The Other People: A Novel(21)

He had risen with a strangled cry and run from the chapel, collapsing onto the damp grass outside. He lay there and screamed into the earth, until his throat was raw and his suit and shirt were sodden and stained with grass. No one came to help him. Even as the other mourners filed out, not a single person paused or offered their hand. No one wanted anything to do with a man tainted by murder.

At some point, lying there on the wet, muddy grass, he came to a decision. He could never get up again, he could kill himself, or he could find the car—find an answer, one way or another. Only then would he allow himself to grieve. Only then would he accept that Izzy was gone forever, carried away in a tiny pink coffin painted with bright, scentless flowers.

As the sun started to falter in the sky, he staggered to his feet and walked away: from the chapel, from the ashes of his family and from his life.

A week later, as he was loading his final few possessions into the trunk of his recently purchased second-hand camper van, he had received the text from Harry. He had been surprised. Then angry. He had thought about deleting it. But something stopped him.

Gabe didn’t have any parents, no close friends. He had become accustomed to keeping people at a distance, scared that if he let them too close they might see through his fa?ade. Or worse, that one day someone from his past might emerge, strip away his emperor’s new clothes and expose him for who and what he really was.

He had work associates, but it’s funny how a murder accusation can cause those colleagues to fall away. He was aware that, had he not resigned, it would only have been a matter of time before the agency found a reason to let him go.

He didn’t even have a home any more. Despite the clean-up team eliminating any trace of what had happened, he could still see the blood spatter on the walls. He could still hear the screams. Every morning when he walked into the kitchen he saw Jenny standing there, body bloody with bullet holes, eyes cold and accusing.

“Why did you let this happen? Why weren’t you here to protect us?”

A week after he was cleared to return home he called an estate agent and put the house on the market. Then, he packed a small suitcase and checked back into the Premier Inn, returning only to collect post and feed the cat. He didn’t care about the house.

The only things Gabe had ever truly cared about in this world were Jenny and Izzy. Now they were gone, and that world had ended. The only remaining link to it was Harry.

He had stared at the text and pressed reply.



* * *



—

THEY HAD MET a few times since then. Not enough to call it regular. Not always at Gabe’s behest. But always here, in the Garden of Remembrance.

They sat, sometimes in silence, which, strangely, had never felt awkward. Mostly, they talked. About Jenny and Izzy. About happier times. Embellished on both sides, Gabe felt sure. But there was no denying that the talking, letting their memories breathe, out here in the open air, amidst the greenery and flowers, eased the hollow ache inside him. Just a little. Just for a short while. Sometimes, that had to be enough.

They discussed other things, too. Banal day-to-day things. Occasionally, one of them mentioned the police investigation. Or lack thereof. How no one had been brought to justice for the crime. How hopes of catching the person responsible grew fainter each day.

Harry knew all about his motorway travels. But he never mentioned it. Just like Gabe never brought up the identification. A mutual consent of silence. A grenade that could blow apart their fragile bridges.

Despite their past differences, Gabe had always believed that Jenny’s father was a good man, a principled man, a decent man.

Today, for the first time, he wondered if he was also a fucking liar.





Clickety-click. Alice opened her eyes and blinked blearily. Where was she? It took a moment. The hotel room. Across from her, Fran slept. But something had woken her. Clickety-click.

She glanced at the bag on her bedside table. The pebbles. She could sense them, shifting softly inside.

They were restless, she thought.

I’m dreaming, she thought.

Clickety-click, the pebbles whispered.

She sat up. The artificial darkness disoriented her. She had no idea what time it was. She realized she needed to wee. Maybe this wasn’t a dream. She slipped out of bed, softly and carefully. She didn’t want to wake Fran. She must be tired. All that driving. How far? Are we there yet? Would they ever be there?

She didn’t remember much before they started running. Or perhaps she had tried to forget. Sometimes it came back to her in dreams. Not the dreams she had when she fell. She wasn’t even sure they were dreams at all. But the other ones. The ones that seized her the moment she closed her eyes at night. Dreams that were full of blood and screams and a pretty lady with blonde hair. Mummy? Something had happened to her. Someone had hurt her. And they had wanted to hurt Alice, too. But Fran had saved her. Fran had kept her safe. Fran would always keep her safe. Fran loved her. And Alice loved Fran.

Except, sometimes, just sometimes, Fran scared her a little, too.

Her bladder demanded her attention again. She padded to the bathroom, flicked on the light switch and pushed the door open.

The bathroom was small and bright. She shut the door again so as not to wake Fran and sat herself on the toilet. She weed, wiped and flushed. Instead of facing the mirror over the sink, she ducked and washed her hands under the bath taps.

Clickety-click. The pebbles sounded louder, which was stupid because they were in the other room. Clickety-click. And now she was sure she could hear something else, like the soft washing of waves on sand. Like the sound was inside the room. No, inside her head.