There was a sign to the left of the front door which filled her with terror and also an explosive brand of curiosity that was firing energy to her legs, tired as they were. For Sale.
The drive was empty of cars. The same sun that had climbed out from a lazy horizon outside her window that morning, had followed her here and was now soaring in the sky, dancing between misty patches. It was late afternoon. A beautiful, calm day with extravagant white cloud formations and an accompanying chill. Without a plan, she wandered down the drive towards the house, passing the huge horse chestnut tree that was sprouting countless spikey spheres of the brightest emerald.
And for no reason that was logical, Naomi walked around the house, peering in the windows, tipping up the memories that seemed to fill the gaping chasms she felt inside. The back garden was exactly as she remembered it. From here, she could see the chimney in the distance.
The house seemed to be unoccupied. All the furniture was as she remembered it, down to the gingham cloth on the kitchen table. The fake fruit in the bowl. The kitchen was faultlessly clean and tidy. The sign in front of the house was coloured brightly in royal blue, bold yellow. Couldn’t miss it. Milne Mosser estate agents. There was a number. She took out her phone and called the number, asked about the house.
‘Ah yes, let me just pull up the details.’ A few moments passed where Naomi stood, staring at the front door, the sun warming one side of her face. ‘We’re doing a multi viewing on that house this weekend.’
‘Meaning?’
‘It’s only been up for sale four days and there’s been a lot of interest. I don’t know if you know, but it was in the news a couple of years ago? Suspected –’
‘How much is it up for?’
‘See that’s the thing. Because we have four parties interested already, one of them a TV company, we decided to do the viewing all together and in cases like these it sometimes comes down to the highest bidder.’
‘OK thanks.’
She cut the call. She’d heard enough. She went to the address on her sat-nav now, the one where the owner lived. She had no idea what he was called. The voice led her four miles away to a neighbouring village and to a pretty row of terraced cottages.
You’ve reached your destination.
She got out of the car and knocked on a dull red door. Nothing happened. Again, she knocked and got the same result. No response. She rummaged in her handbag and scribbled a note on a scrap of paper. Her name, why she was there, what she wanted, her phone number. She signed the note, Naomi Hamilton, and dropped it through the door.
Exhausted now, she texted her parents to tell them where she was and then switched off her phone. She drove into the nearest town and looked for a B&B. Dozens of them to choose from. Some had vacant rooms. She’d get one, anything that was peaceful and had a comfy bed and a squishy feather pillow. She intended to escape the flames; she’d try to get some rest. Then she’d worry about what she’d do with her life after that. First, she had to sleep.
56
A letter from Naomi. Not an entire surprise, but Dan was cautioning himself to be strong. He’d looked at it for a few minutes, put it down, picked it up, repeated the process multiple times, deciding finally that he had to ignore it and dispose of it as he had threatened to do, unread. He then found that in the next minute he was inserting his forefinger into the gaping corner of the envelope and prising it open greedily. It was a temptation he felt too weak to resist. A magnet tugging at his fingers and he surrendered control. He looked down and noticed that his hands were trembling with urgency.
As he began to read, he lost all sense of his cell, the wing beyond it teeming with aggressive males, the yards and sturdy walls and barbed wire, even the city that rolled away in a great tide of cluttered buildings and houses, Seth Holloway in some pocket of it, battling for his life. As Dan immersed himself in Naomi’s words, he was aware only of her. The way she’d steered the pen with haste in order to counter his words which she’d acquired second hand. The passionate crossing of her Ts, the artistic loops and swirls which spoke of her determination, her utter refusal of his message. Every word relayed her disappointment and pain and he imagined hot and mystified tears spilling from her eyes as she wrote them.
