The Other People: A Novel(53)

“I need to talk to you.”

“Okay. C’mon. Let’s go in the kitchen. D’you want some milk?”

“No, thank you.”

Alice sat down at the table. She still clutched the rucksack. It rattled restlessly. For some reason—stupid, Katie knew—something about the sound set her teeth on edge. Clickety-click. Clickety-click.

“Are you worried about your mum?” she asked now.

A small nod.

“Well, look, tomorrow, we’ll call the police…”

“No!” Alice’s cry was anguished.

“But they can help.”

“No.” Alice shook her head. “You can’t call them.”

Katie looked at her helplessly. “Why not?”

“Fran said they would take her away. I’d be left in danger.”

“Alice, why do you say ‘Fran’ sometimes, not ‘Mum’?”

“I…” She looked guilty, caught in a lie. Then she sighed. “Because she isn’t my real mum.”

And there it was. Somehow, Katie had sensed something was wrong—very wrong—about all of this.

“Where’s your real mum?”

“She’s dead.”

“I’m sorry. Are you adopted?”

“No.”

“Then why is Fran looking after you?”

Alice chewed her lip. Katie got the feeling it was a long time since someone had extricated the truth from Alice; it felt like pulling a sliver of glass from a wound.

“Something bad happened. Mum died. So did Emily. Fran saved me.”

Katie felt more confused than ever. “Who’s Emily?”

“She was Fran’s little girl.”

“Wait. Fran had a daughter who died?”

A nod. “That’s why Fran has to keep me safe. She can’t lose me, too.”

Christ. Katie tried to process this. Fran’s daughter was dead? So, who was this girl? Where were her family? Did she have a father? Did he know where she was, or was he out there somewhere, looking for her?

And that’s when it hit her, the realization sideswiping her like a juggernaut.

That feeling of familiarity. The eyes, the smile.

Something bad happened. Mum died.

Her breath seemed to lodge in her chest. Jesus Christ. Could it be possible?

She took the flyer back out of her pocket.

HAVE YOU SEEN ME?

She looked at the photo, then back at Alice. Of course, she was older, her hair had been dyed and her adult teeth had grown through.

But there was no mistake.

“What’s that?” Alice asked.

Katie reached for her hand. “Sweetheart, I think…it’s you.”





Izzy had loved the Toy Story movies. Gabe found them incredibly sad. The end of childhood. The fear of becoming old and unwanted. The realization that life moves on without you.

Gabe had found himself reflecting on this a few months before Izzy’s fourth birthday. Jenny had set him the task of clearing out some of Izzy’s old toys before the house filled with new ones.

“It’s either that or buy a bigger house.”

They both knew that that was not in the cards, not with the unspoken fragility of their relationship. And Jenny was right. The house was overflowing with pink plastic.

He had found Buzz beneath a mountain of more recent acquisitions in Izzy’s toy box. He stared at his wide plastic smile: to infinity and beyond, or the charity shop? He put him to one side—he couldn’t, just couldn’t—and set about collecting some of her older toys: cheap Barbie knock-offs, a pushchair, dog-eared cuddly toys and other plastic novelties acquired for Christmas or birthdays and never played with. He had divided them into two bin bags. One for the charity shop. One for the tip. By the time he had finished, it had been too late to take them to either, so he had deposited the bags in the garage—and promptly forgotten about them.

Izzy didn’t miss the toys. She had plenty of new bits of plastic for Gabe to spend hours putting together and days tripping over. Then, a few weeks later, the weather turned surprisingly warm. Gabe had opened the garage to get out the mower, to cut the grass. Izzy ran in with him and her face fell.

“Why are all my toys in here, Daddy? Are you throwing them away?”

“Well, you haven’t played with them for ages.”

“But I want to play with them now.”

She began to root determinedly through the bags. Gabe had checked his irritation.

“Izzy—you have lots of lovely new toys. We haven’t got room for all of them. I’m going to take some of your old toys to the charity shop. You know, like in Toy Story, when Andy gives his old toys to the little girl.”

“What about the others?”

He hesitated. “Well, they have to go to the dump.”

Her eyes had widened in horror.

“But then they’ll be burned.”

Crap. Why had he mentioned Toy Story?

“Izzy, they’re broken, missing bits—”

“But we can’t let them be burned just because they’re broken. Woody was broken and he got fixed.”

Gabe had sighed. “Izzy, some things can’t be fixed.”

“Why? Why can’t we save them all?”