The Other People: A Novel(61)
“Why is Uncle Steve on the floor?
She glanced back at Steve. The blow had knocked him out, but she couldn’t see any blood. On one hand, that was probably good. Murdering a police officer was something else. On the other hand, he was going to wake up.
“We could make this a lot of fun.”
“I’ll explain later. Right now, I want you to get your shoes and coats on. We need to leave. Now.”
“I want you to visit Isabella.”
And so began his real sentence.
When it came to the trial, Gabe’s age and former good record had counted for him. Witnesses confirmed that the girl had just walked out, right in front of the car. He couldn’t have stopped in time. While the others had fled the scene, Gabe had stayed, holding the girl’s hand and talking to her until the ambulance arrived. In the shock and confusion, the crowd hadn’t realized that he was the driver. However, he had probably been speeding, he was over the limit and, even though the girl was alive, barely, his solicitor had told him that there was very little chance he could avoid a custodial sentence…
If it hadn’t been for the letter.
Charlotte Harris, the mother of the girl—whose name he now knew was Isabella—had written to the judge. He never saw the contents of the letter, but he would learn later that Charlotte was someone of influence. She had asked for leniency.
And she had asked to meet him.
They sat in an enormous living room. Balconied windows and wide French doors looked out over the chalk cliffs. Lush lawns unfurled, like a thick green carpet, down to a shimmering swimming pool. Around them porcelain, marble and glass sparkled and shone.
Beautiful. And yet…Gabe found it hard to imagine a teenage girl, with all her clumsiness, color and mess, ever living here. The huge space felt empty. He wondered if it had ever felt alive.
Charlotte Harris poured water into crystal glasses. Like the house, she was polished and poised; pale blonde hair, immaculate cream dress, shiny pearls.
“The visits will take place every Monday at precisely 2 p.m. For exactly one hour. Wherever you are, whatever you are doing.”
“Wh–why Monday?”
Charlotte regarded Gabe coolly. “Isabella was born at 2 p.m. on a Monday.” She let this thought weigh upon him before continuing. “You will not deviate from the day or time. You will continue to visit Isabella without fail until the day she recovers.”
Gabe stared at her. Isabella remained in a persistent vegetative state. No one knew when, or if, she would ever regain consciousness, let alone recover.
“But what if”—he swallowed—“she doesn’t?”
Charlotte smiled and Gabe felt her hatred emanate from every pore.
“Then you will visit her without fail until the day one of you dies. Do you understand?”
He understood.
* * *
—
EVERY MONDAY GABE sat at Isabella’s bedside while machines whirred and beeped around her. He talked to her, read to her; sometimes he held her soft, cool hand.
Isabella slept. A pale girl in a white room.
He visited her while he studied at the local polytechnic, chosen because it was within walking distance of the hospital.
He visited after he had finished his degree at the poly, working evenings in a pub and doing freelance work for a local advertising agency to free up his days. When the agency offered him a permanent copywriting position, he negotiated a cut from the already meager salary in exchange for every Monday afternoon off, lying about visiting his dying mother in the hospital, even though his mother was already dead by then.
He visited when Isabella’s mother moved her from the hospital to a specially constructed annex in the remote cliff house, catching two buses and walking a mile from the bus stop to get there.
He visited after he was headhunted for a job at a top agency, miles away in Nottingham, insisting on working remotely for two days a week so he could drive the four hours to Sussex and back.
He visited after he met Jenny. The urge to tell her, to share everything with the woman he loved, was overwhelming, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t bear to see the disappointment in her eyes.
He visited when he should have been spending holidays with his wife and daughter, inventing ever more elaborate excuses to avoid a whole week away. He had booked earlier flights home, deliberately missed trains, faked food poisoning and even invented an old friend whose funeral he needed to attend. All to keep his promise.
He visited when Jenny was in labor.
He visited when Izzy performed in her first nativity and on her third birthday.
He visited when his wife was being slaughtered and his daughter kidnapped—the hideous irony of this only sinking in later.
He visited afterward, fighting through throngs of reporters and photographers outside his home, chasing him with accusations and stories about his former crime.
Man questioned over murders of mother and daughter left girl in coma.
Father whose family were slain visits teenage girl he left for dead.
The first victim.
Oh yes. Gabe understood.
He understood that Charlotte had made him more of a prisoner than if he had been behind bars. Chained to Isabella for life.
* * *
—
“THAT’S WHY NONE of this makes any sense. Charlotte wanted me to pay. But not like this.”