All the Wicked Girls

by Chris Whitaker

  She turned to Summer and took her in her arms and held her tight as sobs broke her small body, ’cause she knew she was too late for her wish to come true.

  48

  Summer

  I played my cello during the early service at St. Luke’s one Sunday mornin’. I didn’t want to, I didn’t like the thought of people watchin’ me ’cause there weren’t no way they would’ve got it, what it meant.

  I couldn’t sleep the night before. I lay there thinkin’ about everythin’ and nothin’. I wondered about Descartes and impossible certainty, what I thought I knew but didn’t never.

  I made Savannah play piano alongside ’cause I said I wouldn’t sit up there alone.

  Momma bought me a new dress and she fussed with my hair while Raine kneeled in front and painted my lips. I saw Daddy watchin’ us, and he wore this smile like maybe he knew somethin’ we didn’t. “My girls,” he said.

  As I waited for everyone to take their seats I let my eyes drift to the stained glass. I thought about sittin’ there when I was small, when white was white and black was somethin’ nearer to gray. I wanted to cry but held it. That feelin’, when somethin’ you reckon you’ve got a handle on rears up and faces you, makes you see it for the first time. Fifteen ain’t old enough to hit reset.

  I played The Swan by Camille Saint-Saëns ’cause Savannah said I could choose anythin’. I played it even though I knew it was tough for her and for Bobby. I knew it was their song and maybe Michael’s but that didn’t mean it weren’t mine too, ’cause in the end we are all one and we are all the same.

  I reckon maybe that was the only time I got it, what they saw and what they heard.

  My fingers found the strings with a grace I ain’t never sought before. My fiberglass bow glided over them in the way I guessed a pernambuco might. I closed my eyes and breathed deep, I let my shoulders drop and my mind run far from the church and the people and the earth that carried them.

  I ain’t sure what I believed, God or somethin’ like him, but at that moment I felt if there weren’t a roof on the old building the music would’ve soared high into the sky and maybe those in the heavens would’ve smiled down on me.

  I didn’t count notes, I didn’t search them out, they found me.

  I played away my decisions, good and bad. I played away my sister’s hurt and my daddy’s loss and my momma’s misplaced pride. I played away Bobby’s touch and whatever it meant to him and to me.

  When I reached the final note I listened to it melt away into the kinda quiet that only visits once. I dipped my head and clutched my bow tight, scared to look up in case they saw it, that there weren’t nothin’ left of me to give to anyone. They had it all.

  The silence stretched long and wide and maybe the birds fell quiet and the Red stopped flowin’. I felt something shift in Grace that day. Nothin’ big, nothin’ no one would notice but me.

  I heard the first clap and knew it belonged to my sister. I ain’t sure how I knew, but I did. And that first clap was joined by a second, and then a hundred.

  I opened my eyes and saw my parents stand, and then Savannah and Bobby, and then everyone else. I saw people cryin’ that didn’t never cry, people that’d lost their jobs and their place but their faith remained true. And for a moment they weren’t even shamed neither, and maybe they did see me and maybe that was all right just that one time.

  I looked down at my cello ’cause I didn’t know where else to look, and then back up at the stained glass ’cause I knew a rainbow fell on the other side.

  And then I saw Raine sittin’ lone in the far corner, no longer clapping but cryin’ too. I met her eye and she smiled wide ’cause they weren’t those sad cries I heard when she thought the house was sleepin’.

  Through her tears she nodded at me, and through tears of my own I nodded back.

  49

  The Light That Was Left

  Noah sat alone in the dialysis ward. He glanced over at the nurses’ station. There was a new nurse and she was nice but she kept to herself. He stared at the television set, then at the empty space where Purv usually sat.

  Six months had passed since the storm.

  Since Ray Bowdoin was killed and Samson Lumen was killed.

  Folk said that maybe the Lord’s work weren’t as mysterious after all; cause and effect in its purest form. When Pastor Lumen learned of his son’s actions he suffered another stroke, this one so bad he weren’t likely to recover.

