PraiseforSteveMosby
Praise for Alex North ‘Tenseandgripping,thisisafascinatingexplorationofthe oftenuncomfortable–andinthiscaselethal–shape-shifting relationshipbetweenfictionandreality’ Guardian
‘Alex North should be up there with the Mark Billinghams of the crime-horror genre . . . North’s narrative ingenuity
‘SteveMosbyshouldbeuptherewiththeMarkBillinghams ofthecrime-horrorgenre...Mosby’snarrativeingenuity quicklyestablishesitselfandthisexacting,oftenterrifying, tale...soonexertsanirresistiblegrip’ Metro
‘North writes with confidence and originality, and displays
‘Mosbywriteswithconfidenceandoriginality,anddisplays animpressivefeelforhorror’ TheTimes
‘Painfullyrealistic...imaginativeandinvolving...poignantandmoving,yetwritteninarelaxed,oftenfunny,style thatmakesthepagesturnveryfastindeed’ TimesLiterarySupplement
‘Ahighlyoriginaltakeontheserialkillergenre,adrenalin chargedandwithaterribletwistattheend’ IrishIndependent
‘[An]electrifyinglyscarythriller’ DailyMail
‘North has packed a complex, sometimes bewildering plot
‘Mosbyhaspackedacomplex,sometimesbewilderingplot withbrilliantideas.Hisbookisfiercelyoriginal,truly intriguing.Thisisspeculativefictionatitsrecklessbest’ LiteraryReview
‘Anexcellentwriterwhosteerswellclearofthegenre formulaeandmanagessomereallydeftcharacterisation... Andthere’saswitchbacktwistattheclimaxthatisbrilliantlyconceivedandconsummatelyexecuted.Prettymuch flawless’ LondonLite
‘ThemostextraordinaryfirstnovelI’vereadforawhile... Iwon’twastetimetryingtogiveyouanoutlineofthis indescribablenearfuturesatire,detectivestoryand psychologicalhorror.I’lljustsaythatwritingofthisquality andoriginalitydoesn’tcomealongveryoften’ MorningStar
SteveMosbylivesandworksinLeeds.Heistheauthor offivepreviousnovels, CryforHelp, The50/50Killer, TheCuttingCrew, TheThirdPerson and StillBleeding. Visithiswebsiteatwww.theleftroom.co.uk
Alex North was born in Leeds, where he now lives with his wife and son. He studied Philosophy at Leeds University, and prior to becoming a writer he worked there in their sociology department. The Whisper Man was a Sunday Times and New York Times bestseller, and is being published in more than thirty languages.
By Alex North
BySteveMosby TheThirdPerson
TheCuttingCrew
The50/50Killer CryforHelp StillBleeding BlackFlowers
Dark Room
The Nightmare Place I Know Who Did It The Reckoning on Care Hill You Can Run
The Whisper Man
The Shadow Friend
The Half Burnt House The Man Made of Smoke
BLACKFLOWERS SteveMosby Alex North PENGUIN BOOK S
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First published by Orion under Steve Mosby 2011 This edition published by Penguin Books 2026 001
Copyright © Steve Moseby, 2011
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ForLynnandZack Acknowledgements Thanks,asalways,gotomyagentCarolynWhitaker,andto GenevievePegg,NatalieBraine,GabbyNemethandallthe otherpeopleatOrionwhohaveworkedsohardonthisbook andtheothers.Thanksalsotomyfriendsandfamily,andtoall thereaderswhohavebeenintouchoverthelastfewyearswith kindwordsaboutmywriting.Alsoto Spinetingler magazinefor invitingmetowritetheshortstorythatgavemetheideaforthis novel.
Mostofall,thankstoLynnforputtingupwithmeandto Zackforbeingwonderful:thisbookisdedicatedtobothofyou, withloveandappreciationforeverything.
Itdoesnothappenlikethis.
Ifthere’sonethingthatDetectiveSergeantMichaelSullivan haslearnedduringtwelveyearsinthepoliceforce,it’sthatlittle girlsdonotsimplyappear.Inhisexperience,theworlddoesnot workthatway;allhehaseverseen,andallhecontinuestosee, istheopposite,theslowdisintegrationofthingsthataregood andright.
Peoplevanish–especiallychildren.Sometimestheydisappear ingradualincrements,thedecent,hopefulpartsofthem casuallychippedaway.Othertimes,thosepartsarepokedout, suddenlyandviolently.Andoccasionallypeoplesimplyvanish entirely.Buthoweveritoccurs,thosepeopledonotcomeback, especiallythechildren.Oratleastnotinanywayyouwould wantthemto.
No,theworldasMichaelSullivanknowsit–itonlytakes.
Itisearlyafternoon,September1977.Favertonisasprawlof aholidaytownontheeastcoast.Theoldvillageonthehilltop spreadsdowncobbledstreetsallthewaytotheseafront,with itspennyarcadesandcafe ´ s.Theroadhereisembeddedwith brown,metaltramlines.Aslattedwoodenpromenadestretches alongthefront,dottedwithcurled,greenbenches,wire-mesh binsandbeigeice-creamvans.Familiesstrollslowlyalong, sometimesapproachingthewaist-highstonewallandlooking outoverthebeach.Thesandispackedflatandhard,brokenby
occasionalfluffed-uppatcheswhereachildhasdug.Inthe distance,thegreyseacrumplesandfoldsbeneathawhitesky bevelledwithgulls.
