by Adam Hamdy
Wallace wondered what constituted a normal life for him. Perhaps the fear might gradually fade, but he was certain his memories wouldn’t. He longed to turn back time and unsay the evil words that had helped drive Erin Byrne to suicide, the tragic event that had set Pendulum in motion. Every time he saw Connie lying in her own blood, dying in his arms, Wallace could not help but blame himself for her violent, traumatic murder. Being in London made it worse. Terrible memories lurked all over the city, each one the father of a new nightmare. This street was particularly potent and he was haunted by the recollection of the last time he’d walked beneath these trees. Sweepers had been brushing dead leaves off the pavement and he’d had the misguided sense that they were symbolically clearing a path for him and Connie. If he’d listened to her, if the two of them had disappeared together, perhaps she would still be alive. But instead—
He shook his head in a pathetic attempt to dislodge the dark thoughts that plagued him. Thoughts that were made all the more powerful by the prospect of what lay ahead. He tried not to think about where he was going, or who he was going to see, but apprehension clouded his mind.
He’d recognised the same fear in DS Bailey when they’d met at the Monkey Puzzle. The detective who’d saved his life had looked well and claimed to be fully recovered, but Wallace could see the familiar sadness is his eyes, a dark uncertainty born out of trauma. Salamander and his crew had been there, congratulating them both on their survival and role in bringing Pendulum down, but Bailey and Wallace had shared the same muted response. Wallace knew there was no joy to be found in the moment of celebration, it wasn’t the end of anything, but the beginning of what was certain to be a difficult process of recovery. And no matter how the echoes of events dwindled, or how dull and faded his memories became, Wallace was certain that one would stay with him forever: Connie’s death. Whatever the future held, he faced it alone, and that gap, that ever-present space beside him, the cold sheet, the empty passenger seat, the table for one, was a constant reminder of their shared moment of horror.
Even being in the Monkey Puzzle had been hard. To Salamander, Bailey, and the others, it was just a pub. To Wallace it was one of the last places he’d been with Connie, and if he’d listened to her, perhaps . . . He’d forced himself to stay for one drink, handed over the money he owed to Salamander and had promised to keep in touch with Bailey, before making his polite excuses and leaving for an appointment he’d long dreaded. He’d drifted east on public transport, ambling, shuffling, moving unenthusiastically towards his destination. He couldn’t have stayed where he was, troubled by the history of the Monkey Puzzle and the company of people who’d known Connie, but he had no desire to reach his journey’s end. Wallace wanted to keep moving, hoping that eventually he’d be forgotten by the world and could vanish entirely. But he owed Connie at least one last mark of respect.
No matter how slowly Wallace moved, his sense of obligation made his arrival inevitable, and he eventually found himself outside Connie’s building. He looked up at her flat and his heart leaped when he saw her familiar silhouette standing in the window. He hurried forward, his mind spinning as though he was in a dream. The buzzer sounded as he reached the door and he flung it open, barely able to contain his excitement at the impossible joy of the situation. How had she survived? How had the news reports got it so wrong? Had there been a cover-up? A ruse to protect her? He raced up the stairs, breathless with elation, but as he turned the corner and peered towards Connie’s doorway the beautiful dream died. Wallace stopped in his tracks, the wind knocked from him with remorseless brutality. Standing in the entrance of Connie’s flat was her mother, Sandra. Apart from the lines on her face and the flecks of grey in her hair, she was Connie’s double.
‘Sorry if I startled you,’ Sandra said with a sad smile.
‘It’s OK,’ Wallace replied, struggling to swallow his disappointment.
Connie’s father, Peter, appeared at Sandra’s shoulder. ‘Why don’t you come in, John?’ he suggested.
Wallace trembled as he crossed the threshold and made his way into Connie’s flat. Peter and Sandra led him into the living room, which was piled with boxes. Most of the furniture was gone. Only the small dining table remained, and Wallace had to look away as he recalled the last conversation he and Connie had there, when she’d tried so hard to persuade him not to leave with Bailey.
‘Oh, John,’ Sandra said quietly, looking at his shaking hands. Tears welled in her eyes as she drew close to Wallace and embraced him. ‘It’s OK,’ she murmured. ‘It’s OK.’
Wallace bowed his head and pressed his face against Sandra’s shoulder. He felt Peter pat him gently on the back. This was not the reaction Wallace had anticipated.
‘I’m sorry,’ he sighed as he stepped back. ‘For everything. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ Sandra assured him. ‘Constance. Connie . . .’ Her voice faltered, and she took a moment to compose herself. ‘Connie was so happy you were back. We spoke almost every day, and she was lifted. Those first few months after you split were hard on her; she never quite recovered. But when the two of you got back together, even though it was only for a short time, she, well, she was back to her old self. She was happy. You were the love of her life.’
