The Lost Man
Page 31
Nathan stared out across the property. At Cameron’s car parked on the driveway and at the house where they’d grown up.
“The way Cam died never felt right,” he said. “I really thought for a while that Jenna Moore had something to do with it.” He was quiet. The sun was approaching its peak in the sky, and the horizon was a flat line in the distance. “I wonder what she wanted with him.”
When Liz didn’t respond, he looked over.
“What?”
Liz hesitated, then reached into her pocket.
“Caroline from the post office brought our mail with her yesterday. She thought we might not get into town to collect it for a while.”
She handed something to Nathan, and he turned the slightly rumpled letter over in his fingers. Cameron Bright’s name had been written on the front of the envelope. There was no return address, but in the top right-hand corner was a stamp from the UK. It had already been torn open, and Nathan pulled out the contents. The letter was folded into thirds and felt slightly worn at the creases, like it had been opened and read several times. He took a breath and looked at the words.
Cameron, it started. Nathan did not recognize the handwriting, but it was neat and firm.
Please read this letter to the end. I am aware that you may not even remember me, Cameron, but I need to tell you one thing:
I forgive you.
You may not want my forgiveness, or feel like you have done anything that needs to be forgiven. I truly hope, however, that is not the case. Regardless of what you might tell yourself, or what threats your father made on your behalf when he had me cornered and alone, you and I know what happened the night we met. You know what you did, and I do too.
I used to hope that you would be living your life with the same sense of regret and shame that I have for years. That is no longer important to me.
I have wasted years feeling guilty about something that wasn’t my fault, and I have given you a power over me that you do not deserve. With the support of my therapist and the love of my beautiful family, I am proud to say that this is no longer the case.
In so many ways, I have built a happy life. I wish the same for you, Cameron. Those in great pain cause others great pain, and I hope, for your sake and for those around you, that you have found some peace.
Jenna Moore
Nathan read the letter three times, then refolded it. He handed it back to Liz.
“What are you going to do with it?” he said.
“I’ll show it to Glenn, I suppose.”
“It doesn’t excuse you, you know.” Nathan’s voice was harsh even to his own ears. “That doesn’t make what you did any better.”
“I know.”
“I saw what Cameron looked like at the end, when Steve took him away in the ambulance. All the damage.” Nathan saw Liz flinch at that, but he went on. She needed to hear it. “He didn’t go easily. You should know that. He suffered a lot.”
She didn’t answer, and he realized she was crying. He didn’t move. Finally, she took a breath.
“I’m not asking you to forgive me—”
“Good.”
Liz was still for a long time.
“Nathan, I was eighteen when I left home,” she said at last. “And when I did that, I promised myself things would be different.”
She had traveled north, she explained, and then west, going wherever she wanted and feeling free for the first time in her life. She had stopped in Balamara only when it became apparent she was running out of road before the desert. Within a couple of days, she’d found herself a job in the post office and was earning her own money for once. Work was enjoyable, and the locals were friendly. They always had time for a smile and a chat, and when Carl Bright had grinned at her over his mail and insisted on buying her a drink, she’d said yes.
“And for a while, it was great. He was a lot of fun, believe it or not, and I thought he was so good-looking. And he was nice to me. And for a while, my life really was different.” Liz’s face darkened. “Then we got married, and things started to change, and suddenly one day I realized my life wasn’t so different anymore. Your dad had told me he’d had a bad time himself when he was young, and we both wanted something better. But it wasn’t better. It was the same as what I’d left behind. And I was so disappointed, Nathan, and I was just so tired. I’d come all this way only to end up in exactly the same place. I didn’t have the energy to fight it. What was the point?”
She shook her head.
“But then I was pregnant, and I told myself that whatever went on between me and him, I wasn’t going to stand for it with you kids.” Liz wiped her eyes. She couldn’t look at her son. “And I tried my best, Nathan. Please believe me. I made plans, I thought about it every day. But I was scared, and I felt so alone and trapped. I’m so sorry. It wasn’t good enough, I know, not at all. But it was the best I could do.”
Liz was quiet for a long moment.
“And then your dad had that accident. And I believe that saved my life. Bub’s too, possibly.”
Suddenly Nathan was back, years ago, on that hot dark night, looking through torn metal at the sight of Carl Bright pinned between the roof and the steering wheel. The nurse’s comment.
It hadn’t been quick.
