“Neither of the options she hated, thanks to my wife, Flo, who explained to her about the boxes and saved the day.”
Large sighed. “What boxes?”
“It’s a thought experiment,” Connor told him. “You imagine you have two boxes, right? Both big, both empty. And neither one ever has to have any contact with the other. They can just sit side by side, quite separately, being none of each other’s business. That’s what Flo told Mum. She said, ‘There’s no need to change your opinion about Danielle’s tattoo, or tattoos in general. In Box Number 1, you put your acceptance of all the pain and anger you’re feeling, and all the crying and raging and pillow-thumping you need to do about it. You’ll always hate that Danielle’s vandalized her body, you’ll never be okay with it—and you just, like, fully accept that. You don’t judge yourself for it or try to change your thoughts or feelings about it, just stick them all in Box 1.
“‘Then, in Box 2, you put all your feelings and wishes and hopes for Danielle and your relationship with her. In Box 2, you want only the best for her and trust her to make her own decisions and to know what’s right for her. You accept all her choices and love her no matter what. In Box 2, you’re just there for her.’ That’s what Flo said, and itsaved Mum’s sanity and the relationship. She and our Danielle are closer than ever, because both boxes were full of acceptance. And acceptance and acceptance can’t ever be at war, you see, sir. Nothing can ever be at war with itself. It’s like Flo says: Accepting that we don’t like or want something doesn’t mean we have to push anything away—either our true feelings or the thing we dislike.”
“I see. Is your wife some sort of counselor?” Large asked.
“No. She’s got her own catering company, though. Sir, speaking of boxes, this”—Connor put his hand on the manuscript—“arrived in a box with my name on it. A big, damp cardboard box that disintegrated when I opened it. The pages had been stuffed in, no particular order—some scrunched, some folded, some flat. It took me ages to arrange them so they made sense. I think if you read it the way I’ve put it together, you’ll have as many questions as I’ve got. Think of it like this: We’ve got Box 1 over here”—Connor drew a square shape in the air with his fingers—“where we know it was natural causes because a coroner said so—”
“That’s the only box I’m interested in,” said Large.
“But there’s also Box 2, the one I found sitting between my car and our garage door a few days ago, with this…book, thing, inside it, but all jumbled up. And in that box what happened was—”
“Inside or outside?” Large interrupted.
“Huh?”
“Your garage.”
“Outside,” said Connor. “There’s no room for the car inside the garage. It’s still full of unopened boxes from when we moved.”
“Always unpack straight away, Chantree, or you’ll never get the job finished.”
“Yes, sir. Sir, in Box 2, there’s a murder.”
“I don’t like Box 2.”
“A description of one, anyway.” Connor pressed on. “It’s one that’ll be impossible to prove because nothing physical happened. So, we still get to keep our Box 1, because there’s no evidence—”
“What do you mean, ‘nothing physical’?” asked Large.
“Please consider reading the…thing, sir. If whoever wrote it is telling the truth… Though I don’t think they can be…” Connor felt obliged to interrupt himself with this caveat.
“If it’s a pack of lies, I don’t need to read it,” said Large.
“But I don’t think it’s that either. It feels very…true.” It was the only way Connor could think to describe it. “Sir, I’ll be honest: I’ve got absolutely no idea what it is, who wrote it, or who left it for me. And it contains the most unflattering portrait of me—looks and personality—that anyone will ever write, I hope, but it’s still important that you know what’s in it, and nothing I can tell you about it could convey the full…effect. You need to see it for yourself. Just…please forget the horrible description of me as soon as you’ve read it, if you wouldn’t mind. And don’t share it with anyone if you can help it. Not even as a joke.”I’m feeling bad enough about myself as it is, Connor considered adding, just in case appearing as pitiable as possible might help the cause.
No need. Large was reaching for the smelly bundle of paper, removing the second of the elastic bands.
No One Would Do What the Lamberts Have Done
by me
1
Mum didn’t think I was on her side. Not at the start, and not for a long time.
That doesn’t mean she thought I wasn’t. It just means she didn’t know I was, or how passionately I was, and so it didn’t occur to her to think it. I don’t blame her for that. I could easily have made it clear—maybe I should have, since trying to protect her from the truth was pointless and she ended up finding out anyway—but I chose not to. Also, it’s just the way most people are: They don’t think or believe a thing unless they already know it, which is a shame. Actually, it’s one of the biggest, most possibility-limiting shames humanity has to contend with, but that’s hardly Mum’s fault.
If she’d known from the beginning that I was on her side, and especially if she’d known what I’d be able to achieve once I put my mind to it, she could have spared herself a lot of suffering. She’d have been so much happier on the Day of the Policeman, for a start.
That wasn’t the start, though. That was the middle, and on that day, 17 June 2024 at 4:45 p.m., I was also unaware of… Yes, I’m going to call it what it is, or was: my own brilliant potential. In fact, I could just as easily call 17 June the Day of the Potential, because there was so much of the stuff swirling around—for greatness and for harm, both equally strong at that point and all mixed up together, billowing through our house, gushing down the street, covering the village green so that you couldn’t see it anymore (I mean, not really, since none of those things were observable events, but also: yes, really).
This is what happened in the conventional sense of the wordhappened: The bell rang. Mum opened the door, and there he was—the policeman. I heard a male voice followed by Mum’s but didn’t pay much attention. I was in my room, letting Champ win a series of tug-of-war games with the knit carrot toy. Even after he’d lolloped off downstairs to see who our visitor was, I didn’t start to listen deliberately. I was a bit irritated that Champ had ditched me, and said something sarcastic like, “Right, great. Let’sraceto the door. This is Swaffham Tilney, after all, so it’s bound to be someonethrilling.”
Then I heard Mum sounding worried and restrained, not at all her usual welcoming self. And I noticed she wasn’t inviting the policeman in, which was odd because she normally tried to pull everyone into our house and give them treats and what she called “the full tour,” as if we lived in Buckingham Palace and not a converted hayloft that used to be a dilapidated outbuilding belonging to the Farmer (who’s actually the only person in Swaffham Tilney whose name I don’t know; he must have one, but everyone calls him the Farmer).