Itisanordinarydaywithnohintofmagictoit.Andyet,in spiteofSullivan’sexperience,ithappenslikethis.
Thereisanemptystretchofpromenade.Atramtrundlespast. Itissoold,andthemetalcarriagesofrail,thatyouwould expecttheantennaeabove,wheretheytracktheoverhead electricalcables,tocrackleandspark,butinfacttheonlynoise isthecontinuouswearycrunchofthemetaldiscsthevehicle grindsthroughtownon.Itismostlyempty,andreminiscentof abutlergoingaboutdailytasksinahouseholdwhereall thechildrenhaveleft.Thedriver,behindthesmearedfront window,isholdingthecontrolswithstiff,unmovingarms, whileaconductorwaitsattheopenbackcornerofthetram,a ticketmachinestrappedtohischestlikeatinyaccordion.
Thetramdoesnotstop.Nobodygetsonoroff.Butwhenit haspassed,thestretchofpromenadeisnolongerempty.
Alittlegirlisstandingthere.
Shehaslong,dirty-blondehair,pulledintoroughbunches thatresttoeithersideonhertinyshoulders.Sheiswearinga blue-and-whitecheckeddressanddelicateshoes:bothlooklike somethingadollwouldwear.Hereyesareringedwithdarkness andsadness.Infrontofher,sheclaspsasmallhandbag.Itis palebrown,leather,andfartoolargeforher–anadult’sbag–butsheclutchesittightly,asthoughshehassomehowhaditfor averylongtimeanditisintenselyimportanttoher.
Thelittlegirlstandsthere.
Waiting.
Andthatishowithappens.Sheappearsonthepromenadeas thoughfromnowhere:asiftheworldshiftedinitssleep,then wokewithanideasoimportant,whichneededtobetoldso desperately,thattheideabecamereal.Andnowthatideais standingthere,waitingtobediscovered.
Waitingforsomeonetoclaimit.
*
Sullivansquatsdowninfrontofthelittlegirl.Hisstarched trouserlegformsasharpcontourupfromhiskneeandoverhis thigh.Hersmalleyesfollowhimdown.Theirfacesarenowat thesameheight,andhesmilesather,tryingtobereassuring.
‘Hellothere.What’syourname?’
Thelittlegirldoesnotrespond.Theexpressiononherfaceis likeashield.SheisfartooseriousforagirlherageandSullivan knowsimmediatelythatsomethingisn’trighthere.
Helooksawayforamoment.Thewomanwhonoticedthe littlegirlandalertedhimisstanding,slightlyhesitantly,toone side.Sheismiddle-aged,holdingherownhandbaginmuchthe samewayasthegirl.Sullivannodshisthankstoher–It’sokay; I’lltakecareofthis–andthenturnshisattentionbacktothe childasthewomanwalksaway.
Hedoesn’tknow,atthispoint,thathe’llneedtotalktothe womanagainandattempttoestablishtheexactcircumstances ofthegirl’sappearancehere.Althoughherecognisessomething iswrong,theideahasn’tquitesettledandbecomereal.He’sstill thinking:she’slostherparents.That’sall.
‘Myname’sMike,’hesays.‘What’syours?’
Again,thegirldoesnotreply.Butafteramomentofstaring backathim,shebreakshisgazeandlooksaway,offtooneside. Andshedoessaysomething,buthecan’tmakeoutwhat.It’s asthoughshe’stalkingtoaghost,oraskingadvicefroman imaginaryfriend.
CanItalktohim?Isitsafe?
‘Whatwasthat?’hesays.
Shekeepslookingaway.Listeningnow.
Christ,Sullivanthinks–becausehe’sjustrealisedsomething else:itreallydoeslooklikeher.AnnaHanson,thelittlegirlwho wasmurderedlastyear.Theyarebothasimilarage,aboutsix yearsold,andAnnahadthesamestragglyblondehair.The recognition,coupledwiththeoddnessofthegirl’sbehaviour, makesSullivanshiverslightly.Hehastheoddsensationthat
thiscouldactuallybeher,returnedtohergrieving,terrified parents.
Ofcourse,itcan’tbe,notleastbecauseAnnaHansonhas alreadybeenreturned.Herbodywasheduponthebeach:tiny, greyandempty.Thesimilarityisgenuine,though,andhefeelsa suddenandurgentneedtolookafterthislittlegirlandkeepher safe.
Shelooksbackathim.Inallhistwelveyearsofexperience,he hasneverseensuchdespair.
‘It’sokay,’hesays.‘I’mapoliceman.Haveyoulostyour mummyanddaddy?’
‘Mydaddy.’
Hervoiceisimpossiblydelicate.
‘Well,I’msurewecanfindhimquickly—’
Buthestops.Fromtheflashofterrorthatappearsonthelittle girl’sface,it’sobviousthatthisisnotwhatshewantstohear. Hersmallbodybeginstremblingslightly.
Instinctively,withoutconsideringhowshe’llreact,Sullivan reachesoutandrestsagentlehandonhershoulder,feeling theroughfabricofthedressagainsthispalm.Thelittlegirl almostflinches,butdoesn’t.Thefearisoverriddenbyaninnate, desperateneedtobecomforted.Itisasthoughshehasn’tbeen touchedwithkindnessorreassuranceforquitesometime,if ever,anditrequiresbravery–aleapoffaith–forhertobelieve suchathingisevenpossibleanymore.