Liz’s face had been frozen and impassive as she’d sat in the back of the ambulance with the blood congealing around her wound. It was the shock, Nathan had thought at the time. Maybe, though, a dark thought unfurled now, maybe it was something else. He looked at the two graves at his feet for a long time. Old earth and new earth. Maybe, he thought, some lines were easier to cross the second time.
“How long—?” he started, then stopped. How long were you unconscious after the accident? How long did you leave it before you called for help?
He wanted to ask, but he didn’t, because he could tell from his mother’s face that she would tell him the truth.
Liz was watching him closely.
“I’m sorry for a lot of things,” she said, at last. “But I am not sorry he’s gone.”
Nathan didn’t ask who she meant. The gum tree rustled, and Nathan felt the sand in the air and the grit on his skin. The screen door slammed in the distance, and they both turned toward the house. Ilse was walking over, shielding her eyes.
“Phone for you, Nathan,” she called.
“For me?” His voice sounded strange. He cleared his throat.
“It’s Glenn. He says you left a message with the police switchboard.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
He still didn’t move. Then suddenly, Liz reached up and pulled him to her. He could feel her hands, gentle on his back as she held him close, and smell the familiar scent of her hair. She had tears in her eyes.
“I never meant for you to have to deal with this,” she said quietly. “I did what I felt was right in my heart. But you’re a good man, Nathan. And you have to do what you think is right.” She drew back and looked up at him. “Either way, you should come home.”
Liz held him a moment longer, then let him go and turned toward the house.
“Bub’s got everyone playing cricket around the front, if you want to join them,” Ilse said, and Liz gave her a sad smile as she passed.
“Thanks, I think I will. Lunch will be ready soon.”
Ilse watched her walk away, then looked back to Nathan. She saw his face and frowned. “Is everything all right? Glenn’s waiting.”
“Yeah.”
“Are you sure?”
He turned his back on both graves, and immediately felt a bit better. “Yeah.”
“Come on, then.” Ilse waited until Liz had disappeared into the house, then slid her hand into his. Her palm was warm and dry as they walked.
“Listen,” she said. “Harry was talking about driving over and helping you with your flood prep, but—” Her words came out in a rush. “I was thinking he should stay and make sure everything’s ready here, and I could drive over and help you for a couple of days. If you want.”
Nathan stopped walking and looked at her. “I would absolutely love that.”
“Are you sure? Because if you actually need Harry’s help, or Bub’s—”
“No. God, no.”
“Is there much to do?”
“No.”
“But I should still come?”
“Definitely.”
“Okay.” She smiled. “Good. So maybe Thursday and Friday next week?”
“New year.”
“Yes.” She smiled. “I suppose it is.”
They reached the veranda. Lo’s pictures were still pinned by rocks, the edges flapping in the breeze. Cameron’s painting was propped up against the railings where Liz had left it.
“Oh God, what is this doing out here?” Ilse said as she climbed the steps.
“I brought it out.”
“Oh.” Ilse picked up the painting and held it out. The colors were already dulled by a light coating of dust. Ilse frowned for a minute then, without warning, licked her thumb and wiped a long smudge from the top corner. It removed the mark, but left a smeared wet thumbprint. The edge of her mouth turned up a little. “Better.”
She put the painting back down with the clatter of wood against the floorboards. “Anyway, I’ll see you outside after your call.”
“Ilse—”
“Yes?”
“Just—” Nathan took her hand, her fingertips light against his. “Are you happy? Now, I mean?”
Ilse’s face clouded as she considered.
“I don’t know,” she said finally. “It’s been a bad week. A bad year, really. But if you’re asking me if I feel better than I did last week, or last year, then the answer is yes.”
They looked at each other, and slowly she took a step forward, leaned in, and kissed him. Nathan closed his eyes, and warmth that had nothing to do with the sun spread through his body, and he felt himself smile.
“I suppose when I think about the future now,” she said as they broke apart, “I can imagine being happy again. And I haven’t felt that way in a long time. Do you know what I mean?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”
She opened the screen door and pointed at the phone off its cradle. “I’ll see you afterwards.”
Nathan watched her disappear around the side of the house, then let the door slam behind him. He walked down the darkened hall and picked up the phone.
“Hello?” he said. Through the window, the cricket game was in full swing. The girls were taking turns bowling while Bub called out instructions.
“Nathan,” Glenn’s voice came down the line. “Sorry, mate, I only got back late yesterday and got your messages. So we’ve looked into it, and this Jenna woman has been in Bali for nearly three weeks. Flights and passport movement all add up, and I called the retreat she’s staying at and had a brief word with her. She said she was sorry to hear about Cameron, mate. Apparently she just wanted to send him some letter.”
