The Whisper Man

by Alex North

  That was one reason to stay sober.

  And also—

  Thank you for this delightful apartment.

  Pete smiled as he remembered Jake’s words earlier. It had been such a strange thing to say, but it was funny. He was a funny kid. A nice kid. He was creative. He was a character. Probably a handful to deal with too, just like Tom had been at times.

  Pete allowed himself to think about Jake for a few moments more. He could imagine sitting down and talking to the boy. Playing with him, the same way he might—and should—have done with Tom when he had been a child. It was foolish, of course. There was nothing there. In a couple of days, his involvement with the pair of them would be over, and he’d probably never see them again.

  But even so, he decided that he wasn’t going to drink.

  Not tonight.

  Easy to throw the glass, of course. Always easy to do that. Instead, he stood up, walked through to the kitchen, and poured it slowly away into the sink. He watched the liquid trailing away down the drain, and alongside the urge in his chest he thought about Jake again and felt something he hadn’t experienced in years. There was no reason to it. No sense. And yet there it was.

  Hope.

  Part Four

  Thirty-six

  The next morning, when I dropped Jake off at school, I was still quietly amazed by how well he’d adapted to our new circumstances. Last night in the safe house, he had dropped off to sleep without complaint, leaving me to sit alone in the living room afterward with my laptop and my thoughts. When I’d finally gone to bed, I’d gazed down at him, and his face had looked so serene that I’d wondered if he was actually more at peace here than he was in our new home. I’d wondered what, if anything, he was dreaming.

  But then, I often thought that.

  For myself, even as tired as I was, the unfamiliar surroundings had made it harder to sleep than ever, so it was a relief when he was well behaved and easy to manage that morning. Perhaps he was treating this all as some kind of exciting adventure. Whatever the reason, I was grateful for it. I was so exhausted, and my nerves so on edge, that I wasn’t sure I’d have been up to any real challenges.

  We drove to the school, and then I walked him to the playground.

  “Are you okay, mate?”

  “I’m fine, Daddy.”

  “All right, then. Here you go.” I handed him his water bottle and book bag. “I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  He walked off to the door, the bag swinging beside his leg. Mrs. Shelley was waiting there. I hadn’t had the conversation with Jake that I’d promised I would. I’d just have to hope that today was a little easier for him, or at least that he didn’t punch anyone.

  “You still look like shit.”

  Karen fell into step beside me as I walked back out through the gates. She was still dressed up in her huge coat, despite the warmth of the morning.

  “Yesterday, you were worried about offending me when you said that.”

  “Yeah, but it didn’t, did it?” She shrugged. “I slept on it and figured it was probably okay.”

  “Then you slept a lot better than I did.”

  “That I can see.” She stuffed her hands into her pockets. “What are you up to now? Fancy grabbing a coffee, or do you have to run off and be tired somewhere else?”

  I hesitated. I had nothing to do. I’d told my father I needed my laptop for work, but the likelihood of me accomplishing anything in this state was pretty minimal. Today was likely to be a case of treading water and hoping some kind of land would eventually appear—killing time, basically—and looking at Karen now, I figured there were worse ways to do that.

  “Sure,” I said. “That would be nice.”

  We walked down to the main road, where she led me past the small corner shop and village post office to a delicatessen called the Happy Pig. There were meadow scenes painted on the windowed front, and the inside was rustic and crammed with wooden tables, like a farmhouse kitchen.

  “Bit pretentious.” She pushed open the door and a bell tinkled. “But the coffee’s acceptable.”

  “As long as it’s got caffeine in it.”

  It certainly smelled good. We ordered at the counter, standing beside each other a little awkwardly while we waited and not speaking for the moment. Then we took our drinks over to a table and sat down.

  Karen shrugged off her coat. She was wearing a white blouse and blue jeans underneath it, and I was surprised by how slim she looked without the armor on. Was it armor? I thought it might be. There was a scattering of wooden rings around her wrists, which rattled slightly as she reached up with both hands and gathered her hair back, tying it into a loose ponytail.

  “So,” she said. “What is going on with you?”

  “It’s a long story. How much do you want to know?”

  “Oh, everything.”

  I considered that. As a writer, one of the things I’d always believed was that you didn’t talk about your stories until they were finished. If you did, there was less of an urge to write them down—almost as though the story just needed to be told in some capacity, and the pressure reduced the more you did.

  So with that in mind, I decided to tell Karen everything.

  Almost everything, anyway. She already knew about the junk in my garage and my visit from the man who’d turned out to be Norman Collins, but Jake’s near abduction in the middle of the night made her raise her eyes. Then what I’d learned from Mrs. Shearing, and the events that had unfolded yesterday. The discovery of the body. The safe house.

  And last of all, my father.

  The impression I’d gained so far of Karen was that she was fairly frivolous: prone to playful sarcasm and jokey asides. But by the time I’d finished explaining, she looked horrified and deadly serious.

