by C. J. Tudor
“Don’t we need to turn off here? You said it was this junction?”
“Shit!”
Alice shot her a reproving look.
“Sorry. Language. I know.”
She indicated and swerved through the traffic to the slip road. Damn. She was getting stressed, getting sloppy, and they weren’t even there yet. Already she could feel the familiar anxiety bearing down on her. She hadn’t even thought exactly what she would do when they did get there. What she would say. How she would deal with things. None of this was to plan.
But then, you couldn’t plan for everything. You couldn’t plan for an exceptionally wet year followed by three years of dry winters, lowering water levels. Or for a new housing estate being built and the surrounding land being drained. And you certainly couldn’t plan for him finding the car. Of all people. How? How had he even known where to look?
She glanced at Alice. She was staring out of the window, a familiar lost look in her eyes as she fumbled with the bag on her lap. Clickety-click. Clickety-click. The shell from the bath had disappeared, added to Alice’s collection. Where did they come from? she thought again. Who was the girl on the beach, and what did she want? “The Sandman is coming.” Why did that phrase seem so damn ominous?
Just another thing to worry about. Because, while she could protect Alice here, in the waking world, how was she supposed to protect her from her dreams, her subconscious? She couldn’t keep her safe there. And that scared her more than anything.
She tried to shake off the feelings of agitation. Focus on the road. The task at hand. They were nearing the outskirts of the village now. The area where she had grown up. A place she used to know well. But it had changed. She noticed a new speed-camera sign. The last thing she needed now was to be caught on film.
This was a bad idea, she thought again. A bad, bad idea. But she didn’t have a better one. Certainly not a good one.
They passed the sign for Barton Marsh, twinned with who gave a fuck. It was a small sleeper estate of once-desirable detached houses. When desirable meant uniform and bland. The sheen had worn off long before she moved away. Now, it was a dozy ditchwater of pensioners unwilling to downsize who spent their days tending their impossibly neat gardens, bitching about parking and every Sunday polishing their cars. Just like Dad, she thought with a pang.
It was easy to spot the house. The lawn was mown but the flowerbeds were empty and bare, the basket optimistically hung outside the front door not just dead but virtually mummified. The UPVC windows and doors were dirty, the net curtains yellowed. A small Toyota with a dented bumper was parked in the driveway.
Fran observed all of this then pulled past the house and parked around the corner, a short way up. She got the feeling that, just like her, the neighbors here were the sort who noticed strange cars visiting.
“Okay,” she said, in what she hoped was a bright voice. “Let’s go.”
She climbed out of the car. Alice gave her a curious look but grabbed her bag of pebbles and followed. Fran looked around, automatically checking for anything odd, out of place. All the other houses seemed quiet. She could hear a small dog barking somewhere. Distantly, the hum of a lawnmower. Normal sounds of suburbia. It didn’t quite reduce the hard knot in her stomach.
They rounded the corner and walked up the driveway of number 41. The closer they got, the more her gut was urging her to turn around and drive away again. But she had a job to do. Something to take care of…and she couldn’t take Alice with her for this. Alice didn’t know about the car, or the man. Or what she had been forced to do.
Fran rang the bell. They waited, Alice looking around with mild curiosity. Fran rang the bell again. C’mon. I know you’re here. The car’s here. C’mon.
Finally, she heard movement. A slow pad of footsteps, a mumbled curse. Chains on the door rattled and then it inched open.
Fran stared at the old woman in the doorway. The immaculate honey-blonde bob, the careful makeup, the smart blouses and slacks. The keeping-up-appearances. All gone.
This woman was scrawny and hunched. Her hair was a dirty yellow with grey showing at the roots. She wore no makeup and was dressed in an old gown over crumpled leggings. Fran could smell stale wine.
Jesus. Things were far worse than she had expected.
The woman squinted at Fran. “Yes?”
Fran swallowed. “Hi, Mum.”
Slowly, the woman’s eyes widened with recognition. “Francesca?”
And then her gaze shifted to the small, dark-haired girl beside Fran. She raised a trembling, vein-stippled hand to her throat. “And who is this?”
Fran felt her own throat constrict. “This is Alice.” She grasped Alice’s hand and squeezed it. A silent signal. “Your granddaughter.”
She sleeps. A pale girl in a white room. Miriam sits in the armchair beside her. The tea in the pot has stewed and the cakes have gone hard.
After a moment, she takes the girl’s hand. Physiotherapists visit regularly to ensure her limbs and hands remain mobile, that her fingers don’t curl permanently into her palms. But Miriam can still feel the stiffness in her joints. Beneath the crisp sheets, her body is as frail and tiny as that of a child.
The girl’s face is calm and smooth, like alabaster. No worry lines mar her forehead and no laughter lines trace happiness beside her eyes. She has not laughed or frowned or cried for years now. Possibly, she never will. While some patients in a permanent vegetative state may make facial expressions, noises, open and close their eyes, the girl does not. She remains frozen. Trapped in a body that has barely aged.
