have to make a phone call." Leonard left, and Morrow took out his phone.No one answered.It was too late, so she wrote: "Hello, this is Alex Morrow, leave a message for Val McGrath. I have changed my mind and would like to speak to you about John McGrath...my nephew, John McGrath. If you Think I can be of help, I'd love to talk to you, anytime. Call me back."