The Whisper Man

He wished he could tell her that it would get easier.

After being summoned to Lyons’s office, Pete had talked Amanda through the original investigation, but his involvement in the case had turned out to be cursory. There had been the familiar feeling of dread when he made the request to visit Frank Carter. He had imagined himself sitting across from the monster, being treated like a plaything, and, as always, he had wondered if he could do it—whether this encounter would be the one that finally proved too much for him. And yet his fear had been in vain. For the first time that he could remember, his request to talk to Carter had been met with refusal. The so-called Whisper Man, it seemed, had decided to go silent.

Pete had visited him on several occasions, and he had been prepared to do so again, but still—it had been impossible to suppress relief at that. That feeling had brought guilt and shame along with it, of course, but he had talked himself out of it. Sitting across from Frank Carter was an ordeal. It was bad for his health. And since the only connection was what Neil claimed to have seen and heard at his bedroom window, there was no reason to think it would help.

Relief was the correct response.

Back home, he tossed his keys onto the dining room table, already planning the meal he would make and the programs he would watch to fill the handful of hours before sleep. Tomorrow would bring the gym, the paperwork, the admin. Life as usual.

But before then, he performed the ritual.

He opened the kitchen cabinet and took out the bottle of vodka he kept in there, turning it around in his hands, weighing it, feeling how thick the glass was. There was a solid, protective layer between him and the silky liquid inside. It had been a long time since he’d opened a bottle like this, but he could still remember the comforting click that would come if he turned the top and broke the seal.

He retrieved the photograph from a drawer.

And then he sat down at the dinner table, with the bottle and photograph before him, and asked himself the question.

Do I want to do this?

Over the years the urge had come and gone, but to some extent it was always present. There were many obvious things that could jostle it awake, but there were also times when it seemed to stir at random, following its own oblique schedule. The bottle was often as dead and powerless as a cell phone without charge, but sometimes there was a flicker there. Right now the urge was stronger than he could recall. For the last two months, in fact, the bottle had been talking to him increasingly loudly.

You’re only delaying the inevitable, it told him now.

Why make yourself suffer like this?

A full bottle—that was important. Pouring a drink from a half-finished bottle was less comforting than breaking the seal on a fresh one. The comfort lay in knowing you had enough.

He gently tested the seal now, tempting himself. A little more pressure and it would break, and the bottle would be open.

You might as well give in.

It will make you feel worthless, but we both know that’s what you are.

The voice could be cruel as well as friendly. Play the minor chords as easily as the major.

You’re worthless. You’re useless.

So open the bottle.

As so often, the voice was his father’s. The old man was long dead, but even forty years on, Pete could picture him: fat and sprawled in a threadbare armchair in the dusty living room, a look of contempt on his face. Nothing Pete had done as a boy had ever been good enough for him. Worthless and useless were words he’d learned early and often.

Age had brought with it the understanding that his father had been a small man, disappointed with everything in his life, and that his son had just been a convenient target to vent his many frustrations on. But that understanding had come too late. By then the message had been absorbed and become part of his programming. Objectively, he knew it wasn’t true that he was worthless and a failure. But it always felt true. The trick, explained, still convinced.

He picked up the photograph of Sally. It was many years old, and the colors had faded over time, as though the paper were attempting to erase the image imprinted upon it and return to its original blank slate. The two of them looked so happy there, their faces pressed together. It had been taken on a summer’s day. Sally appeared full of joy, grinning in the sun, while Pete was squinting against the light and smiling.

This is what you lose by drinking.

This is why it’s not worth it.

He sat there for a few minutes, breathing slowly, then he put the bottle and the photograph away and began to make dinner. It was easy to understand why the urge had strengthened since Neil Spencer went missing, and that was why it was good his involvement had come to nothing. Let the urge flare in the light of that, he thought. Let it have its moment.

And then let it die.

Eleven

That night, as always, I found it difficult to fall asleep.

Once upon a time, when I had a new book out, I would go to events and even do the occasional signing tour. I generally went by myself, and I would lie awake afterward in unfamiliar hotel rooms, missing my family. I always found it hard to sleep when Rebecca wasn’t there beside me.

It was harder still, now that she never would be. Before, if I stretched my arm out onto the cold side of a hotel bed, I could at least imagine she was doing the same back home—that we might feel the ghosts of each other. After she died, when I stretched my arm out in our own bed I felt nothing but the cold emptiness of the sheets there. Perhaps a new house and bed should have changed that, but they hadn’t. When I stretched my arm out in the old house, I had at least known that Rebecca had lain there once.

So I stayed awake for a long time, missing her. Even if moving here had been the right decision, I was aware of a greater distance between Rebecca and me than ever before. It was terrible to leave her behind. I kept imagining her spirit in the old house, staring out of the window, wondering where her family had gone.

Which reminded me of Jake’s imaginary friend. The little girl he’d drawn. I did my best to empty my head of that, concentrating instead on how peaceful it was here in Featherbank. The world outside the curtains was quiet and still. The house around me was entirely silent now.

It allowed me to drift, at least after a time.

* * *

Glass smashing.

My mother screaming.

A man shouting.

“Daddy.”

I jerked awake from the nightmare, disorientated, aware only that Jake was calling me and so I needed to do something.

“Hang on,” I shouted.

A shadow at the end of the bed moved, and my heart leaped. I sat up quickly.

Jesus Christ.

“Jake, is that you?”

The small shadow moved around from the foot of the bed to my side. For a moment I wasn’t convinced it was him at all, but then he was close enough that I could recognize the shape of his hair. I couldn’t see his face, though. It was occluded entirely by the darkness in the room.

“What are you doing, mate?” My heart was still racing, both from what was happening now and from the residue of the nightmare it had woken me from. “It’s not time to get up yet. Absolutely nowhere near.”

“Can I sleep in here with you tonight?”

“What?” He never had before. In fact, Rebecca and I had always held firm on the few occasions he’d suggested it, assuming that relenting even once would be the beginning of a slippery slope. “We don’t do that, Jake. You know that.”