Miriam thinks it would be kinder to let her go. But that is not her decision to make. Not while there is even the faintest possibility that she is still in there, somewhere. The girl who used to love to sing, who loved the sounds of the ocean. The girl who no one remembers, except her. The girl who no one visits, except him.
He has never shirked his responsibility to the girl and her mother. Every week, he sits with the girl. He talks to her, reads. And often, he and Miriam talk, too. Despite everything, she’s grown to enjoy these conversations. Neither of them has any family or close friends. They are both tied to the girl, unable to leave her, unable to let her go. And he has never missed a visit. Never even been late.
Until today.
Miriam glances at the clock. He’s not coming, she thinks. For the first time.
A shiver of premonition runs through her. Something has happened.
She debates with herself, unsure if she is overstepping her boundaries…and then she takes out her phone.
Jenny had once told Gabe that his most annoying habit (of which he had plenty, apparently) was his inability to take advice. To listen to reason. His path could be peppered with warning signs and strung with barbed wire, but he would still only believe that the pool was toxic and infested with sharks by jumping in himself. Head first.
She was right, as she was about most things. If she were here now, Gabe might have told her that her most annoying habit (of which there were a few) was always being right about him.
He missed that. He missed a lot of things about Jenny. Not in the same way that he missed Izzy. The pain was different. It wasn’t an all-encompassing black hole that obliterated the light from his life. It was more of a dull throb.
That sounded harsh. But it was true. The brutal fact was that losing a wife or partner and losing a child were different. He would have sacrificed himself for Izzy, and he knew Jenny would have done the same. The less palatable truth, the one that nobody liked to admit was, if it came to it, they would have sacrificed each other for their daughter. Jenny would have pushed him in front of a bus without a second thought if it meant saving Izzy’s life. And that was fine. That was good. That was how it should be.
It wasn’t that they didn’t love each other. Once, they had loved each other furiously, relentlessly. But p
assionate love always dims. It has to. Like anything else, love must evolve. To survive, it needs to smolder, not rage. But you still need to tend it, to keep it throwing out warmth. Be too neglectful, for too long, and the fire goes out completely, leaving you raking through the ashes, searching for that spark you once had.
They had both been neglectful. The last remaining bit of warmth had almost faded and he knew that they were both fruitlessly throwing on sticks in the vain hope it might reignite. That catch-all cliché—he loved Jenny, but he was no longer in love with her.
It wasn’t Jenny’s face he saw when he woke screaming in the middle of the night. It was Izzy’s. Sometimes—often—he felt guilty about that. And yet, he was pretty sure if Jenny were here right now, she would say, I should bloody well hope so.
She would also have told him not to consider what he was considering.
Don’t go near this shit. Forget you ever heard about it.
But then, warning signs, barbed wire, sharks…
After he had left the Samaritan, he had driven straight back to Newton Green Services, sat down in the coffee shop and pulled out his laptop. This time, there was no sign of the kind-faced waitress. Probably just as well. He didn’t really want her appearing at his shoulder and seeing what he was doing. He had deliberately positioned himself in a different seat, tucked right into a far corner. Fortunately, the coffee shop was pretty empty. Just one middle-aged couple and a stocky young man with a shaven head in a fluorescent police jacket. Traffic cop, thought Gabe, although usually, like socks, they came in pairs. Perhaps the other one had got lost in the wash.
He turned his attention to his laptop. He had considered downloading a Tor browser before but never had the nerve. It felt a bit too much like opening Pandora’s box. Plus, he wasn’t exactly tech savvy. The instructions he had downloaded made it seem simple. (If this were a film, he would probably have whacked a few keys and had instant access to the White House security files.) As it was, it took him a good half an hour of disabling and enabling functions on his laptop before he eventually had the browser set up.
He stared at the screen. Welcome to Tor Browser.
Now what? He tried typing in “the Other People” but, predictably, it yielded no results. You didn’t just browse the Dark Web, he reminded himself. You needed to know what you were looking for. He didn’t know what he was looking for. He didn’t even know if he was looking in the right place or just wasting his time.
He could almost hear Jenny muttering smugly, Told you so.
Feeling frustrated, he took out the notebook and the Bible. The fusty, damp smell rising from the pages clogged his throat and the underlined passages seemed to mock him. He wondered again why Sticker Man had underlined those particular ones.
And then the thought struck him, barreling into his brain with the force of a small juggernaut.
You didn’t just browse the Dark Web. Often the Web addresses were just random letters and numbers.
And how did you remember random letters and numbers? You needed a system. One that someone else wouldn’t understand, should they stumble on it. He unfolded his napkin. He walked back up to the counter and asked the barista if he could borrow his ballpoint. The barista gave him an odd look but obliged.
Gabe sat back down. He jotted down the four Bible references on his napkin.
Exodus 21: 23–25
Leviticus 24: 17–21
Deuteronomy 19: 18–21
Deuteronomy 32: 43
Okay. Most obvious. The first letters of each of the testaments. He typed into his laptop: http://ELDD.onion
No joy.