‘It’llbeokay,honey,’Sullivansays.
Again,heglancesaround.Thereareafewpeoplewatching thescene,butmostaresimplygoingabouttheirbusiness,either obliviousorconfidentthatnothingiswrong.Afterall,apolicemanisincontrolofthesituation.Itishisjobtolookafter people,andhewill.Thatistheassumption.
Sullivanisabouttoturnbacktothelittlegirlandtrytodo exactlythat,whenheseesthemanandinsteadhegoesstill. ClarkPoole.
Theoldmaniswalkingawkwardlyalongthepavement
acrossthestreet,onthefarsideofthetramlines.Heisslightly hunched,andhischeapcoatisstiffwithgreaseovertheslight humpofhisspine,asthoughageisgraduallyforminghiswhole backintoaboilthat’ssoftandwetatthecentre.Hisheadis baldandpale,butthinwhitehairclingstotheside,whilehis face,outofsightnow,iswideandunkind.Poolewalkswitha boundwickercanethatSullivansuspects,butcan’tprovefor sure,theoldmandoesn’treallyneed.
Taptap.
Atfirst,Sullivandoesn’tthinkPoolehasseenhim.Buttheold manpausesoutsidethecafe ´ ,thenturnstostarebackathim. PoolesmilesandgivesSullivananod–ashesooftendoes;as hesoenjoysdoing–beforeturningbackandcontinuingon hisway.Tap,tap.Peoplemoveforhim,morefrominstinctthan manners,andSullivanfightsdownthefamiliarurgetodash acrossandgrabholdofhim.Ifhestartedshakingtheoldman, heknowshewouldneverbeabletostop.
Soheforceshimselftowatchtheoldmanambleaway.Was Pooleinvolvedinthissomehow?Itseemsunlikely.Afterall,he didn’treturnlittlegirls,didhe?Hetookthemaway,carefully andprecisely,sothatitwaspossibletoknowbutimpossibleto prove.Regardless,Sullivanknowswheretheoldmanlives.He searchedtheflatafterAnnawentmissing.Buttherehavebeen timessincewhenhehasparkedupalittlewaydownthestreet, intheearlyhoursofthemorning,andspenttimewondering whathemightbecapableofdoingtotheoldman.
Sullivanturnsbacktothelittlegirl.
Henoticesthehandbagagain.Itisfartoogrown-upforher. Itlooksdirtynow,asthoughithasbeenleftoutsidesomewhere, buthehasthesensethatitmightoncehavebeenexpensive.
‘CanIhavealookinthere,please?’ Shehesitates.
‘I’llbecareful,’hesays.‘Ipromise.Youcanhaveitback againafterwards.’
Stillunsure.Butshedoespassittohim.
‘Thankyou.’
Thezipisstiff:ashesuspected,crumbsofdirtblocktheteeth. Whenhefinallyopensitandlooksinside,heisexpectingtofind asmallpurse,handkerchiefs–keys,perhaps–butthehandbag isalmostentirelyempty.
Exceptfor...aflower.
Sullivanreachescarefullyinandliftsitfree.Thestemis fracturedandhalfbroken;thepetals,whichatsomepointhave beenpressed,aregrey-black.
Hisfingerstingle.
Andthereisthatfeelingagain,onlynowfarstrongerthan before.Somethingiswronghere.Sullivanlooksatthegirl’s dirtyhair,theodddress.Forthefirsttime,henoticesthereisthe slightesthintofabruiseonhercheek.
Thelittlegirlsays,‘Jane.’ ‘Isthatyourname?’
Sheshakesherhead,thenmotionsalmostimperceptiblyat theflower.
‘That’sJane.Shedoesn’ttalktomeanymore.’
Sullivanstaresather.Hedoesnotunderstandwhatshe means,ofcourse–notyet–buttheanswerisstrangeenough tosendachillshiveringacrosshisback.Thenexttramis rattlingdownthestreet;hecanhearitgrowinglouder.Andin frontofhim,thelittlegirl’sfragileresolvefinallydisappears entirelyandshebeginstocry.
Shesays,‘Pleasehelpme.’
PartOne ChapterOne Myfatherwasawriter.Iwantedtobeonetoo,soIwouldhave beenthinkingabouthimthatdayanyway,evenwithoutwhat happenedlater.Butformostofthemorning,I’dbeenthinking aboutgoblinsandchangelings.
Well–andstudentstoo,obviously.
Itwasnearlylunchtimenow.Iwalkedroundmydeskand raisedoneoftheslatsintheblinds.Outside,anangleofmidday sunlightcutacrosstheflagstonesbelowmyoffice.Astreamof newstudentswasflowingpast.Theylookedalmostimpossibly young.Theboysallseemedtobedressedforthebeach,wearing shortsandT-shirts.Thegirlsworefloatysummerdresses, enormoussunglassesandflip-flopsthatslappedatthestone.It wasFreshersWeek2010,sothewholecampuswasonebig party.Formostofthemorning,I’dbeenabletohearmusic thuddingfromtheUnionbuilding,moreofaconstantheartbeat thananactualsong.
Iallowedtheslattoclickdown,thenreturnedtomydesk.In comparisontothebright,carnivalatmosphereoutthere,my officewassmall,drabandgrey.Theairinheresmelledofdusty boxfilesandtherustedmetallicradiatorthatunderlinedthe window.I’dwedgedthedooropen.Ros–myboss–wasdown atthesportshallhandlingmoduleadmissions,andthecommon roomwasdeserted.Asidefromthethumpofthemusic,and anoccasionalmuffledbangechoingdownthecorridor,the
onlyrealsoundinherewastheelectricalhumofmyold monitor.
