The Other People: A Novel(74)

“I don’t know. I can only think she was terrified. She must have seen the killer. Maybe she abandoned her daughter to save yours.”

“Why didn’t she just call the police?”

“Maybe she couldn’t. Maybe she had got herself involved in something she couldn’t get out of.”

“What? What could she have been involved in that could lead to this?”

Katie wavered. Now or never. She took out her purse. Her hand shook. She slipped out the dog-eared business card and laid it on the coffee table.

THE OTHER PEOPLE.

Gabe stared at the card and then looked up at her. “What do you know about the Other People?”

“What do you know?”

“Vigilante justice. Quid pro quo. An eye for an eye—”

“Requests and Favors,” she finished bitterly. “My sister owed the Other People a Favor.”

“What for? What did she ask them to do?”

“Kill the person who murdered our dad.”





NINE YEARS AGO


Gone, Katie thought, staring at the card, “…but not forgotten.” Still gone, though. Forever. Gone.

The word seemed to have lodged in her brain.

She couldn’t get past it.

“You don’t have to decide on the words right now,” the elderly lady behind the counter told her kindly. “You can always call back.”

But she couldn’t. There had been enough disagreement about the flowers/plants. She needed to get this done. And it was stupid, really. Because it wasn’t as if Dad was going to read the card. It wasn’t like she was writing it for him. But she still felt a burden, a responsibility to get the words right, if nothing else. To avoid the clichés, the bland platitudes.

But what could she say? This wasn’t the funeral of a father who had died peacefully in his sleep. He hadn’t suffered a long illness from which death was a merciful release. What were the right words when your beloved father had been brutally and sadistically murdered?

The florist was still staring at her.

She was short, with straggly white hair in a bun and thick glasses which she peered through like a myopic mole. A myopic mole dressed in a blue dress, shabby cardigan and sensible black shoes.

“It’s always more difficult in these circumstances.”

Katie looked at her more sharply. “What do you know about my circumstances?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude but, well, I read the news and…I’m so sorry.”

Katie cleared her throat. “Thank you. It’s just—”

“You’re still angry.”

She looked up sharply, about to retort that it was none of this woman’s business. But then she realized the florist was right. That was exactly it. It was hard to write words of remembrance when you were still so angry that you were doing this at all. When this was not right. When what you really wanted to do was shout and scream and rail against the God who had let it happen.

And this was the first person who had recognized that.

She nodded. “Yes. I am.”

The florist smiled. It wasn’t exactly sympathetic. Katie wasn’t sure what it was. It only occurred to her later that it was satisfaction—as if she had answered correctly.

“Would you like a coffee?”

“Erm, thank you.”

The woman gestured for her to come around the counter. In the back of the shop there was a small kitchenette and a couple of comfy chairs. Katie sat down while the woman boiled the kettle.

“You know, a lot of people think that grief is all about acceptance. But that’s not always the way.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?”

“How do you really feel about the man who murdered your father?”

Katie took a breath, so sharp it physically hurt, like a cracked rib.

“I hate him. I know I’m not supposed to say that. I know I’m supposed to try and forgive. He was just a kid, only eighteen. Deprived background, in and out of care. I get it. But he murdered my dad. He crushed him against a wall and then left him there to die. He could have still saved him. One call. One sign of remorse. Instead, he went to a party. While my dad was bleeding to death, he was snorting coke and getting wasted.”

She stopped for breath. It was the first time she had said it; had really let it out. To a complete stranger.

The florist brought two mugs of coffee over. “At least they caught the person responsible.”

“For what it’s worth. Our solicitor is telling us to prepare for a plea of manslaughter and a light sentence because of his age. Maybe only two or three years. My dad is dead forever and he gets a few years. It doesn’t feel like justice.”

“What would?

The question caught her by surprise. Her answer even more so: “For him to die, in pain and alone, just like my dad.” She shook her head. “God. That sounds awful, doesn’t it?”

“No, it sounds honest. Here.”

The woman handed her a card.

Katie stared at it. The card was black with three words written in white.

THE OTHER PEOPLE.

Beneath the words two white stick people held hands.

“What’s this?”

“A website where you can connect with people who’ve been through the same thing as you; who might be able to help.”