  Raine had been taken to Mayland; she was close to death that night. If Noah hadn’t heard those gunshots it might’ve been different. The newspapers said he was a hero all over again.

  The morning that followed saw Noah get up early and walk down the stairs and straight out the front door to stand in the yard. He stopped still and stared up at a sky fired with all the colors, a sunrise so beautiful maybe it slowed time awhile.

  He’d looked across the street and seen Bud Grierson and his wife standing side-by-side and watching too. And then he’d heard the Dumans’ front door open and saw them follow.

  The reporters had it that near every person in Grace woke early that morning, didn’t even notice the damage the storm had done ’cause they couldn’t see nothing but the dawn of new light.

  Noah was about to holler for his grandmother when Black pulled the cruiser up front. And then Black told Noah about Purv and Noah had run to the Buick.

  Black had stood there beneath that open heaven and watched him go.

  The summer cloud had finally lifted from the town of Grace, but an even darker one remained.

  *

  Summer was buried in the grounds of St. Luke’s, beneath an Okame cherry that flowered so pretty folk stopped for a moment to notice it.

  Noah sat alone at the back during the service, watching Pastor Bobby talk, then listening to a recording of that same music Summer had played that day that everyone still spoke of, each note reaching a place inside of him that brought him closer to a girl he wished he’d known.

  Halfway through, when Ava was breaking and Joe had his eyes closed tight, the plastic sheeting blew from the large hole in the slate roof of the old church, and sunlight spilled in as the music lifted up toward the sky.

  Raine had left town with her parents shortly after. She hadn’t spoken to him since that night; she hadn’t spoken to nobody.

  Black said they had kin someplace near the coast, so when Noah closed his eyes at night he saw her riding in the back of a truck down Route 65, passing the plains, her hand out the window like it was a bird.

  *

  There was a new painting on the wall. Maybe he recognized one of the fields, but then again it could’ve been anywhere.

  He swallowed and his throat ran dry. He glanced at the blue machine and at the tubes and he breathed deep ’cause he had that feeling like he couldn’t take it no more.

  He pushed back in his chair, closed his eyes and sat there for a long time, counting slow in his mind like his momma had once told him but finding nothing helped at all.

  “So there’s this animal called a bearcat. And it smells like popcorn.”

  Noah opened his eyes and he saw Raine sitting on the chair beside him.

  “A bearcat?”

  She nodded.

  “And it smells like popcorn?”

  She nodded.

  She crossed her legs beneath herself, tucked her hair back, and stared at the television set. He watched her for a while like she weren’t real, and he thought maybe she looked a little different but he didn’t know why.

  “Will you come with me somewhere after this?” she said.

  “Anywhere,” he said.

  *

  It was a cold winter evening, though no one in Grace complained much about the weather no more. Though the sky was dark it was lit by the shine of a thousand stars.

  Black walked up the winding pathway and into the cemetery behind St. Luke’s.

  He kneeled and laid a small bouquet beneath the headstone. He did that often.

&
nbsp; Though he was sad he managed a smile when he read the perfectly simple inscription written at the base of her headstone.

  Summer, my sister.

  “You all right, Black,” Purv said.

  Black looked up, only just noticing he weren’t alone.

  “Yeah,” he said, and then he stood. “You healing up okay?”

  Purv shrugged. “Noah reckons I’m strong.”

  “Noah reckons a lot of shit.”

  Purv smiled. “I was just payin’ my respects. I ain’t sure why but I keep comin’ here.”

  Black nodded.

  “You look different, Black.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Maybe your eyes are clearer or somethin’.”

  Black frowned at him. Truth was he’d been to Pinegrove a couple times. The road was long and he didn’t watch it close but maybe it weren’t as dark as it once was.

  “How come you’re all gussied up?” Purv said.

  “I ain’t.”

  “And that cologne.”

  “I got a date, not that it’s any of your business.”