Rightnow,Ihadtwofilesopen.Thefirstwasthestudent recordsdatabaseI’dbeenstringingoutforweeksnow,pretendingitwasfarmoredifficulttoconstructthanitactually was,whilethesecondwastheshortstoryI’dbeenworkingon allmorninginstead.
Iscannedthroughitagainnow.
Bymystandards,ithadturnedoutprettyweird.Atthe beginning,ayoungguyfindsouthisgirlfriendispregnant.It’s anaccident:theyjustgotcarriedawayinthemoment,then grinnedaboutitafterwards.‘Thatwasstupid,wasn’tit?’they say.‘Itwon’thappentous.’Butitdoeshappentothem.
Thegirlfrienddecidesshecan’thaveaterminationandthe guyacceptsthat,eventhoughit’snotwhathewants.Hetriesto begood,butastimegoesonheresentsherdecisionmoreand more–andthenhestartstonoticehoodedgangshuddledon streetcorners.They’rewatchinghim,followinghim.Hegraduallyimaginestheexistenceofashadowycrimelord–akindof GoblinKingfigure–whoisreachingouttohim.Likethe goblinsoffairytales,theseurbanequivalentswillbemorethan happytostealhischildaway:allthemanhastodoiswishforit tohappen.Eventually,selfishly,hedoes.
Fortwodaysafterwards,nothinghappens–enoughtimefor himtodoubtitwasreal–andthenthepregnancymysteriously disappears.
Thestoryendsyearslater,withthemaincharacterencounteringoneofthehoodedminionsonastreetcornerand recognisingenoughintheboy’sfacetoknowit’shisson.
Prettyweird,Neil.
Itwas,butIsortoflikedit.Andanyway,Iwasprocrastinatingtoomuch.Weirdornot,successfulornot,itwasasdoneas iteverwouldbe.SoIsavedtheWordfile,andopenedaquick emailtomyfather.
HiDad
Hopeyou’reokay–Iknowit’sbeenacoupleofweeks,soI’mguessing everything’sgoingallright?Meanttobeintouch.Failedmiserably.
Gotsomenews,butinthemeantimeIwantedyoutohavealookatthis. Idon’tknowwhetherit’sanygoodornot,butmaybeyoucanhavea readifyougetthechance?I’llgiveyouabellproperlysoonandwecan chat.
Lovealways, Neil
Itookadeepbreathandpressedsend.
Oddly,Ifeltnervous.Myfatherhadpublishedtwentynovels overtheyearsandwasalwayshonestaboutthetechnicalsideof mywriting–thatwaswhyIsenthimthingsinthefirstplace. Itwasn’tthat;Iwasn’tquitesure what itwas.Justthat,asI watchedtheemailindicatorcircling,IwishedIcouldtakeit back.
Thenitchangedtoatick. Thatwasthat.Mystoryhadgoneoutintotheworld. Forgetaboutit.
WhenIcheckedmywatch,itwasclosetotwelve.SoI minimisedtheemailprogram,lockeduptheofficeandheaded out.
AllywasworkingatEducationnow,buttodayshehada conferenceonattheUnionHallbuilding.Itwasonthefarside ofcampus,soIhadtofollowthethrongofstudentsright throughthethuddingheartofeverything.
Thecombinationofsunshineandthetimeofyearmadeitfeel likethefirstdayofafestival.OutsidetheUnion,thegrasswas brightandsunlit,andeveryoneseemedtobesittingaroundwith plasticglassesoffoamybeer.Thetarmacaroundthesteps wasamulticolouredcarpetofdiscardedflyers;speakerswere balancedontheupstairswindowledge,pumpingoutmusic.A
skinnyboyinsunglassesandapork-piehatwasstandingup therewithhisfootontheledge,shoutingwhatsoundedlike staticandoccasionalwordsthroughamegaphone,haranguing passers-by.
Despitenotbeingapartofthecarnival,Iknewtherewerea millionworseplacestowork.Notonlywasitrelaxedenough formetowearjeansandtrainerstotheoffice,therewerealso lotsoftimesliketodaywhenIcouldsneaksomewritingin. Technicallyspeaking,Iwasevenbeingpaidforit.Butthere’s nothinglikeworkingatauniversitytoremindyouhowold you’regetting,evenwhen,attwenty-five,youactuallyaren’t.It gotworseeverySeptember,withthearrivalofanewandeven morefresh-facedcohort.Youfeellikeabunchofoldflowers, maybenotquitepastyoursell-bydateyet,butalreadybeginningtowiltinthecorner,andnobody’schoice.
AllI’deverwantedtodowaswrite.Myfathermadeonlythe vaguestoflivingsfromit–hisbooksskippedacrosstoomany genres,thepublicationdatesafewtoomanyyearsapart–and, growingup,Iwasdimlyawareofourrelativepovertyincomparisontootherkids’families.Thatdidn’treallymatter.Iwas broughtuptolovebooksandstories:wealwayshadplentyof theformer,and,withmyfatheraround,aninfinitenumberof thelatter.TherewasneveranythingelseI’dwantedtodoexcept bealittlebitlikehim.
ButIwasn’t.
