The Other People: A Novel(38)

He hurried across to the camper van and pulled out his keys. He frowned. The side door was open, just a fraction. Had he forgotten to lock it, or had someone broken in? He pulled the door open and climbed inside.

There was a man in the van. Sitting calmly on the small bunk seat. Even more oddly, Gabe recognized him. It was the young police officer he’d seen in the coffee shop. The traffic cop flying solo.

The disparity, the sheer strangeness, threw him for a moment.

“I’m sorry, but wha—?”

The man rose and struck him in the face. It was so sudden, so unexpected, that Gabe didn’t even have a chance to raise an arm to defend himself. His head rocked back against the side of the van. His legs wavered. Before he could straighten, the man punched him again, in the throat. Gabe gasped, choking, trying to draw breath, his throat burning like someone had rammed hot coals down it.

The man picked up Gabe’s messenger bag.

No! he tried to yell, but it came out: “Nnurrrggghhh!”

Gabe grabbed for the bag. Managed to snag the strap. The man threw another punch. Gabe ducked his head to one side. He held tight as the man pulled at the bag. They tugged back and forth, Gabe somehow finding strength in desperation.

The man drew back his arm and punched him sharply in the side. Hot, burning pain. Gabe grabbed instinctively at his stomach, letting go of the bag. The man snatched it, shoved the door open and jumped outside. Gabe lurched after him, but the pain reeled him back. He fell to the floor. Through the open door, he could see the man sauntering casually away.

He tried to reach for the door to pull himself up, missed and fell out of the van, onto the rough tarmac. He screamed, clutching at his side, which seemed to be leaking something hot and wet. The man was just a silhouette now. He couldn’t let him go. The bag held everything. His laptop, the Bible, the notebook, the hair bobble. It was all he had.

He tried to drag himself along the ground, but his energy was seeping out of him. He rolled onto his back, gasping for air. It was too thick with petrol and fumes. The sky was too bright. He closed his eyes. Faintly, he could hear shouting. Then, closer, a voice:

“Oh my God. Christ—what’s happened?”

He couldn’t answer. The darkness was soothing. Like a balm. There would be no more pain there.

But the voice was insistent.

“Open your eyes. Look at me. I’m calling an ambulance, but you have to wake up.”

He opened his eyes. A face loomed over him. Familiar. Nice, but tired. The kind waitress.

“I…” He drew his hand away from his side and stared, bemused, at the red dripping from his fingers. “I think I’ve been stabbed.”





Alice waited. She tried not to look as if she was waiting. Or worried. Or afraid. But actually, she was all of them and more.

Fran should have been back by now. She had said it wouldn’t take more than an hour. One and a half tops. That was over two hours ago. They had exhausted the old woman’s old (and frankly pretty rubbish) jigsaw puzzles and had struggled through some stilted conversation. Fran had told her what to say, but it was still difficult, remembering stuff, trying not to say the wrong thing, just like sometimes she forgot to call Fran Mum. She got pretty annoyed about that.

Something about the old lady scared Alice a bit, too. She smiled too much. Alice didn’t like that, not just because her teeth were all yellow. And she was so jittery. Her hands shook when she was trying to put the jigsaw pieces down. There was this odd, sour smell about her, too.

Her twitchiness was making Alice more on edge. She kept asking if Alice wanted another drink or something else to eat, even though Alice’s glass was still half full and she had already forced down three of the stale biscuits. Eventually, just to keep her quiet, Alice said yes, some more squash would be nice. This seemed to make the old lady happy, so Alice took her opportunity: “Can I use the toilet, please?”

“Oh, of course. It’s just upstairs, first on the left.”

“Thank you.”

Alice grabbed her bag, walked up the stairs and onto a narrow landing. The bathroom door was open, but she didn’t really need the toilet; she just needed to get away from the old lady for a bit. It looked old-fashioned anyway, a hideous shade of green, shaggy mats on the floor all flattened and filthy.

There were three more doors. The nearest one was ajar. Alice peered inside. It was obviously the old lady’s room. There was a lot of dark furniture, a double bed covered in a quilted bed cover. On the bedside table were two pictures in fancy silver frames. Alice hesitated. She wasn’t normally a child who sneaked around. But being here, in this house, had made her curious.

She padded across the carpet and picked up the first photo. Four people stood on a clifftop in the sunshine. She recognized the old lady, younger and happier, and Fran, looking very young. Not that much older than Alice. There were two little girls in the photo, too. Fran’s sisters. Alice had never thought of her as having a family. It had always been just the two of them. The second photo was of the old lady and a man. He had thinning hair, a wide smile and crinkly blue eyes. He looked nice, she thought. Kind.

She put the photo back down. From the kitchen she could hear the sound of glasses clinking. The bedside table had two small drawers. She yanked one of them open. Neatly folded hankies, a pot of Vicks and, just poking out from underneath the hankies, what looked like newspaper cuttings. Alice took them out. She was a good reader, but the small print of newspapers was a little difficult. Still, she could make out the headlines.