Tall Oaks: A gripping missing child thriller with a devastating twist
Page 28
It was here he had sat, along with the hundred others that had managed to get a seat, and said goodbye to Harry. And then the very next day he had sat alone, on the very same bench, and said goodbye to his mother.
He’d come back to the church daily since, during his lunch break.
He glanced up at the beamed roof, and then down at the stone floor. He looked at his chubby fingers as he lightly traced them over the wood.
The service hadn’t seemed enough: a half hour to say a formal goodbye. He’d sung; stood alone and sung ‘Ave Maria’ to his dead mother and Father Andrew. And to Lisa, who had sat at the back. His voice hadn’t changed in twenty-five years Father Andrew had said. It was a gift.
He could still see a mark on his hand from where they’d put a needle in. It had been his weight that had saved him in the end. The sting might have killed a smaller man with such a severe allergy.
He didn’t notice the other man until he was sitting right beside him.
“Hey,” Jim said.
“Hi.”
“You okay?”
Jerry nodded.
Jim leaned back and stared at the cross. “You’ve been expecting me?”
Jerry nodded.
“I thought I’d give you some time.”
They sat in silence for a long while, the kind of silence heightened for Jerry by the weight of the words that might follow. He hadn’t heard anything since he’d given his statement. And he had waited. Waited and waited by the window. Always watching and waiting.
“I’ve seen the magazine. That guy from New York called me a while back. He asked if they could edit the photograph.”
Jerry nodded.
Jim followed his eye to the cross.
They looked up and saw Father Andrew walk through the door. He smiled at them and then disappeared into his office.
Jerry breathed slowly. His shirt felt loose. He’d lost four pounds. A start.
Jim watched an elderly woman stop by a grave, cross herself, and then move on.
“The store looks good,” Jim said.
“Lisa did most of it. I didn’t want to. I know I don’t deserve it, any of it. I’m so sorry,” Jerry said, wiping his eyes.
Jim put a hand on his shoulder.
“So what happens now?” Jerry said, quietly.
“Max isn’t around to press charges about the camera. I filled out my report, didn’t mention it. I said your mother mailed the application and that you hadn’t even checked the card, didn’t know what you’d taken . . .”
“Because I’m slow.”
Jim looked down at the floor, at the dust lightly blowing across it.
“You lied,” Jerry said. “Why?”
“Does it matter?”
Jerry took a breath, and then looked up at him.
“I’ve seen you sitting by Harry’s grave.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you believe in heaven, Jim?”
Jim stood, shook his head.
“So that’s that?” Jerry said.
“We all do bad things, Jerry, but sometimes we do them for the right reasons.”
Jerry watched him leave.
He sat alone for a long time.
And then he glanced down at his watch. His new watch; the watch that simply told him the time. It seemed slower than his last watch, though that might have been because he didn’t check it as often.
“So this is it. The end of an era,” Abe said, as Manny helped load the last of the boxes into the back of the car.
“I can’t believe your mother gave you the Volvo.”
Abe smiled. “Yeah, well, I think that was mainly because they’ve taken her license away. Her eyes are getting worse.”
Manny looked back at the house. “Yeah, she nearly ran Thalia down the other day, when she came to drop off the prom photographs. She parked in our front yard instead of the street. My mother was pissed.”
“I wish you were coming with me,” Abe said, his deep voice cracking.
Manny pulled him in for a tight hug and then kissed his forehead, softly.
“You took the hottest, most popular girl in school to prom. You’ve got a sweet Volvo, the finest mustache I’ve ever seen, and the kindest heart of any Jew I’ve ever met. The girls on campus will have to take a ticket and get in line for a ride on your cock.”
Abe smiled as Manny slapped his cheek.
“I’ll see you in a couple of weeks. I’ve got to get into town. I’ve got a job interview.”
Abe raised his eyebrows.
“My mother’s ragging on me again, and I need my own money. I got a girl to take care of after all.”
Manny walked away, not turning back because there was a serious danger that he might cry, and he couldn’t let Abe see that—he was the strong one after all.
He cut through the narrow alleyway and walked up his street, waving to his mother and Thalia, who were busy trying to repair the tire marks in the lawn.
Then he stopped outside Furat’s house and helped her with her case. He loaded it into the trunk and smiled at her mother, who was sat in the passenger seat of the car.