Sincecomingtoworkhere,I’dsubmittedfourbooksto publishers,andallofthemhadbeenknockedbackwiththe solidwooden tock ofawell-hitbaseball.Fine.Butasmuch asyoutellyourselfyouneedtolearnyourcraftandserve anapprenticeship,allthoseblearyearlymorningsandlate nights...theystarttogettoyou.Youhavetotakeitseriously, soit’sbasicallylikeworkingtwojobs.Andforme,tryingtofit reallifearoundthatwasgettinghard.Maybeitwasstartingto getimpossible.MaybeIwasgoingtohavetostartfacingfacts. Allywassupportive,ofcourse,butitstillfeltliketherewere
toomanyplatestokeepspinningandthatprettysoonIwas goingtohavetoletsomethingfall.Itwouldn’tbemyrelationshipwithher.Ilovedherfartoomuchtoletthatgo.So maybeitwaswritingthatwouldhavetogetshelved.Itwasa depressingthought.
ButIwoulddothatforher.Ireallywould.
ShewasalreadyoutsidetheUnionHall,waitingformeonthe steps.Itwaseasytospotheramongstthestudents–shehad dyed-redhair,forastart.Butshe’dalsomadeaneffortforthe conferenceandwaswearingasmartblackdressandheels. Awayfromwork,sheworebaggyjeans,trainersandT-shirts, andnormallylookedsomewherebetweenapunkandaBash Streetkid;you’dhalfexpecttolookdownandseeherholdinga skateboard.Acasualobserverrightnowmightnodandsayshe scrubbedupwell,butasmartonewouldrealiseshewasbeautifulinanything.Eithermightwonderwhatthehellshewas doingwithme.
‘Heythere,you,’Isaid.
‘Ah. Finally.Keepingmewaiting,Dawson?’ ‘Keepingyouonyourtoes,morelike.’
Shewentuponthemnowtogivemeakiss,puttingherhands onmyshoulders.Atfirstglance,Allylookedsmallandfragile. Shewasactuallyslimandmuscled,thekindofgirlthatmight surpriseyouatarm-wrestling,andwouldcertainlytry.Thefirst timewe’dendedupinbedtogether,ayearagonow,bothofus asdrunkandsurprisedastheother,I’dbarelyhavebeenableto escapeifI’dwantedto.
‘Comeon,’shesaid.‘I’mstarving.’ ‘Can’thavethat.’
WewenttoTheOysterBarintheUnion.Itwascalledthat becausethebarwasdowninthecentre,glisteningwithmirrors, thensurroundedbyrising,circularridgesofwhiteseatsand tables.Wefoundaspace,and,whilewewaitedforthefood toarrive,chattedaboutourmorningsoverthemingleofconversationaroundus.
Astimewenton,though,itwasobviousthatshewasdistracted:notentirelyinterestedinthesmalltalk.Shewasasking questionsbutdidn’tseemtobelisteningtotheanswers,and answeringminewithoutsayingmuch.Butthen,it’sdifficultto dosmalltalkwhentheshadowofbigtalkisloomingoveryou both.
‘Okay,’Isaideventually.‘Whatareyouthinking?’ ‘Nothing.’
‘You’rethinkingsomething.’
‘Allrightthen,Iam.MaybeI’mbuildinguptoit.’ ‘Aboutthebaby?’Iguessed.
Butourfoodarrived,soIleanedbacktoallowthewaitress spacetoslidetheplatesontothetable.Allyhookedastrandof hairbehindherearandpickedupherknifeandfork.
Shesaid,‘I’vemadeadecision.’
‘Thatyou’rekeepingit.’
‘Yes.’Shenoddedaroundthebar.‘Iknowit’snotwonderful fuckingsurroundingsforthisconversation,butIwantedtotell youassoonasIwassure.’
Ididmybesttosmile.
‘Ialreadyknew,’Isaid.
‘Ijustdon’tthinkIcould not gothroughwithit.’
Shelookedatmenow,anditwaslikeanarmedconflictwas goingonbehindhereyes.
‘Iknow,’Isaid.‘Iloveyou.’
‘Iloveyoutoo.Butit’sgoingtochangeeverything.’ ‘It’llbeokay.’
Ididmybesttosoundconvincing.EventhoughI’dbeensure whatherdecisionwouldbe,hearingitoutloudstillmadeit feellikethebottomhaddroppedoutofmyfuckingworld. Obviously,Iwasn’tgoingtotellherthat.
‘It’llbeokay,’Isaidagain.‘We’ll beokay.’
‘Promise?’
Howcanyoupromiseanythinglikethat?We’donlyfound outaweekago,andI’dbarelyhadtimetogetmyheadroundit.
Theideastillwasn’treal;itwasimpossibletoimaginewhat everythingchanging wasgoingtoinvolveforme,forher,forus. Evenso,Ireachedoutandrubbedthebackofherhand.Around us,theclinksandclattersinthebarseemedtohavefadedaway almosttonothing. Ipromised.
Backhomelater,Itookasipofice-coldwhitewine,andstared atthescreenofmylaptop.Belowmymakeshiftdesk,theprinter chittered.Paperstutteredoutofthefront,landingfaceupon thefloor.ThestoryI’dwritten,printingoutinreverseorder,the endworkingitswaysteadilybacktothebeginning.Ifonly everythinginlifewassosimpletoundo.