He tried again but, this time, added the first numbers: http://ELDD21241932.onion
Nothing.
He felt his optimism begin to drain away. There could be any number of combinations, and he didn’t even know if his theory was right. Maybe Sticker Man just really liked those quotes. Maybe it had nothing to do with the website.
Still, one more go: http://E21L24D19D32.onion
He hit return. A blue line appeared at the top of his screen. It trundled along and, when it reached the end, a page popped up.
“Shit.”
Or maybe “Holy shit.” He hadn’t actually believed it would work. He stared at the innocuous home page. Plain white letters on a black background. A little like a chalkboard.
Below the website name, in smaller writing, was a box that read “Enter Password.”
He looked at the line references. Worth a try.
2325172118213243
He hit enter. Another page flashed up.
Welcome to The Other People
We know about pain. We know about loss. We know about injustice.
We share the pain…with those who deserve it.
Beneath this little mission statement were three links:
Chat. Request. FAQ.
He stared at the words, an unpleasant feeling slithering around his stomach.
FAQ.
It seemed a good place to start.
Q: Why are you called the Other People?
A: We all think that tragedy happens only to other people. Until it happens to us. We are people just like you. People to whom terrible things have happened. We’ve found solace not in forgiveness or forgetting. But in helping each other find justice.
Q: What sort of justice?
A: That depends on the individual. But our ethos is a punishment that fits the crime.
Q: What if I’m not looking for justice?
A: You are free to use our message board to talk to others just like you. However, most people come to our site through invitation. If you’ve found us, you already need us.
Q: Is this a website for vigilantes?
A: Not at all. We are all ordinary people. However, we have found that by connecting with each other we are able to utilize our unique talents, knowledge and connections. The Other People pool these resources in order to fulfill each other’s Requests.
Q: Do I have to pay?
A: No money changes hands. That way our services are accessible by anybody. Not just those with the financial means. We use a system of quid pro quo. Requests and Favors.
Q: How does it work?
A: If you wish to make a Request, visit the Requests page. You will be asked to submit a form explaining your situation and what you require. TOP will take 24 hours to consider your Request. During this time, you may still amend or cancel your Request.
After 24 hours, if we consider your Request acceptable, you will receive a confirmation that it has been activated. Once a Request is activated it cannot be amended or cancelled. No further correspondence will be necessary. Rest assured, unless there are exceptional circumstances, we fulfill all Requests.
Once your Request has been completed, you will be notified. You now owe a Favor. This can be called in at any time. Once your Favor is repaid, you are under no further obligation to the Other People.
Q: What if I don’t repay the Favor?
A: We always try to ensure that the Favor is one you are able to complete, happily and willingly. Failure to complete your Favor threatens the very integrity of our site. That is why we have measures in place to ensure it doesn’t happen.
Q: Can I request to have someone killed?
A: If your Request is acceptable, and unless there are exceptional circumstances, we fulfill all Requests.
Gabe stared at the screen.
We fulfill all Requests.
Jesus.
He reached for his coffee and took a sip. His head swam. Maybe the Samaritan had been right. He didn’t want to go near this. He didn’t want any part of it.
On the other hand, Sticker Man had been part of it. And he had taken Izzy. There had to be a connection. The police believed that h
is wife and daughter had been killed in a robbery gone wrong. But there were inconsistencies. Nothing had been stolen, not even cash. The caller who had alerted the police to an intruder at his house had never been traced. What if there was more to this? What if his family had been targeted on purpose?
But why? And what did Harry have to do with it? Why was it so important that he convinced Gabe that Izzy was dead? And who was the other little girl? There were still so many things that didn’t make any sense.
He sighed and rubbed his eyes. His mobile pinged with a text. He picked it up, half expecting it to be the Samaritan, checking up on him.
It wasn’t. It was worse.
He stared at the message and his stomach somersaulted off a steep cliff.
“Isabella missed you today.”
Fran hovered at the door of the kitchen while her mother made tea. Alice perched upon the sofa in the living room. A glass of orange squash and a plate of biscuits had been set on the coffee table. The orange cordial had settled at the bottom of the glass. Fran bet that if you bit into one of the biscuits, it would be damp and stale. Small details. Like the dirt around the edges of the carpet. The cobwebs lurking in the corners of the room. The tremor in her mother’s hands.
“You should have called,” her mother said. “I haven’t had a chance to tidy up, get myself sorted.”
A lie, Fran thought. She hadn’t had a chance to start drinking today and now their visit would delay it.
“Sorry. We were in the area, so we thought we’d drop by.”
“Drop by?” Her mother turned, eyes suddenly sharp. “You’ve not dropped by in over nine years. I didn’t even know I had a granddaughter.”
Despite herself, despite everything, Fran felt a leaden punch of guilt.
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” Her mother spat in disgust. “You disappear without a word, you never call or send a message in all this time. You cut us from your life. And now you turn up, out of the blue. What’s really going on, Fran?”