The Other People: A Novel(87)

He swallowed, thinking about Jenny. “I don’t know. I hope so.”

She nodded. “You should get back. They’ll be missing you.”

“What about you?”

“Don’t worry, you won’t see me again.”

He hoped that was true. He wanted to believe her. But he had to say it.

“If I do, you know I’ll kill you, don’t you?”

“I’m already dead, remember?”

He turned away and walked down the cliff path. Halfway, he realized he hadn’t fetched the sun cream. He turned back. She was gone.





Katie stood at the shoreline, the sea lapping at her toes. As Gabe approached, feet crunching on the pebbles, she turned.

“You took your time,” she said.

Gabe held out the sun cream, shrugged. “I’m old and slow.”

“Nothing else?”

He smiled. “No. Why?”

She looked at him a little curiously then shook her head. “Nothing.” She waved the sun cream in the air. “Kids!”

They obediently splashed out of the water and allowed Katie to slather them with SPF 50 before tearing back off into the waves. Gabe stood by Katie’s side, watching them play.

After a moment she said, “We’re safe here, aren’t we?”

“As safe as we can be.”

“Do you think they’re still out there? The Other People?”

Gabe glanced down the beach, to where a young couple lay sunbathing and an older woman sat on a deckchair, mottled legs poking out from beneath a floral sundress, a large sunhat shielding her face.

“I suppose we’ll never know,” he said. “We just have to live with that.”

“I suppose.”

“I can always use my superpowers to protect us.”

“What are those?”

“Old age and slowness.”

“Impressive.”

“Basically, my enemies just get bored of waiting for me.”

She smiled. “I can see how that would work.”

He reached out and took her hand. She looped her fingers through his and leaned against his shoulder.

Gabe stared over her head, back toward the cliffs. To the point where the waves lashed the sharp rocks and anything that fell would be obliterated and consumed by the sea. Yes, he could live with that.





Epilogue





The old man walked solemnly through the cemetery. He wore a fusty black jacket and held a slightly wilted bunch of flowers. When he reached the right grave he placed the flowers gently beside it and murmured a small prayer.

Nearby, a younger man, little more than a teenager, sat on a bench, staring desolately at a shiny new headstone that signified a recent departure, a raw loss. He wiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie.

The old man stood. “Are you all right?”

The young man stared up at him for a moment, bemused, eyes swollen, unsure whether to answer or to tell him to get lost. And then he spotted the white clerical collar and offered a weak smile. “No, not really.”

The old man glanced at the headstone, even though he already knew the name. Ellen Rose. Nineteen years old, killed by an overdose of drugs supplied by her on-off boyfriend. This young man was her twin, Callum, and he came here every week at this time.

“Ellen Rose,” he said. “What a beautiful name.”

That was all it took. The grief and recrimination spilled out in a black torrent. People wanted to talk, he found, and usually to a stranger. It was easier than talking to family or relatives. They were too close, too caught up in their own misery and despair.

He let the young man get it all out, the gaping chasm left by his sister’s death, the bitter hatred for the boyfriend, the resentment that he was still out there, enjoying his freedom, while his sister was dead.

“He should be in jail. He should pay.”

The old man nodded sympathetically. “Most people don’t understand how it feels, to lose a loved one so senselessly. To know that the person who did it is still out there.”

“But you do?”

“My wife was murdered. Mugged on her way home from church. They never caught the person responsible.”

The young man stared at him, eyes widening.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

“It’s okay. I’ve made my peace with it.”

“You’ve forgiven them?

“In a way. But forgiveness should not preclude justice.” He fumbled in the pocket of his jacket and held out a card. “Here. You might find this useful.”

The young man glanced at the card briefly. “Is it some kind of religious thing?”

He shook his head. “Not at all. But after my wife died, it helped me get some…resolution. They could help you, too.”

The young man hesitated and then took the card.

“Thank you.”

The old man smiled. “Sometimes, it helps to talk…to other people.”





For Mum and Dad.

The best people.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


Writing books doesn’t get easier. In fact, if anything, it gets harder.

I was a bit gutted to discover this.