Myfrontroomwasmybedroom.Outsidethewindowbeside me,Icouldseethefamiliarneonrowoflate-nighttakeaways andoff-licencesacrosstheroad.Ilivedinaconvertedhouse, whichhadbeendividedbythelandlordintotwostudioflats. Theentiresecondfloor–allthreeroomsofit–wasmine.My neighbourhadthefirstfloor:hewasanArgentineanstudent whodidn’tseemtodomuchbesideslistentoactionfilmsvery loudlyatrandomtimesofthedayandnight.Wesharedthe stairwellandthecommunalfrontdoor,whichwassqueezedinbetweenanewsagentandahairdressers.AsIarrivedhomeafter work,Icouldusuallyheartheblowdryersthroughthethinwall andsmell,justfaintly,scorchedhair.
Itwasn’tgreat.Itwasn’tevenparticularlysafe.Roundthe backofthebuilding,thedoortothecellarwashalfbroken.If youweredeterminedenoughtopushthroughtherottinglitter there,andthenthebrokenfurnitureinthebasement,youcould getallthewayuptomypersonalfrontdoorwithoutbustinga lock.Fortunately,Ididn’thaveanythingworthstealing.There wasonlymycheaplaptop,whichnormallylivedinadrawer beneathapileofT-shirts–surelybeyondtheimaginationofany thief.
Theprinter chittered toahalt,andIwasleftwiththe
gunshotsandexplosionsfrombelow.Theywereinfulleffect tonight–thefloorvibratingbeneathmyfeet.Itwaspossibleto imagineanactualwarwasoccurringdownthere.Isippedthe wine,thenpickedupthepages,tappedthemintolineonthe desk,andreadthemagain.
Prettyweird.
Andprettyharshtoo.
Butstoriesareallowedtobe,solongasthey’rehonest.
Forexample,myfather’slastbookwascalled WorryDolls.It wasaboutasmallvillage,andalonelyyoungboywithafather whobeatshimandhismother.Adollmakerteachestheboy howtomakeaworrydoll–alittlefigurinefashionedfrompegs andcolouredcloth.Atnight,youtellthedollallyourfearsand placeitunderyourpillowwhereitlooksafterthemonyour behalf,soyoucansleepsoundly.Theboymakesamonster.His dollhasusedmatchstickspokingfromitsbacklikeburntwings, andtoenailclippingsforclaws.Andthatnight,whenthefather isdrunkandgoingtokillthewholefamily,thecreaturecomes tolifeandripshimtoshreds.
Thatstoryworksonitsownterms,butthebook’saboutmuch morethanthat.Thenarratorof WorryDolls isaveryoldman whowitnessedtheeventsfirst-hand.Hiswifewasverysickatthe time,andthedollmakertaught him howtomakeaworrydollas well.Themancreateditintheshapeofhiswife,andtolditthat hewasterrifiedofdyingalone.Inhiscase,themagicdidn’tseem towork,becausehiswifediedanyway.Andyet,onhisdeathbed attheendofthebook,herealisestheghostofhiswifehasbeen sittingbesidehimthewholetime,waitingforhimtofinish,and whenhediesshetakeshishandandtheyleavetogether.
Dadbeganwriting WorryDolls twoyearsago,whenmy motherwasfightingcancerforthefinaltime.Itwasthelast battleinalongwar,andhefinishedthenoveljustaftershedied.
Atonepoint,thedollmakertellstheboy: Itdoesn’treallymatterhowtattyorincompleteitis. Allthat mattersisthatit’syours.
Andtomyfather,storiesservedexactlythesamepurposeas worrydolls,exceptheconfidedhisfearsandtroublesinwords onapage.Thatbookcontainedalltheemotionshewouldnever havesaidtomymotheroutloud.Ratherthanbreakingdown andconfessinghisownpain–thathewasscaredoflivingand dyingwithouther–hehadconcentratedonlookingafterher. Beingselfishinhiswritinghadallowedhimtobetheoppositein reallife.
ThatwaswhatI’ddone.Mystorywasadumpinggroundfor allthemiserable,negativeshitIwasfeelingdeepdown:thestuff Iknewwasn’tfairandwhichIwouldneversayoutloudtoAlly. Obviously,thiswasgoingtobewayharderforher,andrequire atleastasmanysacrificesandcompromisesasitdidforme.So theguyonthepagecouldseethewithstupid,childishresentmentonmybehalf,andIcouldgetonwithbeingasupportive partner,agoodperson.CloseasIgottothatanyway. Ifinishedthewine.
Evenso,itdidseemharsh–andIhadanotheridea.Ipicked upapenandscribbledattheendofthelastpage:
Regret.
Maybeguychangeshismindandhastofighttogetchild back?
Adescentintohell? Istaredatthatforamoment,thinkingitthrough. Maybethatwouldendupbetter.Moresatisfying.
Morewine.Istoodup.Thenightwasyoung,afterall,and fuckit–ifyoucouldn’tgetdrunkonthedayyoufindoutyou’re goingtobeafather,whencouldyou?
Iwasheadingthroughtothekitchentoexplorethatquestion morethoroughlywhenmyphonerang.Itwasthelandline: chirrupingawayinthecornerbythebed.Itsurprisedme;I’d almostforgottenitwasthere.Nobodyevercalledonit.My friendswerealltextersoremailers.
Iputtheemptyglassdownbythecomputerandwalkedover. ‘Hello?’
‘Hello.IsthatNeil?’
