The Other People(45)

Gabe told him.

“I think he wanted the stuff we found in the car.”

The Samaritan listened, long legs crossed, face impassive. When Gabe had finished, he didn’t speak for a long while.

“Okay,” he said eventually. “This is what we’re going to do.”

“We?”

“You want my help or not?”

Gabe often felt that by accepting help from the Samaritan he was making a lot of very small deals with the devil. But what choice did he have?

He sighed. “Okay.”

“You need to leave your van here and then go check yourself in at a hotel.”

“Why?”

“Because, in this van, you’re a sitting duck.”

“But the man got what he wanted.”

“And you got a good look at him.”

“You think he’ll come back?”

The Samaritan stared at him with his fathomless eyes.

“I would.”

“All right.”

“You can take my car.”

“You’re sure?”

“It’s just temporary. You keep your head down and wait to hear from me.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll stay in your van. If your man comes back, I’ll be waiting for him and we’ll have a little chat. Understand?”

Gabe nodded slowly.

“All right.”

“Don’t worry. He won’t bother you again.”

The Samaritan sat back and grinned. The strange, shiny stone in his tooth gleamed. Gabe tried to contain a shiver.

Gabe had found it best not to think about what lay behind that smile. Just like he tried not to wonder who this man really was, why he wanted to help him or what he might want one day in return.

“Some people call me the Samaritan.”

But sometimes, Gabe wondered what the others called him.





Alice sat on a swing in the run-down playground, pushing herself slowly back and forth. It was getting dark. Younger children and their parents had gone, heading home for dinner, baths and bed. One group of teenagers remained, pushing each other too fast on the small roundabout.

Alice kept her head down, swinging quietly. No one took much notice of a child in a playground, and she looked old enough to walk home on her own. That was what Fran had always told her. Hide in plain sight. Hang out in a playground, or park, near a school. Near other families and parents. Somewhere that people expect to see children, among other children. If anyone asks where your mum is, point at someone in the distance or say they’re just coming. Hang tight and wait for me to call.

“Wait for me to call.”

That was the other thing Fran had always told her. If something goes wrong, if I don’t reply to your text, wait for me to call you. Don’t call me. It’s too risky.

She had tried. She had waited and waited. The mobile on her lap remained dark and silent. And then she had broken the rule. She just needed to hear Fran’s voice. But the voice she got was automated, telling her the number was unavailable.

She pushed herself back and forth restlessly. The swing squeaked like an animal in pain. There was still time, she told herself. Still time. Even as a weak drizzle began to spit from the sky and her fingers numbed with cold. Still time. Just wait.

Because she didn’t want to think about the end of waiting. About what happened if she stopped. About what that meant. About the final thing Fran had told her.

“If I don’t call, it means something bad has happened. I might be hurt. Or dead. So, you don’t call me. You call this number. And you do what we planned. Yes?”

She remembered nodding, thinking that she was agreeing to something that would never happen. Despite what had happened before. Despite the very bad thing that they were never supposed to talk about. The very bad thing that Alice pretended she couldn’t remember. But sometimes she did. Bits of it. She remembered the man. And the blood. And her mum—her real mum.

She had felt safe with Fran. She loved her, in a way. She had no one else. But now, Fran was gone and Alice was the most frightened she had ever been.

She stared down at the phone. Just a little longer, she told herself. Just a little longer.





Katie hated being late for her children. She had always promised she would never let them down. She would always be there for them.

Even before Mum’s drinking had spiraled into dependency there had been too many occasions when she had arrived blurry-eyed at the school gates, blaming bad traffic or an appointment. Katie had never forgotten that nervous feeling in the pit of her stomach, the embarrassment of her and Lou being the last ones standing there, watching enviously as their classmates skipped off home with their mummies, mummies whose cars probably didn’t clink with the sound of bottles in the trunk when they drove around a corner.

Katie might not have achieved much in her life. But one thing she was proud of was being a good mum. Yes, she had made mistakes. All parents did. But she had always put her children first. Always tried her hardest to give them a happy, secure childhood. To not let history repeat itself.

And now, her mum was doing it again, disrupting Katie’s life, upsetting her children’s lives. She rang Lou’s doorbell. Waited. She could hear the usual commotion inside: Mia crying, Sam shouting, “Mum’s here!,” Gracie singing some song from CBeebies.