by Tudor, C. J.
Today, they took a picnic, as they often did. A cliché, but one he had been robbed of for three long years. When you’ve been denied the pleasure of such small things, they mean the world. They spread the checkered blanket on the shingle and put up deckchairs. They plonked sunhats on the children’s heads and Katie rummaged in the beach bag for the sun cream.
She tutted. “I can’t find it.” She looked up at Gabe. “Did you put it in?”
He frowned. “I thought I did.”
“Well, it’s not here.”
“Are you sure? Let me look.”
“It’s not in here. I’ve looked.”
Izzy, Grace and Sam giggled.
“What?” Katie and Gabe said in unison.
The children exchanged knowing looks.
“What?” Katie said again.
“You two sound like you’re married,” Sam said.
Katie and Gabe looked at each other, both flushing red.
“Well, that’s—” Katie started to stutter.
“Awful,” Gabe said, pulling a face. “Yuck!”
“Oy!” Katie play-punched him on the arm. It hurt. Still, he grinned, rubbing his arm.
“Sun cream!” Katie said again, sternly.
“I must have left it in the kitchen,” Gabe said. “I’ll go back.”
“Can we go in the sea, Mum. Please?” Sam said.
“Okay. But T-shirts on. I don’t want you to burn.”
“Yay!”
The children tore down the beach to the sea. Gabe watched them for a moment, still finding himself reluctant to let Izzy out of his sight for too long.
“D’you want me to go?” Katie asked, reading his mind.
“No, no, it’s fine.”
He turned and trudged back up the shingle toward the cliff path. It wasn’t that far, but it was steep. By the time he reached the top he was drenched in sweat, his T-shirt sticking to him like a second skin. From here, the path zigzagged along the edge of the cliff toward the rear of Seashells, where Gabe had put a gate in the fence for access. It was usually deserted, except for the occasional hiker or birdwatcher. But not today. Halfway along the path a woman stood, right at the cliff edge, staring out to sea.
Shit. The cliffs a few miles away at Beachy Head were notorious for suicides. Not so many people knew about these ones. But they were just as high and just as lethal, especially around this side, away from the beach. Nothing but a sheer drop to sharp rocks and the clamoring waves below. Your shattered bones would be washed out to sea before you were even missed.
“Hello? Excuse me?”
The woman turned. A black hole opened in his heart. She looked older. Her hair was short and dyed blonde. She was leaning on a stick. But he recognized her right away.
“I thought you were dead.”
“I’m not asking for forgiveness.”
“Good.”
“I just wanted to try and explain.”
“You could start by explaining your miraculous recovery?”
Fran regarded him steadily. “They thought it would be safer.”
“Who’s they? Are you in some kind of witness protection?”
“Something like that. There’s a lot of interest in the Other People. Not just here. In other countries. They wanted my help. It was easier for me to be dead. For the Other People to stop looking for me.”
“Does Katie know?”
She shook her head. “And she mustn’t. It’s too dangerous.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I told you—to explain.”
Gabe stared at her. Part of him wanted to push her off the edge of the cliff. To savor her screams as she fell. Another part needed to know. Questions. There were still questions. What happened in the house? And the car. How did he end up following the car?
“It should have been driving away from your house. It was heading in the wrong direction.”
“Then explain. And don’t fucking tell me you did it all for Izzy.”
“I saved your daughter’s life.”
“She wouldn’t have been in danger if it wasn’t for you. My wife would still be alive.”
“Do you really believe that? If it wasn’t me, it would have been someone else.”
He wanted to argue, but he knew she was right. She was just a pawn. There would always be other people. That was the whole point.
“What happened in the house that day?”
“You know most of it. I was supposed to go around, get Jenny to invite me in and then open the front gates.”
“And let in a killer.”
“I never intended to go through with it. I wanted it to look as if I was going to so they’d think I had fulfilled my Favor, but I had a plan.”
“You called the police before you got to the house and reported an intruder.”
“I thought they would get there in time to stop anything bad happening. Then Emily and I would just disappear.”
“Why take her with you that day?”
“I had no one to leave her with and I was scared of leaving her on her own.” She gave a short, bitter laugh. “Ironic, don’t you think?”
He felt a small tug of sympathy. Just a small one.
“The police said there was a struggle, in the house. They thought Jenny had fought back against her attacker?”
“He shot Jenny first. He came in through the patio doors. I threw myself at him, tried to stop him but, somehow, the gun went off.” She paused, swallowed. The horror never far from the surface. “Emily was shot. She fell. I managed to hit him with a saucepan that was on the hob, to daze him, but there was no time. I…I knew Emily was dead. I had to make a choice. Grab Izzy and run, or we’d die too. We made it out to his car. He’d left the keys in the ignition. I bundled Izzy inside and drove away as fast as I could.”
