The Other People(32)

Gabe thought about the underlined Bible passages again: “You shall appoint as a penalty life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth.”

“What happens if you don’t?”

The Samaritan’s gaze punctured him like a bullet. “You run. As far and as fast as you can.”





Fran didn’t believe in going back. But she had no choice. She had tried so hard. So very, very hard to keep it all together. For both of them. But she could feel her edges fraying, the seams starting to give.

She had had the dream again, the one she thought she had managed to submerge, deep in the murky depths of her psyche, weighted down with heavy chains of denial. But the chains were never strong or heavy enough. Those black, bloated thoughts—guilt, recrimination, regret—kept on floating back up to the surface.

The funeral, the girl in the coffin. Wearing the wrong dress. In some versions of the dream, when Fran drew closer, the little girl sat up and opened her eyes.

“Why did you leave me, Mummy? Why didn’t you come back? It’s dark and I’m scared. Mummmy!”

Then the little girl reached out her hands and Fran turned and ran, through the congregation, who were no longer mourners dressed in black but huge black crows who flapped and cawed at her as she passed through.

“Cruel, cruel. Cruel, cruel.”

But I’m not, she wanted to cry. She had saved her. If she hadn’t run, they would both be dead. She had sacrificed everything to save her. And she would never let her be taken away.

That was why, despite every single nerve ending screaming that this was a bad decision, that she was heading the wrong way, she had to do this. She didn’t have a choice.

“I thought we were going to Scotland?” Alice asked when they had bundled back into the car and headed south, on the M1.

“We were. But this is important, Alice. It’s something I need to do—to keep us safe, okay?”

Alice had nodded. “Okay.”

What Fran hadn’t added was that this was something she had to do alone. But again, she had no choice. And maybe, just maybe, this was a good diversion. The last thing they would expect from her. The last person they would expect her to visit and certainly the last person she wanted to visit.



* * *



—

THEY WERE NOW over an hour from the services. Almost back to where they had started. Their destination was just half an hour away. But it felt like she was driving back in time. Nine years since she had left. Since one terrible night had smashed their family into smithereens. Perhaps it had always been fragile. Most families are. Blood may be thicker than water but it’s a pretty useless substance for sticking anything together.

Her dad had been the only constant and, once he was gone, the rest of them had been cast adrift. No anchor, nothing to stop them floating further and further away from each other. Or, in their mother’s case, farther down into the bottom of a bottle.

Fran’s grief had festered and grown. A constant darkness at the edge of her vision. Sometimes the feeling was so intense she imagined she could reach out and touch the dark cloud around her pulsating with pain, anger and resentment. Even when they caught the person responsible, it hadn’t been enough. It hadn’t eased the constant ache inside.

And then, someone had offered her a solution.

Soon afterward, when she found out she was pregnant—a stupid, drunken misadventure—she decided to move away. She had never really considered herself maternal, but once she knew she had a tiny human growing inside her she yearned to love and protect it.

She didn’t tell her family about her plans. She just found another job, in another town, and left. On the day of Dad’s funeral. A fresh start, putting what she had done behind her. At least, that’s what she had told herself. She had moved several times since then; made several fresh starts. Unfortunately, Fran’s baggage wasn’t the kind you can leave at the station. More like a shadow, and you can never escape your shadow.

“Don’t we need to turn off here? You said it was this junction?”

“Shit!”

Alice shot her a reproving look.

“Sorry. Language. I know.”

She indicated and swerved through the traffic to the slip road. Damn. She was getting stressed, getting sloppy, and they weren’t even there yet. Already she could feel the familiar anxiety bearing down on her. She hadn’t even thought exactly what she would do when they did get there. What she would say. How she would deal with things. None of this was to plan.

But then, you couldn’t plan for everything. You couldn’t plan for an exceptionally wet year followed by three years of dry winters, lowering water levels. Or for a new housing estate being built and the surrounding land being drained. And you certainly couldn’t plan for him finding the car. Of all people. How? How had he even known where to look?

She glanced at Alice. She was staring out of the window, a familiar lost look in her eyes as she fumbled with the bag on her lap. Clickety-click. Clickety-click. The shell from the bath had disappeared, added to Alice’s collection. Where did they come from? she thought again. Who was the girl on the beach, and what did she want? “The Sandman is coming.” Why did that phrase seem so damn ominous?

Just another thing to worry about. Because, while she could protect Alice here, in the waking world, how was she supposed to protect her from her dreams, her subconscious? She couldn’t keep her safe there. And that scared her more than anything.