At the bottom of the page, her name was swimming. Evidence of tears? Yes – his, he realised. He was appalled to find that his eyes were brimming uncontrollably, that fat drops were snaking out and falling on the page. His nose was running, shoulders shaking, his whole frame quaking against the floor beneath his feet. For the first time since his sentence, Dan seemed to be fragmenting, the gravity of his situation grinding him into the floor. He had to grope for the edge of the bunk, steady himself, resist the forces that were likely to send him crashing to the ground in bits if he didn’t hang on to something solid.
The noise of the TV drowned out his snivels. Never had he been so grateful that Vic was married to the screen. Dan stumbled to the toilet to snatch toilet roll to stem the flood as soon as possible. It was a sobering moment where a nasty dose of panic seized hold of him. He feverishly wiped his eyes, mopped his nose, reminding himself – as if he needed to – that men didn’t crack like this, especially in here. They clashed heads, clubbed each other with their best fists, yelled abusive words, downed abusive substances, traded, got even. But they didn’t cry.
Dan tore the sheet in half and stowed it away, his initial conscious effort to cleanse himself of her words and fortify himself against them – a futile attempt when he knew that they were already written into his memory.
He clambered onto his bunk and closed his eyes against a surge of memories, the most recent of which was Seth Holloway being carted off on a stretcher while Dan was seized for questioning. There’d be more questions, Dan was sure. A cloud of uncertainty was following him even in his cell.
Dan heard a key being inserted into the door, causing Vic to shift in his bunk below Dan. So they were back for him already? Brenda the Beard poked bristles then her head around the door in that order. She fixed her eyes on Dan, who was battling against slack and useless muscles as he tried to sit up.
‘Stone, you’re wanted.’
Dan pointed to himself, to make sure that he was Stone. In that moment, he wasn’t entirely sure who he was.
She nodded. ‘Yeah.’ A flick of her head. ‘On your feet. Come with me.’
***
Naomi stood at the sink in the cottage, rinsing a cup and plate in warm, soapy water, looking out of the window. In front of her was a narrow stretch of grass with a few bald patches, a sharp slope and a stone wall that was hidden at the top behind a row of fir trees. If she pushed up onto her tiptoes and leaned into the sink, she could see bushes and shrubs and the horse chestnut tree rising out of them, incubating a thousand conkers.
She dried her hands and went to sit in the lounge. The sound of birdsong poured in from an open window. Not a single bird, but many very giddy ones chirping and chattering in the trees.
After a week of relentless rain, the clouds had cleared and high pressure had moved in. It was June now and today was one of those wondrous days, utterly unimaginable during winter, where every breeze seems to whisper an invitation to go outside and drink in whatever’s on offer. Today was the stuff of dreams in this corner of England. A cornflower blue sky and very little wind. The sun radiating pent-up heat, bathing the hillsides in glorious colours and teasing out the flowers.
Naomi lay on the sofa as she tried to do for ten minutes each day, practising what Annabel called mindfulness. Annabel had read about it in a magazine in hospital. Couldn’t do it for the life of her because it was as boring as hell, but thought that Naomi should maybe give it a go. So the idea was to relax, be still, not attempt to do anything at all except notice things in the present. Allow the thoughts and body sensations to come, observe them as you might watch passers-by from inside a coffee shop window.
So here she was, eyes closed, watching thoughts, attempting not to empty her mind, but to allow it to r
oam and simply be! To monitor what was happening. She was seeing the cottage at the moment, from the front, remembering the shock of finding the for sale sign. Which then ushered in the phone call one day later, from the guy who owned the house, telling her he’d like to see her as soon as possible. She’d been surprised, didn’t think he’d call. So, after a fairly restful night in a very dark room, she’d driven over to see him. His wife was there. They were upper fifties perhaps, the kind, parental types who made tea and served homemade biscuits on tiny china plates that matched the teapot. They wanted to hear her story.
Who didn’t? But somehow, as she sipped her tea and began to pick at words, she found that pulling them out of her was helping to shift the tightness that always lodged in her chest. It was only about a hundredth part she told them. Scanty details about Dan and how he’d saved her life and kept her at their cottage. How he’d been wrongly imprisoned and how she’d tried to save him in return. How it had all gone wrong. How she needed an escape and felt drawn to the cottage and couldn’t think of anywhere else she’d rather be.