  “Shit,” she said quietly. “They haven’t released any details to the media yet—just that remains had been found at a property. I had no idea it was yours.”

  “I think they’re playing it close to their chests. From what I can make out, they think it’s the remains of a kid called Tony Smith. He was one of Frank Carter’s victims.”

  “His poor parents.” Karen shook her head. “Twenty years. Although I guess they must have known after such a long time. Maybe it’ll even be a relief for them to finally have some closure.”

  I remembered my father’s words.

  “Everybody deserves to go home,” I said.

  Karen looked off to one side. It seemed like she wanted to ask more, but wasn’t sure if she should for some reason.

  “This man they’ve arrested,” she said.

  “Norman Collins.”

  “Norman Collins, right. How did he know about it?”

  “I don’t know. Apparently he always had an interest in the case.” I sipped my coffee. “My father seems to think he might have been Carter’s accomplice all along.”

  “And that he killed Neil Spencer too?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “I hope so—well.” She corrected herself. “I mean, I know that’s an awful thing to say, but at least that way they’ve got the bastard. Christ, if you hadn’t woken up…”

  “I know. I don’t even want to think about it.”

  “It’s fucking terrifying.”

  It was—and, of course, not wanting to think about it didn’t mean I could stop myself.

  “I read up about him last night,” I said. “Carter, I mean. A bit morbid, but it seemed like I needed to know. The Whisper Man. Some of the details were just horrific.”

  Karen nodded. “If you leave a door half open, soon you’ll hear the whispers spoken. I asked Adam about that, after you mentioned it. It’s a rhyme some of the kids say. He’d never even heard of Carter, of course, but I guess that must be where it originated. Passed down.”

  “A warning against the bogeyman.”

  “Yeah. Except this one was real.”

  I thought about the rhyme. Adam had heard it without realizing what it mea
nt, and maybe it extended beyond Featherbank. Things like that often spread among children, so perhaps one of the kids at Jake’s old school had repeated it and that was where he’d learned it.

  It had to be something like that, of course. The little girl hadn’t taught him it, because she wasn’t real.

  But that didn’t explain the butterflies. Or the boy in the floor.

  Karen seemed to read my mind.

  “What about Jake? How’s he handling all this?”

  “All right, I think.” I shrugged, a little helplessly. “I don’t know. He and I … we sometimes find it hard to talk to each other. He’s not the easiest of kids.”

  “There’s no such thing,” Karen said.

  “And I’m not the easiest of men.”

  “And again. But what about you, though? It must have been strange seeing your father after all this time. Have you really had no contact with him at all?”

  “None. My mother left with me when it all got too much. I haven’t seen him since.”

  “Too much…?”

  “The drinking,” I said. “The violence.”

  But then I trailed off. It was easier to explain it like that than to go into detail, but the truth was, that final night aside, I had no actual memory of my father being physically violent toward my mother or me. The drinking, yes, although I didn’t really understand that at the time; I just knew that he was angry all the time, that he disappeared for days, that there was too little money, that my parents argued furiously. And I remembered the resentment and bitterness that would beat out from him—the sense of threat that pervaded the air, as though something bad might happen at any moment. I remembered being afraid. But actual violence might have been pushing it.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Karen said.

  I shrugged again, feeling awkward now.

  “Thanks. But yes, it was strange seeing him. I remember him, of course, but he’s not like he was. He doesn’t look like a drinker now. His whole manner seems different. Quieter.”

  “People change.”

  “They do. And it’s fine, really. We’re both completely different people now. I’m not a kid anymore. He’s not really my father. It doesn’t matter at all.”

  “I’m not sure I believe you.”

  “Well. It is what it is.”

  “That, I believe.” Karen had finished her coffee and now she began slipping on her coat. “And on that note, I’m going to have to love you and leave you, I’m afraid.”

  “You have to go and be tired somewhere?”

  “No, I slept well, remember?”

  “Right.” I swirled around the dregs of my own drink. She didn’t seem inclined to tell me where she was going, and it occurred to me that I barely knew anything about her at all. “We spent the whole time talking about me, you realize? That doesn’t seem fair.”

  “Because you’re much more interesting than I am, especially right now. Perhaps it’s something you can write about in one of your books.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Yeah, I’m sorry. I googled you.” She looked momentarily embarrassed. “I’m good at finding things out. Don’t tell anyone.”

  “Your secret is safe.”

  “Glad to hear it.” She paused, as though there was something else she wanted to say. But then she shook her head, clearly thinking better of it. “See you later?”

  “You will. Take care.”

  I drained the last of my coffee as she left, wondering what she might have been about to say just then. And also thinking about the fact that she’d googled me. What did that mean?

  And was it wrong that I quite liked it?

  Thirty-seven

  “Are you finished with that, love?”

  The man shook his head, momentarily unsure where he was and what was being asked of him. Then he saw the waitress smiling at him, looked down at the table, and realized he’d finished his coffee.

  “Yes.” He leaned back. “Sorry, I was miles away, there.”

