by Mark Morris
His Aunt Georgina, who was conducting the sale for him, informed him in her small, neat script that a young couple, Mr. and Mrs. Geoffrey Thomas, had offered £177,500 for the property. It was £7,500 less than the asking price, but Georgina had decided to accept their offer. She knew how eager Jack was to get rid of the house and how little the money mattered to him. He stared at the letter, reread it, as if afraid he had overlooked some vital loophole. Not for the first time, he found himself drifting back, reliving the aftermath of that fateful night.
Throughout his convalescence, Jack had constantly been informed of just how lucky he was to be alive. He had lain in the clearing, losing blood, for over six hours, and it was amazing, he was told, that he had managed to survive for so long. What was also amazing was that the man who had found him, a butcher called Dennis Barber, had only done so through sheer fortune. Not normally an insomniac, Barber had been unable to sleep on this particular May night. After tossing and turning for what seemed an age, he had finally got out of bed, leaving his wife sleeping soundly, when the first glimmerings of dawn had begun to streak the sky. He decided to go for a walk, was almost out of the door when it struck him that he ought to take the dog with him, a red setter called Suzy. Why he hadn’t simply crossed to the local park, less than five minutes’ walk away, and wandered around there for half an hour or so he couldn’t say. Instead, on an impulse he had got the Landrover out of the garage and driven it four miles to Beckford Woods.
Once in the woods, instead of sticking to the main path, he had decided to follow a secondary route, which was both circuitous and largely overgrown. Suzy had bounded joyfully into the undergrowth, deliriously excited by the plethora of new sounds and smells that assailed her senses. Dennis was enjoying his walk—the crisp air, the sweet virgin light of a new day. He had been walking along this secondary route for perhaps twenty minutes when Suzy had started barking.
There had been something about the bark. It was not simply the exuberance of an overexcited dog. There had been a note of alarm in it, a sense of determination, of purpose. Dennis tried calling her, but Suzy did not come. Something told him that she was barking to attract his attention, to lead him to her, and he had begun to jog, and then to run, through the foliage, occasionally jumping over tree roots and hummocky sods of grass like green punk wigs.
He was not used to running, had not run since his college days over twenty years earlier when he had been a prop forward, and by the time he reached the clearing his lungs were on fire and his heart felt as if it were ready to burst in his chest. Part of him rejected this entire scenario. Suzy was not bloody Lassie, after all. He would probably find her venting her frustration at a rabbit hole.
And yet, Dennis Barber later told Jack whilst sitting at his bedside in Leeds General Infirmary, he had not been entirely surprised when he had found his dog standing over the body of a man who looked to have been killed in a shoot-out. At the time, he had thought Jack was dead.
What made him realise he was not was when Suzy dipped her head and daintily licked Jack’s face, whereupon the “corpse” had feebly raised a hand, either to pet the dog or push it away.
“You must be the luckiest man alive,” Barber had said, grinning wildly, and Jack, returning his grin, had nodded. But oddly, Jack did not feel lucky. He felt empty, bereft. He wished earnestly that Barber had not found him, that he had simply been left to die.
It had taken him a long time to get over this feeling, and even now there were days when it took hold of him like a pit bull terrier and would not let go. But, on the whole, he was getting better. There were more bright days than dark. He was beginning to enjoy life again.
He had spent eighteen days at the hospital, during which time he had surgery twice, and afterwards he returned to London. For a time his best friend, Frank Dawson, looked after him. Jack found to his frustration that overexertion (which could mean something as innocuous as a trip to Sainsbury’s) would make him sick as a dog and weak as a kitten. His physical convalescence was a long and boring process. For three months he felt like a prisoner in his own home. He had little appetite and lost eleven pounds, which ironically brought him down to his ideal weight. He filled in the time by working on The Laughter, reading the rest of his father’s stories, watching TV, listening to music, and having long emotional phone calls with his Aunt Georgina.
It had taken a while for her to open up, but eventually, due to Jack’s persistence, she had told him everything. The other baby, his twin, a girl who was to have been called Gail, had only been discovered during his mother’s autopsy.
Appalled, even furious, Jack had asked, “How could anyone miss something like that? Didn’t they realize—”
“It was 1970,” Georgina interrupted gently. “They didn’t have the technology they have now. Mistakes were far more common in those days.” She hesitated a moment and then went on, “Besides, Gail was a wee scrap of a thing. It would have been touch and go whether she’d have survived even if she’d been born.”
“Still,” he said, “it was a disgraceful mistake to make.”
“It was a tragedy,” Georgina replied, “and it happened a long time ago.”
“But not for me,” he insisted. “For me, it’s only just happened. Why wasn’t I ever told?”
“Things were bad enough, Jack. You had plenty to contend with without this extra burden. Your father couldn’t accept that part of it. He attended the funeral, but he never talked about the little girl. I even had to have the wording on the stone amended to include her name. I think it was because of this that your father never visited the grave. If he had, you might have found out sooner.” Her voice sounded strained, and Jack suddenly realised that this was hard for her, too. He felt a little ashamed for being so insistent, so accusatory.
“So you thought it best to let sleeping dogs lie,” he said wearily, and immediately realised how inappropriate the phrase sounded.