  “With that lady stayin’ at your place? Peach.”

  Black sighed.

  “Small town.”

  “How’s your mother doin’?”

  Purv shrugged.

  “You hear Amber King had her baby?” Purv said.

  Black nodded. “I also heard what she called him.”

  “Noah ain’t stopped smilin’ about it.”

  They turned and began to head back toward the square. Purv walked with a limp now and probably always would.

  As Black glanced back at the church and at the clock tower a light snow began to drift and fall.

  He didn’t notice the two figures that stood at the top, side by side, hand in hand.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thank you:

  As always to my beautiful wife Victoria. I’m really going to miss you when you turn forty and I trade you in. Seven more years of heaven though. Savour them.

  My dad, for the endless plot discussions, and for suggesting some of the creepiest titles ever. A Taste of Summer. So gross, man. So gross.

  Joel Richardson, though you broke my heart I’ll always be grateful for our time together. I miss you every day. Thank you for helping me tell this story, for changing what needed to be changed, and for being so funny and kind during a very long and difficult process.

  Bec Farrell – we did it! Thank you for your faith, your brilliant edits, and for getting me here (despite all my kicking and screaming). You’ve got skills, Rebeccason. Christopherson.

  All at Bonnier Zaffre, I love you guys and am acutely aware of how lucky I am to be working with you.

  Katherine Armstrong, crime queen, and one of my fave people ever. I owe you a ridiculously big pizza.

  The magical Emily Burns, for your belief, your energy, and your ability to bribe the national press.

  My special agent, Cathryn Summerhayes. I found an old email where you said ‘you’ll be a published author one day, I promise’. And now there’s two books out there! Sometimes a thank you isn’t enough, so I’ll send booze.

  Everyone at Curtis Brown, especially Katie McGowan and the awesome foreign rights team.

  Nick Stearn, for the wonderful cover. That kiss is long overdue. Stop pretending you have a cold whenever I come in.

  Siobhan O’Neill, for the early reads and amazing levels of support. I miss Jack (and you).

  Kate Parkin and Mark Smith, for being the total opposite of scary publishing boss people.

  Jeff Jamieson, for being so funny and charming (whilst bullying the local booksellers).

  TeamTwenty7 – love y’all. G.J. you deal your drugs, we ain’t judgin’.

  Dominick Montalto, for the masterful copy-edit.

  Suzanne Gale, the most lovely and talented cellist.

  Claire and Tim, for the penis consultation.

  Caroline Ambrose. #TeamBNA.

  To the readers and reviewers that took Tall Oaks to their hearts. Manny loves you all.

  Liz Barnsley, for taking the matches away, for seeing Summer as I saw her, and for supporting me when you were going through such a difficult time. You’ll never know how grateful I am.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Chris Whitaker’s debut novel, Tall Oaks, was published in 2016. It was a Guardian crime book of the month as well as featuring in Crime Time’s top 100 books of 2016 and BuzzFeeds incredible summer reads. It has been shortlisted for the CWA John Creasey New Blood Dagger Award.

  Chris lives in Hertfordshire with his wife and two young sons.

  If you enjoyed All The Wicked Girls, why not try Chris Whitaker’s debut novel

  Shortlisted for CrimeFest Last Laugh Award 2017

  Shortlisted for CWA John Creasey (New Blood) Dagger 2017

  Tall Oaks is an idyllic small town, until the disappearance of a young child throws the tight-knit community into crisis.

  Jess Monroe, the boy’s distraught mother, is simultaneously leading the search and battling her own grief and self-destructive behaviour. Her neighbours watch on, their sympathy masking a string of dark secrets.

  This is a small town where nothing is as it seems, and everyone has something to hide. And as the investigation draws towards a climax, prepare for a devastating final twist . . .

  AVAILABILE IN PAPERBACK AND EBOOK NOW

  Read on for an exciting extract . . .