It didn’t sound that impressive really, considering a TV company was ready to swoop in, but she’d said what she could say and found herself – to mask a sudden silence – reaching for an oat biscuit that was one half covered in chocolate. They were looking at each other, the couple, considering her words without discussion. A short time later, Naomi was leaving with the keys. In the long term, they offered her the house at the full price and she accepted, and in the short term, she could rent it, how was that?
It was amazing. Much more than she had hoped for. It brought relief, a smile, a little burst of elation even. So they’d advise the estate agents about their decision, and she’d put in a formal offer for the house. Deal done on faith, and not accompanied by a handshake, but a hug. She’d given them some money then, enough to cover a month of rent, and then she’d headed back to her car feeling a good deal lighter, unable to quite believe that she was about to return to the cottage again. Something wonderful, from nothing.
That was three weeks ago. Snippets of the last few weeks passed through her mind and, like a good girl, she observed them without getting sucked in emotionally. At least, that was the idea. She kept her breathing steady. Kept her eyes sealed and her fingers linked loosely across her middle. The birds were still partying outside while the sun warmed one elbow.
She’d been back to Alderley Edge just once since she got the keys to her cottage, to see the baby and her parents and to gather more stuff from her room. The baby was perfectly adorable and Annabel was a different person. She wouldn’t let him out of her sight and jumped up to check on him whenever he made the slightest noise. He still didn’t have a name, but he was so much like Joel that he’d picked up the nickname Little Joe. During a few weeks of intensive guzzling and serious bouts of sleeping in between, he’d managed to gain chubby little cheeks that were tinged in red, and he’d lost some hair from the back of his head.
Specifics about the night that Vincent’s house ignited, came to her in dribbles. People would mention odd things, horrific things about his body being found without a shred of flesh. These were the details that intruded in her mindfulness sessions and threatened to shatter her peace.
Less horrifying things had come to her attention too. There’d been arrests. A police woman. A judge. The law catching up with some of Vincent’s players. Vincent had left a will and the only names on it were Joel and his mother. And he’d wanted the piano to go to Naomi, who’d been amazed to learn that it had survived the fire unscathed. The only unaffected room had been the library, tucked away at the back of the house. Vincent had planned every detail of his death.
She’d heard nothing about Dan or from Dan, and she didn’t ask. No word at all. She’d lie awake at the cottage, imagining him in the next room where he used to be. Odd times, she could almost hear him breathing.
She glanced at her watch. She’d done twelve minutes without moving at all, which was ninety seconds longer than her previous ‘best’. Another success to add to the others, such as getting up and eating. Small steps, remember? She was dreaming up plans for the cottage too, as soon as it was hers. Hours were spent in a trance, planning what she would do with it, where her pianos would go, one in each of the downstairs rooms, she thought. She could have refused the Steinway, turned down a reminder of Vincent Solomon and her time in his house, but to accept the gift that Vincent had left her felt bizarrely appropriate. She didn’t expect anyone to understand.
It was time to step outside into the sunshine. She leapt up at the prospect, leaving herself light-headed, seeing dots. She decided she’d walk to the shop through the back garden, tracing the steps that Dan used to tread, out of the back gate, across the stream and then beyond into endless fields of green. It had either been too wet to make the walk so far, or had been too stormy inside her head. But every day had found her standing at the upstairs window, looking out, imagining the day she’d finally take that walk.
It had come. The grass would still be boggy following days of rain. She slung on some old trainers and stepped into dazzling sunshine in a T-shirt and cropped jeans. She locked the door behind her. For half a mile or so, she slowly walked, taking in the scents, listening to the voice of nature, watching her cottage shrink. The ground was soft; the heat of the sun was mercilessly bearing down, scorching the top of her head.
