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The Man Who Lost Red By Terry Dowling ERIC DID WHAT THE MEDIC SAID. He did go to the top of Carlieu. It was a good half hour’s climb in the wind and the bright sunlight, and not once did he turn from climbing to discover the truth. Only when he reached the top, sprawling breathless on the hard stones and tufts of grass at the summit, did he look back down at the town—at the green fields and bluemisted hills far off, at the sparkling blue river and the white houses with their grey roofs. Grey roofs, yes! Grey! Only then did Eric believe it was true, when he saw the roofs. He had lost red. He proved it by locating Mrs Spain’s gardens, confirmed it by seeking out the dyeworks near St Benedict’s. He found all the places where he had remembered the colour—a post box in the street, certain shop fronts in Daper Avenue, the old faded bus as it crossed the town. In swelling despair, he found their sullen greys. His gaze became even more intense, searching the landscape, seizing, insinuating. But then Eric sank back in the wind. He stretched out on the hard ground and stared up at the easy spread of morning sky. Barely two hours ago, down in the infirmary next to the Occlusion Centre where he had been treated, Eric had expected to be deceived. He was sure that would be the punishment for a first offence, contrary to what was said, a glimpse of what it could be like. Or, at the most, a temporary treatment
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