“Are you excited?” he asked.
“I can’t wait. I still can’t believe we’re going,” Furat said.
“So things are okay now?”
She shrugged. “He called her as soon as he heard about Harry. I think it brought it home . . . you know?”
“What did she call the baby?”
“Mohammed . . . after my father.”
Manny looked up as Furat’s father came out the house carrying a case.
He nodded to Manny.
“Merhaba yakışıklı,” Manny said.
“Please stop speaking Turkish to my father.”
Furat’s father shook his head, then got into the car.
“Call me when you get to Chicago.”
“Of course.”
“And get some good pictures of baby Mo. Tell him his Uncle Manny looks forward to meeting him.”
Furat laughed. “Good luck with your interview. Try not to curse. I’ll see you in a week.”
She leaned forward and kissed his cheek.
“I love you, Manny,” she whispered into his ear.
“I love you too,” he whispered back.
As Manny turned onto Main Street, the sun lighting his path, he saw Jim crossing the street in front of him.
“You okay, man?” Manny said.
Jim stopped. “Yeah.”
“It wasn’t your fault, you know. None of it was your fault. I know what they’re saying . . . but fuck them.”
Jim nodded once, and then he walked back toward the station.
Manny carried on up Main Street, walking past Pizza Hut and nodding to Stan, who looked away quickly.
He passed the newsstand, saw the magazine with the bird on the cover; the one that everyone was talking about. His mother had a copy at home. He’d smiled when he read the dedication inside. To Lisa.
He stopped for a moment and said hello to French John, who was sitting with Roger outside the Tearoom. They were smiling and laughing, and then both jumped up to help Henrietta with their drinks. She joined them and the three sat together.
Manny crossed the street and looked up at the sign, still so new it had a sparkle to it.
He pushed the door open to the PhotoJerry, and walked inside.
Acknowledgements
Thank you:
Victoria, who has discovered that being married to a writer is even less fun than being married to a trader. Thank you for loving Tall Oaks (and me).
To my parents (and Yiannis) for the early reads and careful critiques, your support means so much.
Julie, the kindest most generous person I know. (Scoring major mother-in-law points here.)
To my brother, Toby, for the Buddha lunches when I come to town, and for loving Manny as much as I do. That Travolta line was for you.
To all at WME, especially Cathryn Summerhayes. Thank you for all of your support, and for enabling m
e to use the immortal line, ‘Talk to my agent.’ I say it to my kids all the time. You should probably expect their call.
All at Twenty7 and Bonnier.
My editors, Joel Richardson and Claire Johnson-Creek. Being a complete novice I didn’t really know exactly what an editor does, but I do now. They take a book and make it a million times better in every conceivable way. I am eternally in their debt.
Emily Burns, for championing Tall Oaks, and for laughing at my stupid emails.
Rob Cox – don’t look me in the eye. (It’s happening already.)
Nick Stearn, for the brilliant cover. All that’s missing is a mosque (you have a button for that, right?)
Robert Woolliams – launch party in a strip club? I’ll make some calls.
Team Twenty7 – you’re the best. I’d be lost without our secret Twitter group. Delete. Delete. Delete.
Annabel and the team at whitefox.
To my friend Scott Curran, for the boogie shit.
Rebecca Bowen, for the author photo, though I can’t help feeling like we should have gone with the topless-quill-smoke machine idea.
Caroline Ambrose and everyone at The Bath Novel Award. If you’re an aspiring writer it’s a great resource.
Lastly, and most importantly, to Siobhan O’Neill. I don’t know where to begin so I’ll just say thanks for everything. I wouldn’t have got here without you.
About the Author
Chris Whitaker was born in London and spent ten years working as a financial trader in the city. When not writing he enjoys football, boxing, and anything else that distracts him from his wife and two young sons. Tall Oaks is his first novel.
First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Twenty7 Books
Twenty7 Books
80-81 Wimpole St, London W1G 9RE
www.twenty7books.co.uk
Copyright © Chris Whitaker, 2016
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
The right of Chris Whitaker to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 This is a work of fiction. Names, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-7857-7031-9
This ebook was produced by IDSUK (Data Connection) Ltd
Twenty7 Books is an imprint of Bonnier Zaffre, a Bonnier Publishing company
www.bonnierzaffre.co.uk
www.bonnierpublishing.co.uk