  She smiled again as she picked up his empty cup.

  “Can I get you anything else?”

  “Maybe in a minute.”

  He had no intention of ordering anything, but even though the shop was only half full it made sense to be polite and observe social mores. He didn’t want to be remembered as someone who overstayed his welcome. He didn’t want to be remembered at all.

  And he was good at that—although it was true that people made it easy for him. So many of them seemed to be lost in the noise of existence, all but sleepwalking through their lives, oblivious to the world around them. Hypnotized by their cell phones. Ignoring the others they passed. People were self-centered and uncaring, and they paid little attention to things on their periphery. If you didn’t stand out, you vanished as quickly from their minds as a dream.

  He stared at Tom Kennedy, sitting two tables away.

  Kennedy had his back to him, and now that the woman had left, the man could stare if he wanted. When she had been there, facing him, he had sipped his coffee and pretended to study his phone, making himself an unremarkable part of the shop’s scenery. But listening carefully the whole time, of course. Conversations mingled around you if you let them, becoming an impenetrable background hum, but if you focused you could pull one out and follow it easily. All it required was concentration, like delicately tuning a radio until the static disappeared and you were left with a clear signal.

  How right he had been, he thought now.

  We sometimes find it hard to talk to each other.

  He’s not the easiest of kids.

  Well, the man was sure that Jake would flourish under his care. He would give the boy the home he deserved and provide the love and care he needed. And then he himself would feel healed and whole as well.

  And if not …

  Time had a way of dulling sensations. He found it much easier now to think about what he had done to Neil Spencer. The shivers he’d experienced afterward had long since faded, and he could handle the memories more dispassionately now—in fact, there was almost pleasure in doing so. Because that boy had deserved it, hadn’t he? And if there had been moments of tranquility and happiness in the two months beforehand, when everything had seemed good, there had also been a sense of calm and rightness in the aftermath of that final day that had been comforting in its own way too.

  But no.

  It wouldn’t come to that.

  Tom Kennedy stood up and made his way to the door. The man stared down at his phone, idly tapping the screen as Kennedy passed him.

  The man sat for a few seconds more, thinking about the other things he’d heard. Who was Norman Collins? The name was completely unfamiliar to him. One of the others, he supposed, but he had no idea why this Collins had been arrested now. It suited him well enough, though. The police would be distracted. Kennedy might be less on edge. Which meant that he just needed to pick his moment, and everything would be well.

  He stood up.

  The greater the noise, the easier it was to slip silently in without being noticed.

  Thirty-eight

  I’ve been looking for you for so long.

  Pete got out of the car and made his way into the hospital, then took the elevator down to the basement, where the city’s pathology unit was based. One wall of the elevator was mirrored, though, and he looked fine. Calm, even. The pieces within might be broken, but from the outside he was like a carefully wrapped present that would only rattle if you shook it.

  He couldn’t remember ever feeling this apprehensive.

  He’d been searching for Tony Smith for twenty years. On some level, he wondered if the boy’s absence had even sustained him—if it had given him a sense of purpose and a reason to continue, albeit one that had always been kept occluded in the background of his thoughts. Regardless, however much he had tried not to think about it, the case had never been closed for him.

  So he had to be present when it was.

  He hated the autopsy suites in here, and always had
. The smell of antiseptic never quite masked the underlying stench, and the harsh light and polished metallic surfaces only served to emphasize the mottled bodies on display. Death was tangible here—laid out and made prosaic. These rooms were about weights and angles, and clipboards scribbled with spare details of chemistry and biology, all of it so cold and clinical. Every time he visited, he realized that the most important parts of a human life—the emotions; the character; the experiences—were conspicuous by their absence.

  The pathologist, Chris Dale, walked Pete over to a gurney at the far side of the suite. As he followed the man, Pete felt light and faint, and had to fight the urge to turn around.

  “Here’s our boy.”

  Dale spoke quietly. He was famed throughout the department for his brusque and dismissive manner when it came to dealing with the police, saving his respect for those he always referred to as his patients. Our boy. The way Dale said it made it clear that the remains were now under his protection. That the indignities they’d been subjected to were over, and that they would be looked after now.

  Our boy, Pete thought.

  The bones were laid out in the shape of a small child, but age had separated many of them, and not a scrap of flesh remained. Pete had seen a number of skeletons over the years. In some ways, they were easier to look at than more recently deceased victims, who looked like human beings but, in their eerie stillness, somehow not. A skeleton was so far removed from everyday experience that it could be viewed more dispassionately. And yet the reality always hit home. The fact that people die, and after a short amount of time only objects remain, the bones little more than a scattering of possessions abandoned where they fall.

  “We’ve yet to do a full postmortem,” Dale said. “That’s scheduled for later. What I can tell you in the meantime is that these are the remains of a male child who was around six years of age at the time of his death. I can’t even guess at the cause of death for the moment, and we might never know, but he’s been deceased for some time.”