Mr. Nobody(48)
Zara looks up sharply at this. “Why do you doubt it?”
“I don’t know,” Chris flounders. “I guess, she’s young, ish. Well, about my age.” Shit, he thinks. “And, I don’t know, she just seems…well, as in the dark about this as everyone else. From what I sensed…meeting her today.”
Chris is a bad liar, he knows this. Better to just avoid questions in the future, he thinks. Thankfully, Zara seems satisfied by his awful answer and wanders out of the kitchen. He lets the tension in his shoulders release and gently rests his head back down on the tabletop.
He wonders if Emma has worked for the government before. Because it’s incredibly strange that they chose her for this job, considering her history up here. Whoever assigned her must have known what happened, and surely they’d realize how much the press finding out would harm the investigation, wouldn’t they?
But the press won’t find out, he tells himself. He’ll make sure of that. But if someone else recognizes her, he wouldn’t be able to control that. Hell, he recognized her right away. But then, he would, wouldn’t he, he’d spent the formative years of his life staring at her and her brother across classrooms and playing fields. Other people might not have looked so hard, they might not see Marni’s features hidden in Emma’s adult face. There’s no way Zara will see it. Emma Lewis doesn’t look anything like Marni Beaufort, that’s for sure, not anymore.
* * *
—
Later that night, while Chris is brushing his teeth in the bathroom, his mobile phone receives a text message. Zara leans across the bed and checks it. There’s no name for this contact on his phone, just a number she doesn’t recognize.
Sorry to text so late. Would it be possible to get a list of past employees at Waltham House? I can’t say why just yet but I think it might be helpful. Also, might have to rain check that drink. Snowed under.
Emma x
Zara stares at the words intently, as all the possible permutations of what they could mean blow like a forest fire through her mind. Leaving sadness in their wake.
The sounds of Chris pottering in the bathroom drift in to her, she opens her mouth to call to him, so he can explain, tell her it’s all a misunderstanding, she’s got the wrong end of the stick, but she stops herself. Better to wait and see, she reasons. After all, if she asks him now, he might lie and she’s not sure she could handle that. And after a moment that seems to stretch back through their entire lives together, Zara places Chris’s phone back down where she found it. She wriggles quietly down into the soft comforting cotton of their bed and reaches up to turn out her bedside light.
25
DR. EMMA LEWIS
DAY 9—THE NIGHT IT HAPPENED
Chris didn’t text me back, but that doesn’t mean anything, does it? He was probably already asleep. Lucky sod. I look down at my mobile on the bench next to me. The clock reads 02:00 A.M.
I can’t sleep. Guilt, too many thoughts, too many feelings, flowing through me. And I’ve only been back one day.
I sip my tea and look up at the stars. I’ve come out for fresh air. I thought about jumping in the car and driving all the way to a petrol garage to buy a pack of cigarettes, but I made a steamy mug of tea instead and came out here to clear my head. It’s not as scary out here as it was before. The darkness is somehow comforting.
Looking up past the trees, I can see the glittering arch of the Milky Way carving across the night sky.
It’s beautiful, but everything here reminds me of the past, of what happened, especially this sky. I’m so tired of trying not to think about it.
* * *
—
It was Bonfire Night. Fourteen years ago. Most years we’d spend it at home; we’d help Dad light our own bonfire in the top field, piling dried leaves and fallen branches, cardboard and old papers. Dad would set up elaborate firework displays while we fetched him coffee to keep warm. Sometimes a school friend would come over, one of Joe’s or mine. Sometimes some of Mum and Dad’s friends came over. They’d drink Glühwein and chat with our parents as they perched, blankets on knees. The garden would be rigged with Catherine wheels, thin Roman candles, and tightly packed rockets dotted around the lawn, ready to be lit. Joe and I would have hot chocolate with tiny little marshmallows melting into gloop on its surface and chase each other around with sparklers, carving our names in light into the air. But we didn’t do that this year, we went somewhere new, which should have raised some red flags at the time but didn’t. That night we went to the county fireworks display at Holkham Park.
We all piled into the Range Rover and Dad drove us out there, the red taillights ahead of us building as we headed toward Holkham. When we got to the gravel car park, we joined the bustling throngs of families carrying rugs and hampers as they poured into the parkland, walking the chalkstone track toward the distant lights of the event.
It was freezing that November. We’d wrapped up warm, hats, scarves, shakable pocket warmers; Mum covered every eventuality. The green was skirted by a temporary village of stalls offering refreshments and early Christmas gifts. Mum trekked off across the half-light of the field and brought us back a steaming jacket potato each, filled with beans and butter and melting cheese, which we scooped greedily into our mouths with plastic spoons, the foil hot in our gloved hands as we made our way on to the main event.