Itwasawoman’svoice,butnotAlly. ‘Yes.’Isatdownonthebed.‘ThisisNeil.’ ‘Ohgood.ThisisMarshaDixon.I’myourfather’sagent.’ Ittookmeasecond,butthenIthought: Ah,yes. I’dmetMarshaahandfuloftimes,andfoundamental pictureofhernow.Awomaninherfifties,withgreyhairin doubleplaits,likeaschoolgirl.Verybohemian.WhenIwas muchyounger,myfatherhadexplainedtomethatalotof thepeopleinpublishingwere flamboyant,andforawhile I’dimaginedhemeantsomeweirdvarietyofexoticcreature, distantlyrelatedtoflamingos.Thelasttimewe’dmet,Marsha air-kissedmetoeitherside,andsmelledofstrongperfumeand wine.Allofthebook-lengthmanuscriptsI’dfinishedhadpassed –anonymously–acrossherdeskandbeenreturned.I’dactually heldoneofthemuptomynose,checkingforperfume.Nothing. ‘HiMarsha.WhatcanIdoforyou?’
Shepaused,thensoundeddistraught: ‘It’syourfather,Neil.I’mafraidhe’smissing.’
ChapterTwo DadstilllivedinthesamehouseI’dgrownupin.
We’dhadonequarterofanold,converted,gothicmansion, setbackdownawinding,white-tarmacdriveway.Itwasaflat, really,sinceasidefromthestaircaseuptoit,itranalongon asinglelevel,butthebuildingasawholewasenormousand imposing:soot-black,andbuiltfrombricksthat,whenIwas younger,seemedbiggerthanIwas.Fromtheoutside,itlooked grandanddesirable,butitwasn’t.Duringmyreturnvisitsthere asanadultI’dhadtwoseparaterealisations.
Thefirstwashowgenuinelyramshacklemyhomehadbeen. Therewassomethingthreadbareabouttheplace;ifithadbeen ajacket,itwouldhavesmelledofmothballsandhadpatches stitchedontheelbows.Thewallsinsidewerefreckledwith damp,andtheoldcarpetscurledupagainstthedustyskirting boards,nolongernaileddown.Insomeways,itremindedmeof myownflat–andthatbroughthometomejusthowmuchmy fatherdominatedmyparents’marriage.Thiswasthehousethat he,astruggling,intermittentlysuccessfulwriter,would always havelivedin,regardlessofmymother’spresence.Ratherthan themforminganewlifetogether,itseemedshe’dbeencontent tobeapassengerinhis.
Thesecondrealisationcancelledthatout.Aftermymother’s deathitstruckmejusthow empty thehousefeltwithhergone, andhowdiminishedmyfatherwasinherabsence.ButIthought
Iunderstood.Myfatherhadbeendriventowrite,andwriters needreaders.It’sapartnership,andalthoughitmightnotseem equalonthesurface,itactuallyis.Justbecauseoneperson appearscontenttolisten,itdoesn’tmeantheother–thespeaker –doesn’tneedandrelyonthembeingthereforthewholething tohavemeaning.Lovecanbethesame.
I’dneverbeenworriedabouthimthough.Overthelastyear,I hadwatchedhimagebeforemyeyes,asthoughmymother’s presencehadkeptanoldermanatbay,onewhowasnowfree toappear.Witheverypassingweek,heseemedsmallerand morefragilethanhehadtheweekbefore.Butafterthetearshad driedup,andhe’dbeguntoadjusthislifetofitaroundtheshape ofhisloss,myfatherdidwhatIknewhewould,whathealways had.Hebeganwriting.
SoI’dneverbeenworried.
Andtherewasnoreasontobeworriednow.Marshawasjust beingmelodramatic.Despitethevaguenigglingfeelinginmy chest,Ikepttellingmyselfthat,asIsatonthebedandlistened. Myfatherhadn’tbeenintouchaboutanewcontract,shesaid, andhewasn’tansweringhisphoneorreturninghercalls,and thatwas sounlikehim.Whichwasn’ttrue.Infact,fromeverythingshesaid,itsoundedlikeDadhadbeenbehavingvery muchlikeDad.
‘I’msurehe’sokay,Marsha.Youknowwhathe’slike.’
‘Oh,I’msureheistoo.It’sjustwithyourmotherpassinglast year.AndI’msosorryaboutthat,darling.Sosorry.’
‘Thankyou.’
Thenigglingfeelingbegancurlingslowlyintoanitchof irrationalpanic.WhenwasthelasttimeI’dspokentohim?It hadbeenovertwoweeksago,Irealised–actually,that was longerthannormal.And,lookingback,he’dseemedevenmore preoccupiedthanusual.Asthoughtherewerefarmoreserious thingsonhismind...
Butyoucanthinkyourselfintoallkindsofworries.
‘I’msureit’snothing,’Isaid.‘He’snotthetypetodoanything
stupid.Obviously,hetookMum’sdeathhard,buthe’llbe channellingitintohiswriting.’
Itsoundedstupid,spokenoutloud.
Marshawasn’treassured.‘Doyouthinkyoucouldcheckup onhimforme,Neil?Honestly,itwouldsetmymindatrest.’
Irubbedmyforehead.Therehadbeennoreasontoworry before,andtherewasnoreasontonow.Icouldrepeatthatto myselfoverandover,anditwasn’tgoingtomaketheslightest bitofdifference.
‘Yes,’Isaid.‘Iwill.’
