The Whisper Man(19)

Pete followed its gaze, finally lowering the beam.

It became difficult to breathe.

He had been searching for these children for three months, and while he had always anticipated an outcome like this, he had never entirely given up hope. But here they were, lying in this rank, warm darkness. The four bodies looked real and unreal at the same time. Lifelike dolls that had been broken and now lay still, their clothes intact except for their T-shirts, which had been pulled up to cover their faces.



* * *



Perhaps the worst thing about that particular nightmare was that it had become familiar enough over the years not to disturb his sleep. It was the alarm that woke him the next morning.

He lay there for a few seconds, trying to keep calm. Attempting to ignore the memory was like shoving at mist, but he reminded himself that it was only recent events that had roused these nightmares, and that they would fade in time. He turned off the alarm.

Gym, he thought.

Paperwork. Admin.

Routine.

He showered, dressed, packed the bag for his workout, and by the time he headed downstairs to make coffee and a light breakfast, the dream had receded and his thoughts were more under control. There had been a brief interruption to his life—that was all. It was completely understandable that turning the soil over had released some pungent ghosts from the earth, but they would fade soon. The urge to drink would weaken again. Life would return to normal.

It was only when he took his breakfast through to the living room that he saw the red light on his cell blinking. He’d missed a call; there was voice mail to listen to. He dialed the number and listened to the message, chewing his food slowly.

Forcing himself to swallow it. His throat was tight.

After two months, Frank Carter had agreed to see him.





Thirteen


“Just stand against the wall for me,” I said. “A little to the right. No, “my right. A little more. That’s it. Now give me a smile.”

It was Jake’s first day at his new school, and I was far more nervous about the prospect than he was. How many times could you check a drawer to make sure clothes were ready? Were there names on everything? Where had I put his book bag and water bottle? There was so much to consider, and I wanted everything to be perfect for him.

“Can I move yet, Dad?”

“Hang on.”

I held up my phone in front of me as Jake stood against the only blank wall in his bedroom, dressed in his new school uniform: gray trousers, white shirt, and blue jumper—all of it fresh and clean, of course, with name tags on absolutely everything. His smile was shy and sweet. He looked so grown up in his uniform, but also still so small and vulnerable.

I tapped the screen a couple of times.

“Done.”

“Can I see?”

“Of course you can.”

I knelt down and he leaned on my shoulder as I showed him the photographs I’d taken.

“I look okay.”

He sounded surprised.

“You look perfect,” I told him.

And he did. I tried to enjoy the moment, even though it was tinged with sadness, because Rebecca should have been here too. Like most parents, she and I had taken pictures on Jake’s first days in a new year at school, but I’d changed my phone recently, and it was only earlier this week that I’d realized what that meant. All my photographs were gone—lost forever. To add insult to injury, I did have Rebecca’s phone, but while the photos would be on there, the phone was locked with her fingerprint. I’d stared at her old handset in frustration for a full minute, facing down the hard truth of the situation. Rebecca was gone, which meant that those memories were gone as well.

I had tried to tell myself that it didn’t matter. That it was just another harsh joke grief had played on me—and a minor one in the grand scheme of things. But it had hurt. It felt like another failing on my part.

We’ll get so many more.

“Come on, mate.”

Before we left, I uploaded copies to the ether.



* * *



Rose Terrace Primary School was a low, sprawling building, secluded from the street behind iron railings. The main part was old and pretty: a single story with numerous peaked roofs. BOYS and GIRLS were carved into the black stone above separate entrances, although much newer signs indicated that that Victorian separation was now used to delineate different year groups instead. I’d been shown around before enrolling Jake. Inside, there was a hall with a polished wooden floor, which acted as a central hub for the surrounding classrooms. Between the doors, the walls were covered with small handprints in different-colored paint, pressed there by a selection of former pupils, with the dates they’d attended written underneath.

Jake and I stood at the railings.

“What do you think?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

It was hard to blame him for being doubtful. The playground beyond the railings was teeming with children, along with parents clustered together in groups. It was the first day of a new year, but everybody here—kids and parents alike—already knew each other from previous years, and Jake and I were going to be walking in as strangers to everyone except each other. His old school had been larger and more anonymous. Everyone here seemed so tightly knit that it was impossible to imagine we wouldn’t always feel like outsiders. God, I hoped that he fit in.