Forty

After Jake had gone to bed that night, I sat in the living room of the safe house with a glass of white wine and my laptop.

Even though I was still attempting to process the events of the last few days, I was also aware that I did need to write. That seemed impossible under the present circumstances, but the money I had left wouldn’t last forever. Even more than that, it felt important to be working on something, not just to distract myself from what was happening, but because it had always been that way. That was who I was. That was what I needed to reclaim.

Rebecca.

I deleted the rest of what I’d written and stared at her name. My idea the other day had been to begin to write down my feelings and trust that some kind of narrative would eventually emerge from the fog. But it was difficult to pin down my feelings right now, never mind attempt to translate them into something as simple as words.

My mind drifted back to what Karen had said in the café this morning. Perhaps it’s something you can write about in one of your books. And the fact that she’d looked me up online. I knew how I felt about that now, because it brought a small flash of excitement. She was interested in me. Was I attracted to her? Yes. I just wasn’t sure I was allowed to be. I looked at Rebecca’s name on the screen. The excitement dissipated, replaced by guilt.

Rebecca.

I typed quickly.

I know exactly what you’d think about that, because you were always so much more practical than me. You’d want me to get on with my life. You’d want me to be happy. You’d be sad, of course, but you’d tell me that’s the way life works. In fact, you’d more than likely tell me not to be so fucking stupid.

But the thing is, I’m not sure I’m ready to let you go yet.

Maybe it’s me that feels I shouldn’t be happy. That I don’t deserve—

The doorbell rang.

I closed the laptop and headed downstairs, anxious that it wouldn’t ring again and wake up Jake. At the door, I rubbed my eyes a little, grateful that I hadn’t started crying. Even more so when I opened the door and saw my father standing there.

“DI Willis,” I said.

He nodded once. “Can I come in?”

“Jake’s asleep.”

“I figured. But it won’t take long. And I’ll be quiet, I promise. I just wanted to give you an update on where things are at.”

A part of me was reluctant to let him in, but that was childish—and anyway, he was just a policeman. When this was all over with, I’d never have to see him again. The fact that he seemed so beaten down, almost deferential, helped as well. Right now, in fact, I felt the more powerful of the two of us. I opened the door wider.

“All right.”

He followed me upstairs and into the living room.

“We’re finishing up at the house,” he said. “You and Jake will be able to go back home tomorrow morning.”

“That’s good. What about Norman Collins?”

“We’ve charged him with the murder of Dominic Barnett. He’s confirmed that the remains in the house belong to the victim of Carter’s we never found. Tony Smith. Collins knew all along.”

“How?”

“That’s a long story. The details don’t matter for now.”

“Don’t they? Well, what about Neil Spencer? And Collins attempting to abduct Jake?”

“We’re working on that.”

“That’s reassuring.” I picked up my wine and took a sip. “Oh, I’m sorry—where are my manners? Would you like a glass?” It was a test.

“I don’t drink.”

“You used to.”

“Which is why I don’t now. Some people can manage it, and others can’t. It took me a while to realize that. I’m guessing you’re a man who can.”

“Yes.”

He sighed. “I also guess that, with everything that’s happened over the years, it must have been hard for you. But you seem like a man who can do a lot of things well. That’s a good thing. I’m pleased about that.”

I wanted to fight back against that. Not just him having any right to pass judgment on me, but the words themselves. He was utterly mistaken—I couldn’t do anything well, and I wasn’t handling life at all. But, of course, there was no way I was going to display any kind of weakness in front of my father, and so I said nothing.

“Anyway,” he said. “Yes. I used to drink. There were lots of reasons for that—reasons, not excuses. I struggled with a lot of things back then.”

“Like being a good husband.”

“Yes.”

“Like fatherhood.”

“That too. The responsibility of it. I never knew how to be a father. I never really wanted to be. And you were a difficult baby—much better when you were older, though. You were always creative. You used to make up stories even back then.”

I couldn’t remember that.

“Did I?”

“Yes. You were sensitive. Jake seems a lot like you.”

“Jake’s too sensitive, I think.”

My father shook his head. “There’s no such thing.”

“There is if it makes life difficult.” I thought about all the friends I never made, or who never made me. “And you wouldn’t know. You weren’t there.”

“No, I wasn’t. And like I said, it was for the best.”

“Well, that’s something we can agree on.”

With that, it seemed like there was nothing left to say. He turned around, as though about to leave, but then he hesitated, and a moment later he turned back.

“But I was thinking about what you said last night,” he told me. “About seeing me throw the glass at your mother before I left.”

“And?”

“You didn’t,” he said. “That didn’t happen. You weren’t in the house that night. You were having a sleepover at a friend from school’s.”

I was about to say something, but then stopped. It was my turn to hesitate. My first instinct was that my father was lying—that he had to be, because I remembered that night so clearly. And that I hadn’t had any friends. But was that really true back then? And whatever my father had once been, it didn’t strike me that he was a liar now. In fact, as much as I didn’t want to allow it, he had the air of somebody who had become scrupulously honest with himself about his faults. That perhaps, over the years, he’d needed to.

I turned the memory over in my head.

Glass smashing.

My father shouting.

My mother screaming.

I could see the image with absolute clarity in my head, but was it possible that I was wrong? The picture was more vivid than any other childhood memory I could think of. Was it too vivid? Could it have been more an emotion than an actual recollection? A summing up of how I felt rather than a specific event that had actually occurred?

“But actually, that was more or less how it happened,” my father said quietly. “To my eternal shame, that was what I did. I didn’t throw the glass at her, because the stupid thing is, it was the glass I was angry with. But it was close enough.”

“I remember seeing it.”

“I don’t know. Maybe Sally told you.”