The Whisper Man

Not worthless. Not useless or a failure.

Which was good.

Pete ran his fingertip around the edge of the glass. It was good that Tom had succeeded in overcoming the miserable childhood he had offered him. Good that he had absented himself from Tom’s life before he could poison it any more than he already had. Because it was clear that he had. Even after all this time, he was remembered. His impact had been terrible enough to leave a lasting impression.

I remember the last time I saw you.

Pete could still picture the look of hatred on his son’s face when he’d said that. He picked up the glass. Put it down again. That wasn’t quite right, though, was it? He deserved hatred—he was more than aware of that—but hatred had to be earned. Pete had been drinking almost constantly by the time Sally and Tom left him, and his days and nights had been a blur, but he remembered that particular evening with absolute clarity. Tom’s description of what had happened was impossible.

Did it matter?

Perhaps not. If his son’s memory was not literally true, then, like Pete’s own feelings of failure, it presumably still felt true enough, and that was the kind of truth that mattered most in the end.

He looked at the familiar photograph of him and Sally. It had been taken before Tom was conceived, but Pete thought you could see the knowledge of impending fatherhood in his expression if you wanted to. The squint against the sun. The half smile that looked like it would soon disappear. It was as though the man in the photo already knew he was about to fail badly and lose everything.

Sally still looked so happy.

He had lost her a long time ago, but had maintained the fantasy that she was alive somewhere, leading a contented, loving life. Keeping up the miserable belief that his own loss had been her and Tom’s gain. But now he knew the truth. There had been no gain. Sally was dead.

It felt like everything was.

Again, he picked up the glass, but this time he kept hold of it, watching the silky liquid fold over on itself. It looked so innocent until it did that—so much like water until you moved it and saw the mist hiding there.

He’d been here before. He could survive this.

But why bother?

He looked around the room, weighing again the emptiness of his existence. There was nothing to him. He was a man made of air. A life with no heft. There was nothing good in his past that could be saved, and nothing in his future that was worth trying to.

Except that wasn’t true, was it? Neil Spencer’s killer might still be out there. If the boy’s murder stemmed from some past failing of his, then it was his responsibility to put it right, whatever the personal repercussions might be. Whether he liked it or not, he was back in the nightmare now, and he thought that he needed to see it through to the end, even if it broke him. There was a conflict of interest, yes, but if he was careful, then perhaps nobody would ever know. He doubted Tom would ever want their distant history aired.

That was one reason to stay sober.

And also—

Thank you for this delightful apartment.

Pete smiled as he remembered Jake’s words earlier. It had been such a strange thing to say, but it was funny. He was a funny kid. A nice kid. He was creative. He was a character. Probably a handful to deal with too, just like Tom had been at times.

Pete allowed himself to think about Jake for a few moments more. He could imagine sitting down and talking to the boy. Playing with him, the same way he might—and should—have done with Tom when he had been a child. It was foolish, of course. There was nothing there. In a couple of days, his involvement with the pair of them would be over, and he’d probably never see them again.

But even so, he decided that he wasn’t going to drink.

Not tonight.

Easy to throw the glass, of course. Always easy to do that. Instead, he stood up, walked through to the kitchen, and poured it slowly away into the sink. He watched the liquid trailing away down the drain, and alongside the urge in his chest he thought about Jake again and felt something he hadn’t experienced in years. There was no reason to it. No sense. And yet there it was.

Hope.

Part Four

Thirty-six

The next morning, when I dropped Jake off at school, I was still quietly amazed by how well he’d adapted to our new circumstances. Last night in the safe house, he had dropped off to sleep without complaint, leaving me to sit alone in the living room afterward with my laptop and my thoughts. When I’d finally gone to bed, I’d gazed down at him, and his face had looked so serene that I’d wondered if he was actually more at peace here than he was in our new home. I’d wondered what, if anything, he was dreaming.

But then, I often thought that.

For myself, even as tired as I was, the unfamiliar surroundings had made it harder to sleep than ever, so it was a relief when he was well behaved and easy to manage that morning. Perhaps he was treating this all as some kind of exciting adventure. Whatever the reason, I was grateful for it. I was so exhausted, and my nerves so on edge, that I wasn’t sure I’d have been up to any real challenges.

We drove to the school, and then I walked him to the playground.

“Are you okay, mate?”

“I’m fine, Daddy.”

“All right, then. Here you go.” I handed him his water bottle and book bag. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

He walked off to the door, the bag swinging beside his leg. Mrs. Shelley was waiting there. I hadn’t had the conversation with Jake that I’d promised I would. I’d just have to hope that today was a little easier for him, or at least that he didn’t punch anyone.

“You still look like shit.”

Karen fell into step beside me as I walked back out through the gates. She was still dressed up in her huge coat, despite the warmth of the morning.

“Yesterday, you were worried about offending me when you said that.”

“Yeah, but it didn’t, did it?” She shrugged. “I slept on it and figured it was probably okay.”

“Then you slept a lot better than I did.”

“That I can see.” She stuffed her hands into her pockets. “What are you up to now? Fancy grabbing a coffee, or do you have to run off and be tired somewhere else?”

I hesitated. I had nothing to do. I’d told my father I needed my laptop for work, but the likelihood of me accomplishing anything in this state was pretty minimal. Today was likely to be a case of treading water and hoping some kind of land would eventually appear—killing time, basically—and looking at Karen now, I figured there were worse ways to do that.

“Sure,” I said. “That would be nice.”

We walked down to the main road, where she led me past the small corner shop and village post office to a delicatessen called the Happy Pig. There were meadow scenes painted on the windowed front, and the inside was rustic and crammed with wooden tables, like a farmhouse kitchen.

“Bit pretentious.” She pushed open the door and a bell tinkled. “But the coffee’s acceptable.”

“As long as it’s got caffeine in it.”

It certainly smelled good. We ordered at the counter, standing beside each other a little awkwardly while we waited and not speaking for the moment. Then we took our drinks over to a table and sat down.