by C. J. Tudor
‘So I’m not under suspicion?’ I asked as they left.
Taylor cocked an eyebrow. ‘Not for this.’
The large sergeant guffawed. Police humour.
‘This looks like a professional job,’ he said. ‘I don’t have you down as the hitman type.’
I could have told them that there are all types of hitmen (and women). But I didn’t. I smiled.
‘The pen is mightier,’ I said.
He stared at me. Teacher humour.
Beth eyes my Coke suspiciously. ‘D’you really need to leave today? It’s not much of a goodbye drink. We could order a bottle of wine. Make an afternoon of it?’
I stare at her. I’m going to miss staring at her. And I’m glad we have made our amends. I told her that the reason I came back to Arnhill was because I blamed Hurst for Chris’s suicide. I needed to lay some ghosts to rest. Partly true. Most lies are. Sometimes, it’s enough.
‘Appealing as that is,’ I say, ‘I have to go. Anyway, it’s the company that’s important.’
She pulls a face. ‘Smooth. I’m going for a wee.’
She sashays away from the table. I watch her slim figure depart. She is clad in black skinny jeans, DMs and a baggy striped jumper riddled with holes (which I presume is a fashion statement and not the work of over-enthusiastic moths). I feel a small tug of regret. I like Beth. A lot. And I could almost dare to entertain the notion that she likes me back. She’s a good person. But I am not. Which is why I am leaving and getting as far away from her as possible.
‘Bowl of chips to share.’
I glance up. Lauren plonks an overflowing bowl down on the table.
I smile. ‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘Not just for the chips.’
She stares at me.
‘I remember,’ I say. ‘It was you who found me, up at the pit that night.’
The moment stretches. Just when I think she’s going to remain silent, she says: ‘I was taking the dog for his last walk.’
An old dog, I think. Her mum’s. A dog with a chunk of fur missing from around its neck. And a tendency to bite.
‘Well, thank you again,’ I say. ‘For getting me home. For not saying anything. And for everything else. I’m a little hazy on the details.’
‘I didn’t do much.’
‘I don’t think that’s true.’
She shrugs. ‘How’s your head?’
I raise a hand and touch my forehead. There’s a small red mark on my temple and it feels a little tender, like the remains of a bruise. But that’s all. ‘I guess I must have hit it when I fell.’
‘You didn’t fall.’
‘I didn’t?’
‘Not all the way.’
She turns and stalks back to the bar. I stare after her.
Beth sits back down at the table. ‘Did you say something?’
‘No. Nothing.’ I pick up a sachet of sauce. ‘Ketchup?’
‘Thanks.’ She takes it, then says. ‘Oh, before I forget.’
She reaches into her bag and slides a small shoebox across the table.
‘You got it?’
‘Mrs Craddock in Biology got it.’
‘Thanks.’ I open the box and peer inside.
‘Meet Fluffball,’ Beth says.
‘She didn’t … you know?’
‘Nooo. Natural causes.’
‘Good. Thanks.’
‘Don’t suppose you’re going to enlighten me?’
‘No.’
‘Man of mystery.’
‘Don’t forget “International”.’
‘I’m going to miss you.’
I smile. ‘Me too.’
‘Now, can you put that away? It’s putting me off my food.’
I slip the box into my satchel. ‘Better?’
‘I meant your stupid smile.’
It’s gone three by the time I climb into my car for the drive back to the North-west. Beth and I exchange numbers and promise to stay in touch, and I know that we probably won’t because we are not the type of people to be text buddies, but that’s okay too.
There is no hug, there are no tears and no last-minute lustful, romantic kiss. She does not run after the car as I drive down the street. She gives me two fingers in the rear-view mirror then disappears back inside the pub. It’s all good.
I pull off along the high street. But I do not go far. I reach the end of the road and then I stop beside St Jude’s.
I climb out of the car and push the gate open. She is sitting on the rickety wooden bench. She looks composed in a plain grey jacket and blue dress. As I approach, she turns.