  1

  Send in the Clown

  Jim closed the blinds, unplugged the telephone, and put the tape in. He leaned back in his chair, took a breath, and pressed play.

  The tape crackled, the sound familiar though no less unsettling, for he knew what was to come.

  He skipped past the preliminaries, stopping when he heard Jess’s voice.

  “The baby monitor is one of the new models. There’s a small camera downstairs in Harry’s room, and a base unit next to my bed. I was nervous about Harry sleeping in his own room, especially with him being two floors below: the lower ground floor. It’s a long way down. The house wasn’t really designed for family living. Michael loved it though.”

  He turned up the volume and closed his eyes. He heard her take a sip of water. He flinched as the glass touched her teeth.

  “I liked lower ground floor over basement, like the realtor said. Basement sounds creepy, dark, and cold. Harry’s room is nice though—there’re animal stickers on the walls. We had the ceiling painted blue, like the sky.”

  She coughed lightly, shuffled in her seat.

  “It’d taken a few weeks before I managed to sleep more than an hour without checking the monitor; seeing what position he was sleeping in; making sure he hadn’t kicked his sheet off. The night-vision mode gives his room an eerie, green glow; makes his skin look so pale I felt sure he was freezing cold down there.”

  She laughed then, a fleeting, anxious laugh.

  “I wasn’t sure why I was sitting up in bed that night, why I was sweating, why my heart was pounding so hard. I remember reaching for the clock, seeing it was three-nineteen. Funny . . . the things you remember.”

  Another pause, another cough.

  “I glanced at the monitor and fought the urge to check him. I drove myself mad, always checking. He’s three after all, not a baby. I reached for my glass of water. My throat was dry and scratchy . . . I’m not sure . . . maybe I was getting sick . . . a cold or something.”

  She cleared her throat. “Is this too much detail?”

  He heard his own voice, calm, reassuring, practiced. “You’re doing well.”

  “I lay back and stared at the blank screen. He was fine. Harry was fine. It had been like this every night since Michael left. I was a wreck . . . I am a wreck: fucked. The person I used to be . . . gone . . . I’m not even sure I remember her. I wonder if I’ll ever see her again . . . that person I mean. Do I sound crazy?”

  He’d smiled gently, shaken his head.

  “My mother said i
t will just take time, that I’ll find my way again. But how much time? How much longer will I have to go on like this before it gets easier? She doesn’t know, she can’t tell me. I’m waiting for the day when I can stop thinking about him, flip a switch or something; dark to light. But at the same time I’m terrified of moving on, because I love him so much. Do you get that, Jim?”

  He’d met her eye, offered a slight nod.

  “I wonder when I’ll be able to eat a meal and not think about who he’s eating with, or worse, sleeping with. It’s like an illness, it consumes you. I breathe him in, but never out. Is that fucked-up, Jim? It’s unfair, you know. He just walked out. It’s easier for him to find someone else. I’m the single mother now, the one with the baggage, the one that needs a small miracle to find someone decent . . . someone that wants to be a father to another man’s child. And who does? I mean, really? I try to force these thoughts to the back of my mind. But lying there at night . . . that night . . .”

  She trailed to a heavy silence.

  They broke, this time for her to visit the ladies’ room.

  He thought about stopping the tape—he always did at this point. He traced his finger over the button, drawing it away when he heard her voice again.

  “A long hour passed before I started to relax. My eyes grew tired and I started to drift. And then I heard it.

  A whisper.

  ‘Jessica.’

  I opened my eyes wide, my breath caught in my throat. I stared at the monitor, the screen still dark, the green light still burning.

  I must have been imagining it. That’s what I thought, Jim: Get a grip, Jess. It was my mind playing tricks again, the way it did when Michael first left. It had been easier then because Harry had slept in my bed, as much for my sake as his. He didn’t want to though. Imagine that. A three year old wanting to sleep on his own. So grown-up.”

  She cleared her throat.

  “I sat up. My hand shook as I reached for my water.”