“Why didn’t you call the police after you’d got away?”
“I was in shock. I didn’t know what I was doing or where I was going. But then reality started to kick in. Izzy was crying for her mummy in the back. I realized I’d driven miles away from the house. I turned around, got on the motorway. I meant to drive straight to the police station. But then we hit the roadworks and there was this car, behind us. A four-by-four. It started beeping, flashing its lights—”
Honk if you’re horny. Gabe felt a coldness steal into his veins.
“I tried to pull away, but it accelerated after us. Chasing us. I thought it was them. The Other People. They had found us and they were going to kill us. I panicked. I forgot about the police. I forgot about everything. All I knew was that I had to get away. And once I did”—her eyes met his—“there was no going back.”
Gabe’s legs felt weak. Despite the fresh sea breeze buffeting him, there didn’t seem to be any oxygen in the air. He thought he might throw up.
“It was me. You ran because of me.”
A small, sour smile. “Fate’s a real fucker, isn’t it?”
He didn’t know whether to laugh, cry or hurl himself off the cliff. If he had never been driving behind her. If he had never given chase. A few seconds either way. A change of lanes. Another car pulling in between them. It could all have been so different. Blame fate, karma, an alignment of the stars. Blame God’s sick sense of humor. But really, when it came down to it, right down to the marrow of the bone, blame it on simple fucking bad luck.
“You could have still gone to the police,” he croaked. “Afterward, when you realized your mistake.”
“It was too late. I was scared of what would happen. Scared of the Other People. But mostly, I was scared of losing her. This little girl who looked so much like Emily. Who I could almost imagine was Emily if I tried hard enough. You were right. I didn’t do it for Izzy. I did it for me. Because I needed her. I was drowning in grief. I couldn’t live without my daughter
and I needed Izzy to fill that gaping hole in my heart.”
Gabe didn’t reply for a moment. Then he said, “I understand.”
She shook her head. “No, you don’t. Because you’re a better person than I am. I’m lying to you even now. I didn’t come here to explain, not really. I came here because I wanted to see Izzy one last time. To know she’s happy.”
“She’s happy,” Gabe said. “She’s with her family.”
“Good.” She looked down at the rocks. Gabe felt a wave of vertigo wash over him.
“You know, when I was unconscious, in the hospital,” she said, “I dreamed I was on a beach, just like this. Emily was there, too.” She looked back at him. “Do you think they wait for us?”
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.
So, firstly, thank you to my husband, Neil, for keeping me (mostly) sane while writing this, my third book. Without his support I would have even less hair, Doris would have to walk herself and the dishwasher would never get unloaded.
Thanks to Max, my brilliant editorial “ogre” who manages to make me feel like a fantastic writer while also pointing out all the bits where I’m really not. And to Anne, my equally wonderful U.S. editor, who has been such a cheerleader for this book.
Massive thanks to everyone at MM Agency for everything they’ve done and continue to do for me. You’re the best. Big love.
Thanks to all my publishers and every one of the brilliant people involved in getting a book “out there.” The publicity teams, proofreaders, cover designers, bloggers, reviewers. And, of course, the booksellers who do such a great job of spreading the book love. Really, my bit in this is quite small.
Thanks to former Met Detective, John O’Leary, who provided invaluable guidance on all the procedural stuff in this book. Top bloke.
Thank you to the LKs for their friendship, laughter and support—and to all the lovely authors I’ve met on this journey.
Thanks to my mum and dad. It’s been a tough year. I love you both.
Thank you to my beautiful daughter, Betty, for filling my heart with total unconditional love and for constantly reminding me what’s important in life (glitter and unicorns). Being your mum is my greatest joy and privilege. There is no road I would not travel for you, my incredible, gorgeous girl.
Finally, thanks to you, the reader, for coming along with me on this journey. I hope you had fun and I hope you’ll stick around for the next one. It’s going to be aces!
BY C. J. TUDOR
The Chalk Man
The Hiding Place
The Other People
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
C. J. Tudor is the author of The Hiding Place and The Chalk Man, which won th
e International Thriller Writers award for Best First Novel and the Strand Magazine Award for Best Debut Novel. Over the years she has worked as a copywriter, television presenter, voice-over artist, and dog walker. She is now thrilled to be able to write full-time, and doesn’t miss chasing wet dogs through muddy fields all that much. She lives in England with her partner and daughter.
Facebook.com/CJTudorOfficial
Twitter: @cjtudor
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