Xander spotted Nathan through the window and waved as Lo somehow managed to bowl Bub out. Bub fell to his knees in mock humiliation as the girls celebrated to a loud chorus of laughter. Bub pointed at Nathan through the glass, and gestured. Come and help me.
“Nathan, mate? You still there?” Glenn’s voice sounded far away.
“Yeah.”
“Was there something else you wanted to talk about?”
“Sorry,” Nathan said. “It was—”
Ilse was laughing as the girls ran victory laps.
Nathan took a breath. “You know what, mate? It was nothing.”
“You sure? Message made it sound urgent.”
Lo was at the wicket now, struggling with a bat that was almost as big as her. Harry bowled underarm, and she made contact, and everyone cheered.
“No, I wanted to say—” Nathan stopped. “I wanted to tell you that I’m going to be coming into town more often from now on. I’m not looking to make any trouble, but I’m going to show my face when I want to. So tell whoever you need to tell, but that’s what’s going to be happening.”
“Righto,” Glenn said. “I wouldn’t say that was particularly urgent myself, but it doesn’t sound like a bad idea at all to me.”
“Thanks, Glenn.”
“No worries.” The cop gave a polite cough. “If that’s all—?”
Through the window, Nathan could see Liz standing to one side, a little in the shade, a little unnoticeable, watching over her family. She looked at peace. Harry was giving the girls batting tips, while Bub said something to Xander that made him laugh. Ilse was smiling, her hair shining in the sunlight.
“That’s all,” Nathan said.
“Merry Christmas, then.”
“And you.” He hung up.
Outside, the light was dazzling as he opened the door and went to join his family.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I have loved writing this book and I’m so grateful to the many people who helped me bring this story to life.
Once again, I am indebted to my outstanding editors: Christine Kopprasch and Amy Einhorn at Flatiron Books, Cate Paterson and Mathilda Imlah at Pan Macmillan, and Clare Smith at Little, Brown. Thank you so much for your wise advice, insights, and encouragement throughout.
I am constantly grateful for the tireless work of my wonderful agents: Clare Forster at Curtis Brown Australia, Alice Lutyens and Kate Cooper at Curtis Brown UK, Daniel Lazar at Writers House, and Jerry Kalajian at the Intellectual Property Group.
I would never have been able to write this book without the goodwill of so many people who took the time to speak to me and share their lives and their stories.
A huge thank-you to retired Birdsville police officer Neale McShane and his wife, Sandra, who invited me into their home. Not everyone would be willing to drive a stranger 900 kilometers across the outback and answer questions the entire way, and I’m so lucky that Neale was one of the few who would. It was a once-in-a-lifetime road trip and I’ll never forget it.
It was an honor to spend time in Birdsville with Aboriginal elder and Munga-Thirri National Park ranger Don Rowlands and his wife, Lyn. Their insights and experiences opened my eyes to many things I had never before considered, and I am truly grateful they were willing to share their thoughts with me.
A big thank-you to Birdsville nurse Andrew Cameron, for all the fun and fascinating conversations and trips around the area. I learned a huge amount, and his help with the factual research for this book was invaluable.
I am also very grateful to David Brook, for kindly sharing his extensive knowledge and expertise of property management, and for patiently answering a long string of questions about cows, radios, and everything in between.
Thank you to cattle farmer Sue Cudmore, for telling me her stories about calves, and to author Evan McHugh, for introducing me to his friends and contacts and talking to me about his own experience of the outback. His books Birdsville and Outback Cop (co-authored with Neale McShane) were both useful in my research.
I am grateful to everyone who helped me along the way, and any mistakes or artistic liberties are fully my own.
Last but not least, thank you to my dad, Mike Harper, for the initial idea that eventually became The Lost Man, and as always to Helen Harper, Ellie Harper, Michael Harper, Susan Davenport, Ivy and Ava Harper, and Peter and Annette Strachan.
And of course, the biggest thanks must go to my lovely husband, Peter Strachan, and our beautiful daughter, Charlotte Strachan. You give me so much and I couldn’t write these books without you.
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ALSO BY JANE HARPER
The Dry
Force of Nature
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jane Harper worked as a print journalist for thirteen years before writing The Dry, a #1 international bestseller, and Force of Nature, also an international bestseller. The Lost Man is her third novel.
Originally from the UK, Jane lives in Melbourne.
Visit her online at JaneHarper.com.au, or sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Map
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Acknowledgments
Also by Jane Harper
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.