The Other People(6)
By October, the hordes of families had dissipated: back to school and work, the mundane commute. But in their place came other events. Other celebrations. Halloween, Bonfire Night. Throughout the year, it seemed, there were events designed to remind the lonely that they were indeed alone. No children, eyes illuminated by the flare and sparkle of fireworks. No other half to wrap an arm around and draw close against the autumn chill.
Christmas was the worst because it was the most invasive. On the roads, the motorway, in the service stations, you could escape the other occasions, for the most part. But Christmas—bloody Christmas—pervaded everywhere, creeping in earlier and earlier each year.
Even the service stations would make meager attempts at decorations and erect lopsided Christmas trees, badly wrapped empty boxes beneath them. The shops would be full of Christmas “goodies” for those who had forgotten a present for Auntie Edna and were on the way to a family gathering. And the songs. That was what really drove him past the edge of insanity. The same dozen Christmas songs played again and again, and not even the originals but irritatingly bad copies. After the first year, he had bought himself a very expensive pair of noise-cancelling headphones so he could shut them out and listen to his own, more maudlin, less full-of-good-cheer song selection.
Gabe hated Christmas. Anyone who has ever lost someone hates Christmas. Christmas takes your pain and turns it up to eleven. It taunts your loss with every glistening treetop and “First Noel.” It reminds you that there is no respite, no let-up. Your grief is unrelenting and even if you manage to put it away, like a box of decorations, it will always come back. Reappearing every year, as familiar as Jacob Marley’s rotting ghost.
The further away from Christmas it was, the more settled he felt. Not happy. Gabe never felt happy. He wasn’t sure that that particular emotional avenue was open to him any more. But he had found a kind of acceptance. Not acceptance that Izzy was gone. An acceptance that this was now his life. Relentless, joyless, tiring, hard. But that was okay. It was what he deserved. Until he found her. One way or another.
A green sign ahead: BARTON MARSH, 2 MILES. Next right. A traffic light. He signaled and pulled over. Laurie Anderson sang about Hansel and Gretel, all grown up and sick of each other. No such thing as a happy ever after, he thought.
The turn took him on to an even narrower, twistier country lane. No streetlights. Just sporadic cat’s eyes, winking at him from the center of the road. His phone pinged with a text:
“How close?”
“2 miles.”
“Passed a farm?”
“No.”
“After the farm, look out for a lay-by. Pull in. Footpath into woods.”
“Okay.”
Footpath into woods.
His scalp prickled. Momentarily, he wondered what had brought the Samaritan here, to such a secluded spot. Then he decided he really didn’t want to know.
He dragged his concentration back to the road. To his left, a sign sprang out of the gloom: OLD MEADOWS FARM. Sure enough, just a few yards down, on his right, he spotted a lay-by, the “P” sign almost totally obscured by overgrown trees.
He pulled in behind the only other car parked there. A black BMW. A few years old, the number plate partially obscured by dirt. Not enough to attract the attention of the police but just enough to make it difficult to make out, at a glance. The back and rear windows were tinted, although Gabe doubted that was for the comfort of the passengers.
He turned off the camper van’s engine, which was probably loud and chugging enough to be heard back at the farmhouse, opened the glovebox and took out a small flashlight. Then he grabbed his thick parka from the passenger seat and shrugged it on. He climbed out of the van and locked the doors. Probably unnecessary. He was procrastinating. Putting the moment off.
He zipped up the parka, right to his chin. It was cold tonight. His breath puffed out like cigarette smoke. He looked around. To his left, a half-rotted public footpath sign pointed to a narrow gap between overgrown bushes.
Footpath into woods.
Gabe wasn’t sure anything good ever came from taking a footpath into the woods, at night, alone.
He flicked on his flashlight and headed through.
Eight minutes. Fran checked her watch. Alice had been gone too long. Even taking into account her bathroom phobia, eight minutes was still too long. Fran grabbed her bag and pushed her chair away from the table.
She hurried down the main thoroughfare, almost empty at this time in the morning. Past a bored-looking cleaner, squeezed into a uniform several sizes too small for his burly frame, sweeping randomly at the floor. Past the W. H. Smith and the gaming section where—even at this hour, and probably even after hell froze over—one sad loner sat tapping at the flashing buttons of a bandit like some kind of fruit-fixated zombie. She rounded the corner and went into the ladies’ toilets.
“Alice!!”
She lay on the floor, curled into a fetal ball, halfway along the row of sinks. Her hair had fallen over her face and one hand still loosely clutched her bag. A bit of toilet paper was stuck to the bottom of one boot.
“Shit.” She knelt down and pushed back Alice’s dark hair. Her breathing was shallow but steady. When Alice went deep, her breathing was so slow Fran had often feared the worst. But now, as she cradled her head on her lap, she could feel it becoming more regular. Any second now, she thought. Come on…