“The spectre of guilt is always on the hunt, Kettlecorn,” says Stig. “It sniffs for one and all. Good on you if can elude it. That faithless childhood cur of yours was completely lacking in guilt, though I wonder if that split second of acknowledgment before he himself split was at least an awareness of its existence – the existence of guilt, that is. I don’t hold out much hope that the beast was properly self-aware.”
“Ruth, raised as a Catholic, would say so. Catholic guilt reigned supreme in our household, though it didn’t stop either Ruth or Owny from doing exactly as they pleased; they knew that Hail Marys and breast-beating would assuage any remaining twinges. They may have enjoyed summoning guilt just so they could drum it back with God’s blessing. They liked ritual.”
“Who doesn’t like a good ritual? Mine is to reminisce upon good times as I drift to sleep; I revisit the best parks, the ones with the good smells of summer: ripe poo bins, bite-sized salmon treats, spilled ice-cream on a hot sidewalk. I think of this and I’m asleep in no time. Guilt is a wasted emotion, even on Catholics – lapsed Catholics, yet, since they eschewed piety and the sanctity of holy matrimony.” Stig is looking at us intently.
We know why he is watching. He is testing our intuition. There can exist only so much discussion of the pious and the hypocrite before the desire for simple pleasure kicks in. We will give the very good boy his own melted ice-cream, dropped deliberately on the sidewalk before the weather gets too chilly. All we want is a good time, a simple time.
- excerpt from YTA, the NaNoWriMo sensation!
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