“Yes,” said Georgina. “It seemed the right thing to do at the time. Maybe I was wrong.”
He expelled an almighty sigh. “No,” he said, “you weren’t wrong. I guess it would only have caused more misery. It would have given my father one more thing to blame me for.”
There was a short silence on the phone, and then Georgina said tentatively, “I wish you didn’t hate your father so much, Jack. I realise how he treated you, but it was—”
“But I don’t hate him!” he blurted, surprised that she should think so. “Not any more. I know now he was sorry for what he did to me.”
Now it was Georgina’s turn to sound surprised. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I think he was too.”
“It’s just the situation I hate,” Jack said. “The whole mess. And what’s so frustrating is that there’s no focus for that hatred. Except maybe God, and that seems pointless to me.”
There had been other phone calls, other questions. Jack’s emotions had veered from one extreme to the other during the course of his recovery, but Georgina had always been there to listen and respond. Throughout, he never told anyone what had really happened that last night in Beckford, not even his aunt. When the police asked him if he had known his assailant, or if he knew of anyone who might have had a grudge against him, he said no. He wondered at first why he didn’t just drop Patty Bates in it, but even as he questioned himself he knew the answer. He wanted there to be an end to it, had no wish to resurrect what he finally considered to be dead and buried. Of course the police had their suspicions, and there must have been enough evidence at the house and in the woods to suggest that some sort of manhunt had taken place. But no one was ever charged with anything, and eventually the police visits tailed off.
Gail’s mobile number yielded nothing but a failed connection, the number to her flat likewise. Even so, Jack tried this latter number again and again. For a while it became an obsession with him. Though he was met each time by the faint ticking of an attempted connection and then the dull hum of a nonexistent line, he would think, as his fingers punched ou
t the digits, This time. This time she’ll pick up the phone and say hello. Yet each time there would be that crushing sense of defeat, which would dwindle into black depression, and then deeper, into grief.
Jack knew in his heart he would never speak to her again. Part of him wondered whether he had ever spoken to her. But he remembered the taste of her, the softness of her kisses, their bodies together, loving. Had that been right, considering the circumstances? Could conventional morality even be applied here? His mind turned the matter over and over, digging up the same old ground, sifting through the same dark soil. When he asked Frank Dawson what he remembered of Gail, he was astonished to discover that Frank had never met her.
“What do you mean?” Jack said. “Of course you met her.”
“No.” Frank shook his head adamantly. “Never did. And neither did Nick and Julie, or Andre and Becca, or Wendy, or Kev, or James, or anyone. We used to joke about it, how you kept her to yourself, like a kid with a toy he didn’t want to share. I think there were one or two occasions when she was going to come out with us—like when we went to Fino’s for Becca’s birthday—but for some reason she never made it; she was ill or you were away or something. I thought maybe you were just ashamed of us all. Or perhaps worried she’d be unable to resist my charm, sophistication and good looks.”
“But . . . I can’t believe this!” Jack said. “Are you sure you never met her?”
“Positive,” Frank said. Seeing his friend’s obvious distress, he patted his shoulder in an awkward gesture of consolation. As far as Frank was aware, Gail had finished with Jack out of the blue and had left town, making the break while he was in Beckford sorting out his dad’s affairs. Apparently she hadn’t even got in touch while Jack was fighting for his life in the hospital. In Frank’s book that made her a complete cow. He didn’t know the full story, but he felt sure Jack was the injured party and it upset him to see his friend torturing himself like this. “Forget her, Jack,” he advised. “She’s not worth all this hassle. You’re well rid, mate, believe me.”
It was obvious over the next few months that Jack could not forget her, and Frank was shrewd enough to realise he had to let the matter run its course. Only Jack could sort it out. Frank could be there, to listen and offer advice, but when it came to the crunch Jack would be on his own.
For his part, Jack racked his brains to think of somebody he knew who had met Gail. It took him a while, but at last he came up with a name: Tamsin Reynolds, the publicity manager at Cormorant. The three of them had gone out for lunch after his signing at Strange Worlds some months earlier. Jack was not sure exactly what it would achieve, but he phoned Cormorant at once, hands shaking with nerves, stomach in a flutter.
He was put through to the publicity department and after a few moments a female voice said, “Hello?”
“Tamsin, hi, it’s Jack Stone. I wanted to ask you—”
“Oh . . . um . . . hang on. This isn’t Tamsin. It’s Liz Peacock.”
“Oh. Er . . . hi, Liz. It’s Jack Stone here. Is Tamsin there?”
“No, Jack, she isn’t. I’m afraid she’s left.”
“Left?” he exclaimed.
“Yeah, a couple of weeks ago. Didn’t you know?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Oh. Well, it’s been in the cards for a while now. You’ve been . . . er . . . away though, haven’t you?”
“Yeah,” said Jack. “Look, Liz, is there any way I can contact Tamsin?”
“Well, I can give you her address in Sydney if it’s urgent.”
Jack wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “Did you say Sydney? Sydney, Australia?”
“Yes. She and her boyfriend have emigrated there.”
“You’re joking!”
“No. He got offered a really good job, so she went with him.”
