The Sunlight on the Garden by Francis King Page A

‘I hope that’s not too sweet for you. That’s my vulgar taste, I’m afraid, not my mother’s.’
    Luke sipped. ‘Fine.’
    The man put down his glass and walked across to a desk. He pulled open a drawer and took out a photograph.
    â€˜That may amuse you.’ He crossed over to Luke and held it out.
    With reluctant foreboding, Luke slowly took it and looked down. Executed with a professionalism similar to the one on which he prided himself, it showed a tall, broad-shouldered man with close-cropped hair holding an ancient Leica up to his face. Behind him were three elder trees. In front of him there was the wide curve of a river, glittering in the sunlight. The unseen photographer had clearly used a powerful telescopic lens.
    â€˜Good, don’t you think? It was difficult to be sure of getting that contrast between the bareness of the trees and all that foliage on the bank. I’m pleased with it.’
    â€˜You were the person who …’ Luke spoke in wonder. ‘I remember … a man in a dark suit.’
    â€˜Yes, I’d come on from a funeral. My mother’s in fact. I was dreadfully hot. Wasn’t that a beautiful day?’ The man lowered himself into the vast, over-upholstered, chintz-covered armchair that faced the identical one in which Luke was still gazing down at the photograph with a mixture of amazement and dread. ‘You know, I recognised you at once when I saw you at the Town Hall. I lied to you just now. I’d entered three photographs. But – no luck. When I recognised you I at once took that chair behind you. Then I heard that man greet you. An extraordinary coincidence, I thought. But it’s not really all that extraordinary, is it? We have things in common. We’re both amateur photographers for one. We’re both about the same age. We look so much like each other that we might almost pass for brothers. And then’ – he smiled, revealing small, irregular teeth – ‘we have our other interest. I don’t mean photography. I mean that more, er, esoteric one. Our hobby’
    Luke stared at him, as though trying to remember where, many, many years ago, he had met this character.
    â€˜I feel terrible about it now,’ the man said. ‘ I don’t know what came over me. There is something that one both cherishes and hates in oneself. One wants to safeguard it and yet kill it. You know what I mean? You must do. You must know the experience.’
    â€˜I have no idea what you mean.’
    â€˜Of course you do. Why can’t we be frank with each other?’ The man tilted his head on one side. He looked at Luke with what was all too clearly understanding and affection. ‘As I say – I can’t think what got into me. What I did to you was, I suppose, what I really wanted to do to myself. Revelation, punishment. It was crazy, of course. Unforgiveable. I must have put you through hell. It was really quite a relief to me when I learned that the fuzz had decided to take things no further.’ He laughed. ‘It must have been one hell of a relief to you too.’
    â€˜You bastard! God – you bastard!’
    â€˜Yes. You’re right. Absolutely right. One hundred percent. I apologise. I grovel. It was odd – as soon as I saw you – photographing, photographing, in that same spot – with those two little ones … I knew, I just knew !’
    Luke lunged forward and grabbed the man by the lapels of his jacket. In a frenzy he dragged him to his feet and then punched him repeatedly – on the chin, on the mouth, cutting his knuckles on those small, irregular teeth, on the nose, causing a snake of blood to wriggle slowly out of a nostril. Then something stopped him. It was the maniacal glee glittering from the man’s previously dull, sad eyes, and the way that he kept whispering, ‘Yes, yes, yes ,’ in an endless crescendo.
    Luke pushed the man so that he