‘Strange place to meet for a farewell,’ Miss Grayson says.
‘But appropriate, I thought.’
‘I suppose so.’
We stare out over the graveyard.
‘She’s not buried here, is she?’ I say.
‘Who?’
But she knows.
‘Your sister.’
‘This churchyard hasn’t been used for a long time.’
‘She’s not buried at any cemetaries nearby. I checked.’
‘My parents had her cremated.’
‘No record of her at the crematorium either. In fact, there’s no record of her death at all.’
A long pause. Then she says:
‘To lose a child, the pain is unimaginable. I think grief is a type of madness. It can make you do things you would never, under normal circumstances, ever consider.’
‘What happened to her?’ I ask.
‘My parents took her away one night. They never brought her back. Or, at least, they never brought her home.’
‘That’s why you were so interested in the history of Arnhill and the pit? Why you said you knew what had happened to Annie?’
She nods, then asks: ‘Was the car crash really an accident?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It was.’
She looks thoughtful: ‘People say that life finds a way. Perhaps, sometimes, death does too.’
And ultimately, I think, he holds all the cards.
‘I should get going.’ I hold out a hand. ‘Goodbye, Miss Grayson.’
She takes it in her cool, smooth palm. ‘Goodbye, Mr Thorne.’
I stand and walk away. I’m almost at the gate when she calls out: ‘Joe?’
‘Yes?’
‘Thank you. For returning.’
I shrug. ‘Sometimes, you don’t have a choice.’
38
The winding country lanes are dark. I negotiate them slowly and carefully. Even at my snail’s pace, the journey takes less time than I expected. I’ve missed the rush-hour traffic and my mind is busy. Too busy.
I pull up on a side street a few doors down from the flat I shared with Brendan. I climb out and look up and down. I walk right to the end of the road before I find it. A slightly battered Ford Focus, two child seats in the back and a sign in the rear window that reads: LITTLE MONSTERS ON BOARD.
I stare at it for a while and then I walk more slowly across the road and down two more streets to my old local. A good local. They do a mean steak-and-kidney pie.
I push open the door and spot him right away, at our usual table in the far corner. I order a beer and a packet of crisps and stroll over. He looks up. A grin spreads across his craggy face.
‘Well, look what the cat dragged in.’
I put my beer down on the table. He stands and holds open his arms. We hug. He cannot see my face.
Finally, we sit. Brendan raises his glass of orange juice. ‘Glad to have you back, and in one piece.’
I take a sip of my pint. ‘Thanks.’
‘Now, are you going to tell me what the feck happened?’
‘The blonde woman won’t be a problem any more.’
‘No?’
‘She’s dead. An accident.’
I watch him. But he’s good.
‘And what about your debt?’
‘I think that will be written off very soon.’
‘Well, you know what my dear old mammy would say?’
‘What’s that?’
‘A wise man never counts his chickens until he’s killed the last fox.’
‘Meaning?’
‘You might have taken care of the woman, but do you really think that’s the end of it?’
I open the packet of crisps and offer it to Brendan. He pats his stomach and shakes his head. ‘Diet, remember?’
‘Ah. Of course. You used to be a lot bigger, didn’t you? When you drank.’
He grins. ‘Not like the Adonis I am now.’
‘So you’d say you were fat back then?’
The grin fades. ‘What is this, Joe?’
‘Something Gloria said, before she died. It was quick, if you’re wondering. I know you two were close.’
‘Close? I have no bloody idea what you’re talking about. I’m your friend. The one who has always been there for you. The one who visited you for weeks in hospital.’
‘You visited me twice. But I guess you were too busy running your businesses. Gambling, extortion, murder.’
‘Businesses? This is Brendan you’re talking to!’
‘No. This is the Fatman I’m talking to.’
We stare at each other. I see him realize it’s no good. All the cards have been played. He holds out his arms.
