The Other People: A Novel(5)

But not as scary as when she woke up.

Fran thought about the rucksack. That restless rattling. Panic fluttered like a dark moth in her chest.



* * *



—

ALICE STARED AT the sign for the Ladies. A woman in a triangle skirt. When she was little, she used to think it meant if she was wearing trousers she couldn’t go in. She didn’t want to go in now. Fear gripped her belly hard, which of course just made the urge to wee even greater.

It wasn’t the toilets she was afraid of. Or even the noisy hand-dryers (although they used to scare her a bit). It was something else. Something it was hard to avoid in any bathroom, but especially in public toilets, with their row upon row of sinks and unexpected corners.

Mirrors. Alice didn’t like mirrors. She had been scared of them ever since she was little. One of her earliest memories was of playing dress-up and sneaking upstairs to look at herself in her mum’s big mirror in the bedroom. She had stood in front of it, resplendent in her Elsa dress…and she had started to scream.

Not all mirrors were a problem. Some were safe. She didn’t know why. She couldn’t explain it any more than she could explain why some were dangerous. Unfamiliar mirrors were riskier. Mirrors she didn’t know. Those were the ones where she saw things; those were the ones that could make her fall.

It will be all right, she told herself. Just look down. Keep looking down.

She took a deep breath and pushed open the door. The cloying smell of air freshener and harsh disinfectant caught in her throat and made her feel a little sick. No one else was in the toilets, which was unusual, but then, it was still early, and the services were quiet.

She hurried to the closest toilet, keeping her eyes to the floor, and shut the door. She lowered herself onto the toilet, had a wee then quickly dried, flushed and slipped out again, still trying to keep her eyes down. Now was the hard part. Now she had to get to the sink and wash her hands.

She almost made it. But the soap wouldn’t work. She pushed and pushed and then she glanced up. She couldn’t help it. Or maybe there was just something about that forbidden gleam that called to her, like a door left slightly ajar. You couldn’t help pushing it wider to see what lay on the other side.

She caught sight of her reflection. Except, it wasn’t her. It wasn’t really a reflection at all. It was a girl, similar looking, although a few years older. But whereas Alice was dark-haired with blue eyes, this girl was pale, almost albino, with white hair and eyes like milky-grey marbles.

“Alisssss.”

Even her voice was pale and insubstantial, like it was being carried away on a breeze.

“Not now. Go away.”

“Sssssh. Sssssh now.”

“Leave me alone.”

“I neeeed you.”

“I can’t.”

“I need you to sleeeeep.”

“No. I’m not…”

But before the word “tired” could leave her mouth Alice’s eyelids snapped shut and she slumped to the floor.





I found it.

Was it really possible, after all this time? And, of course, Gabe was very aware of what the Samaritan had not said. He’d said, “I found it.” Not “I found her.” Unless he was sparing Gabe. But, then, why call him out here? There was something more contained within those words. He felt it. A lie by omission. I found it. And?

He squinted at the unfamiliar road signs and guided the camper van along roads that felt too narrow and twisty. Gabe always felt a momentary dislocation when he pulled off the motorway. Like he had cut a safety line. Severed the umbilical cord. Jumped into the abyss without a chute.

Panic scratched with feverish claws at the back of his mind. Panic that he could be missing her. Panic that he was letting her slip away. All over again. Irrational, insane. But he couldn’t help it. The motorway. That was his only link. The place he had last seen her. The place he had lost her.

You’re supposed to do anything for your child. Anything. And he had just watched his daughter disappear. Just let those tail lights pull away. Gone. Vanished. He had replayed it over and over in his mind. If only he had done things differently. If only he hadn’t turned off. If only he had followed that damn shitty old car. If only, if only.

Glorious hindsight. But hindsight isn’t glorious. Hindsight is a shabby conman. A gameshow host in a gold lamé suit and bad hairpiece who mockingly shows you what you could have won:

If you had been faster, braver, more committed. If you weren’t such a coward. But, ladies and gentlemen, give him a round of applause. He’s been a great contestant. Still a loser, though. Still a fucking loser.

He gripped the steering wheel tighter and glanced at the clock: 2:47 a.m. The sky was still a deep swathe of velvety black pierced through with a few tiny pinpoints of light. It would be a while before dawn dragged it aside. In mid-February that wouldn’t happen for another three hours, at least.

He was glad. He preferred the darkness. Preferred this time of year. When the days first began to shorten, during October, he both welcomed and hated it. The long hours of summer were bad. Sunny days brought more people to the motorway: cars packed with families heading off on holiday. Smiling, eager, happy faces. Sweaty, screaming, exhausted ones. He saw Izzy in all of them.

Once or twice, at the beginning, he had almost run after a couple of little girls, convinced they were her. Both times he had realized, just before he made a fool of himself (or earned a punch in the face from an angry father), that he was wrong. He had been saved from humiliation. He hadn’t been saved from the gut-wrenching disappointment.