The Other People: A Novel(78)

“They also found a woman. Badly injured. I’m afraid she died in hospital this morning.”

She drew in a breath. “Have they identified her?”

“Not yet.”

“Right. I see.”

“I mean, it might not be Fran but…”

“What are the odds?”

“I’m sorry.”

“No.” She cleared her throat and shook her head. “I think, in my heart, I knew she was dead.”

“Right. Well.” He tipped up his glass but, to his surprise, it was empty. “I guess that’s all the cards on the table.”

“Not quite. There’s one thing you haven’t explained.”

“What?”

“Who hated you so much that they wanted to kill your family?”





Izzy lay motionless in bed, her breathing slow and steady, eyes closed. But she wasn’t asleep.

She hovered over sleep in the same way an owl might hover over the dark fields below, occasionally letting herself drift down, close to the whispering grass, but soaring up again before she could let herself settle.

At the other end of the bed, Gracie snuffled into a pillow and Sam lay, sprawled, half in, half out of the covers. Downstairs, she could hear Katie and her dad (it still felt so strange to use that word) moving around, talking.

Her dad seemed nice. She could only remember bits of him, from before. Fran had told her it was too dangerous for her to see her dad, that he couldn’t keep her safe. But she wasn’t so sure that was true. She had recognized him straight away, and the feeling he gave her, when they hugged, had been of comfort, warmth, protection. There were a lot of things Fran had told her that Izzy was beginning to doubt.

Even about that day. The day it happened. The day the horror came.

Izzy had loved Fran, in her way. She tried to be kind, and Izzy knew Fran cared for her, would have done anything to protect her. But there was always something hard about her. Even when she hugged Izzy, her body felt sharp and bony, like she had managed to armor herself against the world, inside and out.

And now Fran was gone. Izzy knew, in a way she couldn’t explain, that she was dead. Not having someone around, knowing they were somewhere else, was one type of being away. But this felt different. Like there was some sort of space, a gap in the world where Fran had been. Dead. Izzy let the word settle. Like her mum. Like Emily. Some people thought that “dead” meant going to heaven. Fran had told her that that was lies. “Dead” meant never coming back.

The wind whistled outside and Izzy reached for her rucksack of pebbles on the bedside table. She hugged the bag to her chest. Inside, the pebbles shifted and rattled. They were restless. They know this place, she thought. And, weirdly, she felt like she knew it, too. The feeling had grown stronger and stronger. And then, when she had looked out of the window and seen the beach, she had realized.

The girl in the mirror. She was here.

That was why Izzy couldn’t sleep. She could feel her presence, hear her voice, whispering to her from just the other side of the door.

I need you.

Of course, she didn’t have to go. She could just stay in bed and pretend to sleep. But the compulsion was so strong. Almost like a physical tug.

Pleeeaaase.

The girl needed her.

And she needed the girl.

She sat up and swung her legs out of bed. Gracie stirred and rolled over, murmuring something, but her eyes remained closed. Izzy pushed aside the covers and tiptoed across the carpet.

She reached the bedroom door and eased it open. The bathroom was to the left along the long landing. She padded out into the darkness, the light from the hall throwing up a faint illumination. She supposed it didn’t matter too much if anyone heard her. They would probably just think she was going to the toilet.

She walked along the plush carpet, reached the door and slid inside, pulling the door closed behind her. She didn’t lock it. Fran had always told her not to, in case she fell and Fran couldn’t reach her.

Like everything else in this strange but familiar house, the bathroom was huge. But cold. Painted white and dark green. A large claw-footed bath stood in the center, across a checked tiled floor. There was a sink and a separate shower which looked newer. On the windowsill were bowls of pebbles and shells.

Izzy took a breath and walked toward the sink. She looked down into the basin, counted: “One, two, three.”

And then she looked up. Into the mirror.

The pale girl looked back at her. Behind her, the sea churned. The wind tugged her white hair this way and that. The girl smiled. Then she raised a hand to her lips.

Shhhhhhhh.





Gabe padded softly along the silent corridors. Too quiet. Too still. Like Isabella, the house existed in a state of suspended animation. Neither living nor dead. In perpetual limbo.

He reached the door to the south wing. A double fire door with a keypad for entry. He typed in the code and the door buzzed open.

Whenever he entered this wing of the house a heavy melancholy settled on him. He sometimes wondered if this was what men walking the green mile felt like. A long, slow trudge to a certain fate. Despite attempts at homeliness, with pictures of brightly painted beach houses on the walls, low lighting and carpet, there was no escaping the institutional feel, the chemical smell and the staleness of the air.

He found himself wishing, again, that he had the strength to let Isabella go, to release her once and for all. But he didn’t. He was too afraid of the consequences and unwilling to bear the responsibility for her life. What right did he have to determine how and when it should be ended? Him, of all people?