‘Fuck. You got me. Always were sharp. That’s why I like you.’
The thick Irish brogue has fallen away, like a snake shedding its skin.
‘That’s why you got Gloria to cripple me?’ I say.
‘Business is business. Friendship is friendship.’
‘What do you know about friendship?’
‘You’re still breathing. I’d call that friendship.’
‘Why? Why pretend to be my friend at all? Why let me share your flat?’
‘I was trying to help you. Give you a chance to pay. But you kept getting yourself in deeper. Also, God’s honest truth, I enjoy your company. In my position, you don’t have many close friends.’
‘Tend to have a lot of accidents, do they?’
He chuckles. ‘Sometimes it’s necessary.’
Necessary. Of course.
He leans back in his chair. ‘So, tell me – what did Gloria say?’
‘Hope you’re wearing your boogie shoes. It didn’t register at the time, what with her pointing a gun at my head. But later, I remembered.’
He shakes his scruffy head. ‘Should have known my words of wisdom would come back to haunt me one day.’
‘It wasn’t just that. I could almost have dismissed what Gloria said –’
And I wanted to. I so badly wanted to. But there was something else.
‘It was the car,’ I say.
‘Car?’
‘I saw a black Ford Focus with child seats parked at the B&B before you said you drove down to bring me the bag. It was familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it. Then I remembered. I’d seen the same Ford Focus outside the flat once before. You told me it was your sister’s car that you’d borrowed.’
‘Ah.’
‘Is it?’
‘Actually, no. Always hide in plain sight, my friend. Half the people in this pub have heard of the Fatman. Not one knows he’s in here most nights. No one looks twice at Brendan, reformed drunkster, harmless Irish buffoon.
‘Same with the car. Nobody notices another kiddie carrier. Something bad happens, you need to get out fast, the police won’t stop the scruffy-looking dad trundling along in his Ford Focus to pick up the kids. Perfect disguise.’
‘Or maybe not.’
‘Well, we all make mistakes. Yours was coming back here. Because now I have a dilemma. You still owe me money. My girlfriend is dead. What am I supposed to do with you, Joe?’
‘Let me walk out of here.’
He laughs. ‘I could do that. But it would only be delaying the inevitable.’
‘You’re not going to kill me.’
‘And why is that?’
‘Tell me two things first – why did you tell me to go to the police?’
‘Because I knew you wouldn’t. Reverse psychology.’
‘And was everything lies? Everything else you told me?’
He considers. ‘Well, let’s see. My mammy is Irish, but not so dear. I did used to be fat. I’m a recovering alcoholic. Oh, and I have a sister –’
‘With two kids – Daisy and Theo.’
He stares at me. A nerve twitches by his eye.
‘They live in Altrincham. Their dad works at the airport. Mum is a receptionist at the doctors’ surgery. Daisy and Theo attend Huntingdon Primary School. Your sister fetches them three days a week and a child-minder picks them up on Tuesdays and Fridays when she works late. Oh, also, it isn’t gerbils they have. It’s hamsters.’ I pick up my drink and take a sip. ‘How am I doing so far?’
‘How the hell –’
‘I haven’t got a job. I had some spare time. Now, here’s the thing. If you come after me, I will come after your sister and her family.’
A snarl curls at the corner of his lip. ‘You don’t have it in you.’
‘No?’
I reach into my pocket and pull out something small, brown and furry. I drop the dead hamster into his drink.
‘As your dear old mammy said at the gang bang – you have no feckin’ idea what I have in me.’
Brendan stares at the hamster. Then back at me. I smile. His expression changes.
‘Get out of here. I never want to see your ugly face again.’
I push my chair back.
‘Far, far away,’ he adds.
‘I hear Botswana’s nice.’
‘Book a one-way ticket. You even send a postcard, you’re a dead man. Understand?’
‘I understand.’
I turn and walk across the pub. I don’t look back.
And for some reason, I don’t limp.