Itwasahalf-hour’sdriveacrosstown,butIweighedupmy generalstateofsobrietyandfounditalittleonthelightside. Aftertryingmyfather’shomephoneandmobile,thenext callImadewasforataxi.Justbeforeeight,itpulledupoutsidemyfather’shouse.Theengineputteredtoitselfwhilethe driverstuckthelightoninfronttoconsulthisplasticcharge sheet.
AfterI’dpaid,Iwalkeddownthedrive,andintothegarden. Mymother’soldwashinglinewasstillstrungacross,hanging looselyinthemiddle,asthoughweigheddownbyinvisible clothes.Oldpegswereclippedonbythewall.Allmyfather’s windowsfacedoutthisway,apartfromthekitchenwhichwas roundthecorner.Lookingupnow,theonesIcouldseewere curtainedoveranddark.Eitherhewasinbed–unheardofat thishour–orhewasn’there.
Ihadmyownkey.
‘Hello?’Icalledupthestairs.‘Dad?It’sjustme.’ Iwasmetbysilence.Thecorridoratthetopwasdarkand quiet,andeverythingbeyonditfeltstill.Thehouseseemed empty,andtherewasamustysmelltotheplace,asthoughthe frontdoorhadn’tbeenopenedinawhile.
Icloseditbehindmeandwentupthestairs.Walkingaround, Iclickedallthelightson.Howeverirrationalitwas,myheart
thuddedeverytimeIsteppedintoaroomandflickedtheswitch –eachtimerevealingnothing.
Hewasn’there.
IwassurprisedbyhowrelievedIfelt. Whereishethen?
Thewindowinthekitchenwasold,heldshutbyametalarm thathookedoveranubinthebaseandclenchedtheframetight. Iopenedit,lettinginahushofnightair,andpeeredout.The garagesforallfourflatsweredirectlybelow,andmyDad’scar wasn’tthere.
Istayedwithmyheadoutofthewindowforamoment, thinking.Myfatherdidn’tgooutmuchonanevening,asfaras Iknew,andifhe’dgoneawayIthoughthewouldhavetoldme. Iclosedthewindowandwalkedhalfwaybackdownthe corridor.Steppedintohisoffice.
Thishadbeenmybedroomasachild.Itstillheldwispsof memoriesnow,likecobwebsinthecorners,buthe’dchangedso mucharoundthatitwasbarelyrecognisable;topicturethe roomIgrewupin,Ihadtorelyonthementalequivalentof dentsinacarpetthatshowedwherefurniturehadstood.
Ontheright,wheremybedhadbeen,thewallwasnow entirelycoveredwithshelves.Thebottomonecontainedreferencematerialsandboxfiles;therest,allthewayuptothe ceiling,werefilledwithwhatlookedlikehundredsofcopiesof myfather’sownbooks.
Istaredatthoseforamoment.TherewerealltheEnglish editions,anditwaseasyenoughtopickoutthehardbacksand paperbacksofeach,withupdatededitionsstudiouslyslotted intoplace.Theforeigncopieswerehardertodecipher,butthey seemedtohavebeengroupedtogetherbytitleaswell.Hadhe keptoneofeverything?Iglancedhereandthereinwonder.The books,alongwithvariousanthologies,appearedtobearranged chronologically– autobiographically,Ithought–sothat Worry Dolls wasatoneendofthetopshelf,cleanandfreshandnew.
Whatmustitbeliketohaveyourlife’sworkondisplaylike this?Thenumberofspinesvisiblewasimpressiveenough,never mindallthepagesandwordscontainedinside.Youcould practicallyhearthepageswhispering.
Iturnedaroundandwalkedovertothedesk.Whenitwasmy room,therehadbeenanenormouswardrobehere,andastandinglampwithanoldfeatheredshade.Myfather’sdesklooked evenolderthanthewardrobehadbeen;itwasmadeofpitted wood,thetextureofadeskinaschoolsciencelab.Thelamp hadbeenreplacedbyanangledmetalcontraption.Theonly otherthingsonthedeskwereabatteredoldpaperbackand dust.Buttherewasaclean,laptop-shapedspaceinthemiddle. So,whereverhe’dgone,itlookedlikehe’dtakenhiscomputer withhim.
Ilookedup.Therewasacalendaronthewall,withphotosof sportscars;thismonth’spagehadcaughtablurredredFerrari intheactofcorneringonaracetrack.Belowthepicture,various daysinSeptemberwereblockedout.LastFriday,he’dwritten HaggertyA.Saturdaywasmarked EllisF??
Andthen,underneaththat, SouthertonHotel,Whitkirk,with anarrowrunningacrossallthedaysuntiltomorrow.
Sothatwasthat.He’dgoneawayafterall.
Itpissedmeoffabitthathehadn’tletmeknowbutthen,he washisownman,anditwasn’tlikeI’dbeenintouchmyself.If itwaswork-related,itwaspossiblehe’dbeensodistractedthat itjusthadn’t occurred tohimtotellanyone. Whatwasheworkingon?
Ilookedagainatthebook.Itwasn’tlikemyfathertositand readinhere;hewasafront-room,armchairreader.Ipickedit up.Anovel,andanoldoneatthat.Itlookedlikeithadbeenleft outintherain,orfoundinafield–ormaybejustthumbed throughsomanytimesthatithadbeguntofallapart,likesome ancientmap.
Thetitleatthebottomwasembossed,andhadoncebeen gold,butmostofthecolourhadfleckedawayovertheyears.