“Bloody hell, I don’t believe this.”
“I know,” said Liz cheerfully. “Jammy what-not. All that lovely sunshine. Listen, Jack, we’re a bit upside down just now with Tamsin redistributing her workload, but if there’s anything I can help you with . . .”
“Er . . . no. It’s Tamsin I have to speak to. Could you give me her address and phone number?”
“I can give you an address, but I don’t have a phone number for her. Hang on a minute.”
Jack wrote down the address and thanked her. That afternoon he wrote Tamsin a letter, and then, over the course of the next few months, three more.
She never wrote back.
These things have a way of sealing themselves, he thought, of covering their tracks, of blocking every available exit. He supposed that was the way it had to be, the only way that equilibrium could be maintained. And yet that didn’t stop him from trying to find answers, hunting for the keys to unlock the succession of doors that had been slammed in his face. As soon as he felt well enough, he got on the tube and travelled from Archway to Seven Sisters. He felt exhausted when he reached the building where Gail had had her flat, as if he’d run a marathon, but the sight of the building excited him. It looked exactly as he remembered it. He trudged up the stairs, heart crashing with fatigue and expectation, and knocked on the so-familiar door. He waited, and at the sound of approaching footsteps a pulse began to thump quickly at the base of his throat, his tongue seemed to shrivel and curl like old leather.
The door opened.
A girl stood there—young, dark-haired, attractive.
But it wasn’t Gail.
She smiled at Jack, though there was caution in her eyes. She kept the door three-quarters closed, shielding her body, prepared to slam it in his face if need be.
“Hello?” she said.
“Oh . . . er . . . hi. I was looking for Gail Reeves.” (Jack had found out from his Aunt Georgina that Reeves had been his great grandmother’s maiden name.) “I thought she lived here.”
The girl shrugged and smiled apologetically. She still looked cautious. She pushed the door a little further closed. “ ’Fraid not. Sorry.”
Jack had to resist an urge to thrust out an arm to stop the door from closing fully. Hoping he didn’t sound and look as desperate as he felt, he said, “Do you know if she used to live here?”
The girl shrugged again, evidently eager to end this conversation. “I’ve no idea. I don’t think so. As far as I know, I’m the first owner.”
“How long have you lived here?” Jack asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
The girl frowned. Caution was turning rapidly to suspicion. “I don’t really think that’s any business of yours.”
“Is it longer than four months?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t think I can help you. Good-bye.”
The door closed in his face. Jack raised a furious fist, intending to pound on it until the girl opened up again. His hand hovered for a moment, knuckles turning white, and then fell limply, defeatedly, to his side. His stomach roiled, his chest felt tight, frustration squeezed his throat with cruel fingers. He turned and stumbled downstairs, sure he was about to be sick. However, as soon as he was out of the building and felt the air on his face, the feeling subsided.
He wondered whether to write the girl in the flat a letter, explain everything, but he never did. For a long time afterwards he felt a frequent urge to return to the flat, to stand on the opposite side of the road and look up at the lighted window in the desperate hope of seeing Gail pass across it. He knew what the implications of such an urge could lead to and so managed, not without a struggle, to resist. Soon after this he had a nervous breakdown, the effects of which lasted for almost four months, and returned to the hospital.
It was because of this that the release of Splinter Kiss in paperback was postponed from the spring to the summer.
He had returned to Beckford only once, in March, vowing it would be the last visit he would ever make there. Frank Dawson had driven him down, unannounced. He had paid a call on his Aunt Georgina, who had been so astonished and delighted to see him that she had uncharacteristically burst into tears. Knowing that
his aunt had kept things ticking over with David Rookham, Jack had been to fetch his car and then had told Frank that he would be okay from there, that his friend should return to London. Frank had been reluctant, but Jack had insisted. “Okay,” Frank said at last, “but you take care. Don’t do anything daft.” Jack assured him he wouldn’t. He watched Frank drive away, then got into his Mini Cooper and drove to the church, parking outside its black iron gates.
It had been a cold windy day, the sky alternating between dark clouds and pale sunshine. Jack had pushed open the creaking black gate and turned left to walk along the path between the tombstones. The earliest of the stones, now so weathered and discoloured that they seemed a natural part of the landscape, dated from the 1860s. In contrast to this were black marble monuments, meticulously maintained, or grey-white stones so clean and new they seemed unreal.
Jack halted by his father’s grave and looked down at it, suddenly wishing he’d thought to bring flowers. “Hi, Dad,” he said. “I just came to say good-bye properly. I won’t be coming back again.”
He looked round as if to ensure no one had heard him. Tall grasses waved in the breeze; a tree rustled its leaves and Jack shivered, tugging the collar of his jacket up around his face. He strolled on along a path falling prey to weeds, allowing his instincts to lead him. It was an eerie sensation, like unearthing a route revealed in a dream, or a sustained and acute feeling of deja vu. He was almost surprised when he came to a halt before a stone half-concealed by undergrowth. He parted the damp grass and the dandelions to reveal carved letters clogged with moss and dirt. He stamped on the grass around the stone to flatten it, then crouched down and began gouging out the moss, revealing the message.