Epilogue
Henry has been told not to play up there. Ever since they moved in, it’s all his mum has gone on about. It’s dangerous; he could get hurt, or lost, or fall into a hole in the ground. And he doesn’t want to fall into a hole in the ground, does he?
Henry doesn’t, but then he doesn’t always listen to his mum either. Sometimes it’s like her words are just a jumble of letters. He hears them, but he doesn’t really understand what they mean. Apparently, this is because of his autism. It means he doesn’t empathize (feel stuff properly).
That’s not totally true. People, he has difficulty with. Animals, not so much. And places. He can feel those. Like the old pit. He felt that the moment they moved in. Calling to him. Like he was standing next to a room where loads of people were talking. But he couldn’t quite make out what they were saying.
Henry hasn’t told his mum about the voices. There are lots of things he doesn’t tell his mum because ‘she worries’. She says this a lot. She worries about keeping him safe. She worries that he spends so much time alone. That’s why she was so happy when he told her about his new friends. Henry has never had friends before and he knows his mum worries about this too.
Today Mum is upstairs painting. She is redecorating the cottage. She said magnolia on every wall made her feel like she was living in a tin of semolina. Mum said funny things sometimes. Henry thinks he loves his mum.
So, he feels a bit (guilty?) when he sneaks out. But not enough to stop himself. That’s the problem. Henry doesn’t stop to consider how his actions will affect other people (the doctors said). He only lives in the moment.
This moment is good. The sun is bright. But not soft, melted-butter bright, like summer. It’s hard bright. Winter bright. All sharp around the edges, like it could slice your fingers if you touched it. Henry likes that. He’s wrapped in a thick duffel coat and inside is secure and warm, insulated from the world around him. Henry likes that too.
He walks along the lane until he reaches the start of the security fencing. He knows where there is a gap. He’s good at finding ways into places. He squeezes through and looks
around.
He wonders where his friends are. They usually meet him up here. And then he spots them (as if just thinking about them has made them appear). They wave and walk down the small slope towards him. The girl is about Henry’s age. The boy is a bit older, skinny with blond hair. Sometimes the girl carries a doll.
They amble around the scrubby wasteland together. Occasionally, Henry stops and picks up a bit of rock, an old screw or a piece of metal. He likes collecting things.
After a while – he’s not sure how long because watches confuse him – he realizes that the sun isn’t so hard and bright. It’s slipped a long way in the sky. It occurs to Henry that his mum might have stopped painting, and if he isn’t home she’ll be worried.
‘I should go,’ he says.
‘Not yet,’ says the boy.
‘Stay a bit longer,’ says the girl.
Henry debates. He would like to stay. He can feel that tug on his insides. Hear the pit thrumming in his head. But he doesn’t want his mum to be unhappy.
‘No,’ he says. ‘I’m going.’
‘Wait,’ the boy says. His voice is more urgent.
‘We’ve got something to show you,’ says the girl.
She touches his arm. Her hand is cold. She’s only wearing thin pyjamas. The boy has on a T-shirt and shorts. Neither is wearing shoes.
It occurs to Henry that this is a bit odd. Then the thought is gone, smothered by the whispering voices.
He tries once more. ‘I really need to go back.’
The boy smiles. Something black drops from his hair and scuttles away.
‘You’ll come back,’ he says. ‘We promise.’
The Other People, the brand new novel from
C. J. Tudor, will be coming in 2020.
Acknowledgements
Blimey – a second book. Not so long ago, I had pretty much given up hope of ever having a book published, and now here we are: Book Two. I almost feel like a proper author. And there are a lot of people I’d like to thank for that:
My amazing agent, Madeleine Milburn, without whom I’d still be a dog walker in Nottingham.
My brilliant editor, Max, who quite simply ‘gets’ my writing and also gets how to make it that much better. Similarly, Nate – a great editor and one of the nicest people on earth.
Everyone at Michael Joseph and Crown. Plus, all my international publishers.