But it was only this.
“Mom, do you remember me telling you I went in the attic?”
For a moment there was no response. Then she sighed.
“They’re all the same.”
“The … cases?”
“No.” Her eyes still closed, she smiled as though quietly pleased about something. “They’re all the same. That’s why he won’t find it.”
“Who? And what is it he won’t find?”
But she just shook her head. It seemed that whoever he was, and whatever she was hiding from him, she was determined to keep it a secret from me as well. Well, I could search through the newspapers again later. I forced down the frustration I felt and tried a different angle.
“Have you … seen anybody in the woods?”
Again, she didn’t reply immediately. But the smile disappeared, and then, a few seconds later, her eyes suddenly opened and she looked at me in alarm.
“He’s in the woods, Paul!”
“It’s okay, Mom.”
“He’s in the woods. He’s there right now!”
I reached out and calmly smoothed the edge of the cover down over the corner of the bed. It felt like a futile attempt to soothe her, but after a moment her body seemed to relax a little.
“Who is in the woods, Mom?”
“I don’t want to say that horrible boy’s name.” She shook her head again and closed her eyes. “Not after what he did. Not after all the pain he’s caused over the years.”
I hesitated.
“You saw Charlie in the woods?”
She nodded absently. “Flickering in the trees.”
The image disturbed me and I moved my hand away from the bed. My mother was seeing ghosts now. But I told myself she had likely been seeing them for months.
It didn’t mean they were real.
“Oh,” she said suddenly. “I remember.”
“Remember what?”
“What I needed to tell you.”
Her eyes remained closed, and her voice was fainter now. She was drifting off. The window was closing, and I didn’t know how many more there would be.
I leaned closer again.
“What?”
“I’m so proud of you.”
She smiled slightly. As she drifted back off to sleep, her mind was moving between times, and I knew where she was now. Standing on a railway platform with her son, waiting for him to leave, knowing he would not return. Throwing him out into the world without a thought for herself.
Silence in the room for a moment.
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
“You’re going to be a writer, I think.”
Even though her voice was barely there now, she said it with such conviction that I was unable to reply. Instead, I just sat there, watching the covers rising and falling almost imperceptibly with every small breath she took. And then, eventually, I found the words.
“I love you,” I said.
But my mother was asleep again by then.
I kissed her gently on the forehead and then sat with her for a time.
* * *
I’m so proud of you.
Walking outside again later, I thought about those words. They should have brought some comfort, but I knew it hadn’t really been me she was talking to—or, at least, not me now. There was nothing about my present-day life for anybody to be proud of, and whatever there might have been back then had been squandered since. While my mother had been happy that I was escaping from Gritten and what happened here, the reality was that I never had. Not really. The shadow had always been there.
You’re going to be a writer.
What a joke. A part of me was glad her mind had retreated to a time and place where she could still believe I might amount to something.
I pushed open the doors to the hospice, and then squinted as I stepped out into the bright afternoon sun. I walked over to my car, the gravel crunching under my feet, and because of the light and the heat and the emotions churning inside me, it was only when I reached it that I realized another vehicle was parked beside it now, and that a woman was leaning against it with her arms folded, watching me.
She looked to be in her late thirties and had long brown hair tied back in a ponytail. She was not dressed for the weather—dark jeans and a long black coat—but from the look on her face, the temperature was the least of her worries.
She leaned away from the car. “Paul Adams?”
“Yes.”
She nodded to herself, as though I were yet another disappointment in a long line of them.
“Detective Amanda Beck,” she said. “Is there a bar around here, Paul? I don’t know about you, but I could really do with a drink.”
TWENTY
Paul didn’t drive far.
A few minutes after they’d left the hospice, he signaled and pulled into a parking lot. Amanda drove in and parked behind, then followed him into the pub. Given the general state of Gritten, she was worried it would be a pit, but it turned out to be nice enough: dark wood and polished brass; enough screens to suggest it would be lively later but quiet for the moment. Most importantly of all right now, of course, it had a bar.
I need a drink.
Amanda imagined she had said that numerous times in her life, usually after what had been, in hindsight, a comparatively mild day at work. Today it was genuinely true. The near-encounter back at Billy Roberts’s house had caused her fight-or-flight mechanism to kick in, and after the police and ambulance arrived, the adrenaline had begun to settle listlessly in her system like sludge. Adrenaline was a poison; if you didn’t use it up, it used you instead. She had been shivering as she talked to the lead detective, a man named Graham Dwyer, and her hands were still trembling a little even now.
The bartender fetched a beer for Paul automatically. Amanda ordered a vodka tonic along with a separate shot. She downed the latter in one as soon as it arrived. Paul started to get his wallet out, but she waved him away, her throat burning.
“On me.”
“Thanks.”
Once the order was settled, she looked around and then led him to a table to one side, as far away from the handful of other customers as possible. As they sat down, she resisted the urge to down the second drink too. Instead, she just took a sip, closing her eyes and rolling the liquid around her mouth.
“Is this about this morning?” Paul said.
Amanda swallowed slowly and opened her eyes. “This morning?”
“The marks on my mother’s door,” Paul said. “An officer came to the house. Holder, I think his name was. He took photos, but he didn’t seem that interested.”
Amanda certainly was. “What kind of marks?”
“Someone knocked on the door in the night and left fist prints on the wood. The officer thought it was probably just a prank.”
“That’s a weird kind of prank.”
“Yeah, I thought so.”
He stared back at her for a moment, as though he wanted to explain a little more but wasn’t sure how. Then he shook his head.
“But you’re not here because of that.”
“No.” Amanda got out her ID and showed him. “I’m not with the Gritten Police Department. I’m from a place called Featherbank.”