‘I didn’t mean for her to . . .’ Wallace trailed off. His words sounded pathetically inadequate.
‘We know what happened, John,’ Peter said. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’
Wallace couldn’t meet their gaze. He turned to look at the tops of the sycamore trees, the branches swaying beyond Connie’s window. It didn’t matter what these people said; he’d taken their daughter to her death.
‘Connie didn’t make any arrangements,’ Peter explained. ‘So, we’re sorting through everything as best we can.’
‘Is there anything you want?’ Sandra offered. ‘Something to remember her by?’
‘The postcards,’ Wallace replied instinctively. ‘The ones in her bedroom. I’d like to remember her through all the people that loved her.’
Sandra was moved by Wallace’s request and could only nod as she choked back her tears. The three of them stood in peaceful silence for a moment.
‘What are you going to do now?’ Peter asked.
Wallace shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’
They stood in silence again, until Wallace asked, ‘You?’
‘The flat’s been sold,’ Peter replied. ‘We’re just going to finish up here and then go home.’
Wallace nodded sympathetically, and silence descended on the room once more. Wallace felt ashamed to be in Connie’s flat, sharing her space with her gracious, forgiving parents. He was the one that should be lying in a cold grave in Stoke Newington Cemetery.
‘Well, I should get going,’ he said finally.
Peter nodded, but Sandra shook her head. ‘Won’t you stay for some tea? We can unpack some cups.’
Wallace could see the misery in Sandra’s eyes. She was desperate to cling to every possible trace of her daughter, but he couldn’t face the prospect of tea from Connie’s mismatched cups; the experience would be too painful for all of them.
‘I have to go,’ he said softly.
Sandra nodded, then quickly turned on her heels. ‘Wait,’ she instructed.
Peter and Wallace stood in the still room and glanced awkwardly at one another until Sandra returned moments later.
‘The postcards,’ she explained, thrusting a thick brown envelope into Wallace’s hands.
‘Thank you,’ he replied and wrapped his arms around her.
Sandra returned his embrace and seemed to sag slightly as he held her. Peter lent his wife a supporting hand as Wallace withdrew, but she brushed it away gently.
‘I’m OK,’ she told him, the lie too big and bold to be contradicted.
Peter extended his hand towards Wallace. ‘Thanks for coming,’ he said, as Wallace shook it. ‘We both needed to see you.’
‘If you’re ever in Australia . . .’ Sandra’s
offer tailed away to nothing.
‘Thanks,’ Wallace replied. ‘If there’s anything I can do—’
‘We’re fine,’ Peter cut him off. ‘There’s not much left now.’
‘Goodbye,’ Wallace said as he backed towards the door.
‘You won’t forget her, will you?’ Sandra called out, but her tone wasn’t one of admonishment; it was almost as though she was talking to herself.
‘I could never forget Connie,’ Wallace assured them, his voice cracking as he said her name.
Peter nodded and Sandra turned towards the window as Wallace left the room. Clutching Connie’s postcards, he hurried down the stairs and out of the building. He glanced up at the flat as he walked down the path and saw Sandra weeping. When she caught his gaze, she retreated from the window and was swallowed up by Connie’s flat.
Wallace had honoured Connie’s memory and knew that was the last time he’d ever see Peter and Sandra. With no ties left to bind him to the world, Wallace was free to lose himself. He quickened his pace, and almost broke into a run when he turned on to Cazenove Road, desperate to escape his own grief, determined to keep moving until he drifted into oblivion.
Acknowledgements
For my wonderful wife Amy, without whom this adventure would never have been possible. Our three gorgeous children, Maya, Elliot and Thomas, earn gold stars for always making me smile.
Thanks to Hannah Sheppard, my very capable literary agent, whose hard work and insight will always be appreciated.
Thanks also to Vicki Mellor, my inspiring editor, who has been instrumental in nurturing Pendulum. The Headline team come highly recommended to any author or, for that matter, any reader lucky enough to bump into them at a literary festival. Emily Griffin, Tom Noble, Sara Adams, Georgina Moore, Jo Liddiard, Ella Bowman, Elizabeth Masters and Caitlin Raynor, your enthusiasm is infectious.
Thanks to Shane Eli, an extraordinary artist, for helping me see the potential of Pendulum. Thanks also to my manager, Pat Nelson, for all the ardent encouragement along the way.
My thanks also goes out to everyone who takes the time to read Pendulum. I hope it was time well spent.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About Adam Hamdy
Also By Adam Hamdy
About the Book
Dedication
PART ONE
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
PART TWO
Chapter 24
PART THREE
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
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
EPILOGUE
Acknowledgements