The ticking of her life had almost stopped again. Time didn’t count here. The air was pure; the landscape perpetually green. There was a tranquil lake about a mile away. All the clutter and bustle of the city of Manchester had vanished from her life and seemed very far away. She didn’t miss it. For now, during this little season that she’d set herself to heal, she was idling away the minutes and hours doing anything she fancied.
She thought she heard a voice behind her, but when she looked, she saw only shards of sunlight cutting the grass all the way from heaven. Right ahead, the chimney was getting closer. She’d stop halfway up the hillside and lie down and feel the sun on her face, she decided. She’d buy a drink to sip it on the way home.
‘Naomi?’ There it was again.
She turned, held an arm to her forehead to shield the sun. Through a biblical shaft of light and colour, there was a shape, shifting right towards her through the brightness. Her pulse began to quicken. Her head felt rather dizzy. It was impossible, but she couldn’t mistake the way he moved, the length of his stride, the swing of his arms, his dark hair, broad shoulders. He was growing every second, drawing closer and she could only stand, and wait, her legs weak with hope.
They were moving suddenly, her legs. She hadn’t asked them to, but they’d been jolted into motion – a reflex action over which she seemed to have no control. She was running now without really feeling the ground beneath her, slicing her arms through the air, dividing the distance between them. A faint breeze pushing against her. He was five metres away now. Three. One. She stopped, out of breath, looked into his face. It was slimmer, the bone structure more defined.
She barely felt able to speak his name, even in her head. Dan was standing in front of her. Dan!
‘How – ?’
That’s all she managed. Dan reached out and lifted her clean off her feet, held her in his arms, talked right inside her ear.
‘Tell me you still love me.’
She wrapped her arms around his neck, found herself laughing for the first time in an age. ‘Course I do. But I thought . . .’
‘Shhh.’ He squeezed her to him, held her for a long moment. ‘Say you’ll still marry me, Naomi Hamilton.’ She laughed again, tipped her head back. ‘Say it.’ He was laughing too.
‘Of course I’ll marry you.’
He set her down, swept her hair away and cupped her face in his hands and bent down and kissed her over and over in that timeless sphere where there was only the two of them beneath a sea of blue, the sun shimmering overhead, while the cottage sat watching in the distance, waiting to welcome them home.
&nbs
p; Three months later ……
Little Joe was still Little Joe. His nickname had stuck and so they’d made it more official. But Little Joe was getting bigger and today was all about him. Just back from church, Little Joe had been Christened, Joseph Henry Martin. He’d screamed throughout the entire service and angrily waved his arms. Must have felt daft in the long white dress, was Joel’s conclusion. And then it was back to the house in Alderley Edge for food. The Italian pair, father and son, had been hired again. A buffet this time. Too many people for a sit down meal.
It was early September now. A calm day with bouts of warm sunshine and swollen white clouds sailing through the boundless sky. Bodies were dotted about the house and were scattered around the garden. Annabel’s friends stood in clumps outside with plates of food, laughing, chatting. Some sat down on the grass and sipped drinks. Annabel was getting round all of them while Joel strolled around the garden pathways with his mum, who was carrying Little Joe in her arms, trying to settle him to sleep. Annabel’s eyes traced their movements wherever they went.
Naomi watched this from the kitchen window as she filled a glass with water and began to drink. She heard Dan’s voice, so she turned. Dan was walking through the door with his parents.
‘There you are,’ he said to Naomi.
On the kitchen island was an assortment of drinks. Dan patiently waited for his parents to select something and then began to pour for them. Naomi got her phone out and called to them. They huddled together – Dan in the middle an arm hooked around the pair of them – and smiled. Naomi froze the moment. This was the first time Dan’s parents had met hers. Naomi had been nervous without a cause. Camilla was relaxed. Happy. The ideal host. She’d just returned from ten days in Italy with Henry and her skin was golden brown against the cream jacket she wore now. A row of pearls clung to her neck.
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