by Mark Roberts
‘Philip,’ said his dad. ‘The beach is just over the road. Shall we go and see what we can find washed up on the sand?’
‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘Can we go now, Dad?’
Clay leaned over her son, kissed him on the head and said, ‘I’ll come and find you on the beach.’
At the front door, Thomas looked back and mouthed, Good luck, Eve.
The door closed and Clay listened to Maggie’s approaching footsteps.
‘Eve?’
She looked at Maggie and a thousand little long-lost kindnesses circled in her memory. Clay opened her mouth to speak but the words were lost inside her. The woman was an older version and an extension of her former self, her face still stamped with compassion and patience.
‘Shall we go and have one of our little chats. Remember our little chats?’
Clay nodded and sank into Maggie’s fragile embrace.
‘I’ve got some things for you. Come with me.’
*
Cold sunshine poured through the large bay window and flooded the day room.
‘It’s been too long, Maggie,’ said Clay, with regret in her heart.
‘You have been rather busy, Eve. And, well, we’re here now.’
The sound of snoring filled the room and Maggie looked across at a man in his nineties, sleeping soundly in an armchair.
‘Welcome to my world!’ Maggie laughed. ‘Put a sock in it, Buster!’ she said to the sleeping man.
Maggie opened her handbag, took out an envelope and handed it to Clay.
Clay felt stiff squares through the paper and said, ‘Photo-graphs?’
Maggie reached into her bag and placed a 1970s Polaroid instant camera in the space on the couch between them. ‘I know who you want to talk about, Eve. Jimmy Peace.’
‘You always could read my mind.’
‘It was tragic what happened to that lad. So, so sad.’
Clay bottled the compulsion to tell Maggie the whole truth and instead nodded.
‘He came to St Michael’s two years before you did and he was an absolute nightmare. Thieving, fighting, breaking things, setting off fire alarms, and that was before breakfast, effing this, jeffing that, would use an “f” where a “c” would do. Funny with it, mind you. Then, one day in October 1984, you walked in with a social worker, days after Sister Phil passed. I watched him watching you as you climbed the stairs on the way to Mrs Tripp’s office and, I swear to God, it was like watching an inexplicable phenomenon, a miracle if you like. It was as though he was having the most massive growing-up spurt. The chaos in his face dissolved and when you were out of sight, he turned and looked at me. I was the only adult in the home he’d talk to. He asked me about you. I told him you were six years old, you’d been abandoned at birth, you’d been rescued by Sister Philomena and that she’d just died. He was silent for once. And he looked so sad. I told him, She needs someone to look after her, show her the ropes round here, set a good example, someone who’s not going to behave like a divvy. The miracle played out.’
Maggie clapped her hands together. ‘Instant change. In all the years I never saw a bigger scally turn into a model young adult so quickly, so completely. Do you know what it was, Eve? He had a hole in his heart and when you walked into his life that hole was filled. You know that we don’t pick love, love picks us.’
Clay thought of Philip and Thomas, and Sister Philomena and how easy it was to love them. Then she considered Jimmy Peace, the sensitive boy who had saved her when she was a child, who grew up to be a cold-blooded serial killer.
‘I agree, Maggie. Love picks us. Be that as easy or incredibly conflicting as it can be.’
‘Well, love picked Jimmy when you arrived at St Michael’s. And it was love at first sight, the love of one abandoned child for another. He was your soul mate, your big brother. He no longer had a reason to be angry but he now had a reason to be.’
As the first of her tears fell, Clay laughed at the sudden gale-force resonance of the old man snoring in the corner.
‘You had a good two years together and then... what happened happened and Jimmy Peace was moved away and died a few years later trying to save other people. I cried so much over that lad, for weeks and months.’
‘He saved me that day in 1986.’
‘He did indeed. But you saved him in 1984. Don’t forget that, Eve.’
The door opened and a smiling nun said, ‘Maggie, it’s time for mass. Are you coming?’
Clay read conflict in Maggie’s face. ‘I’ll come back in an hour, after I’ve found my husband and son.’
‘Would you bring them back with you so I can meet them?’
‘Of course I will.’ Clay stood and helped Maggie to her feet.
‘The camera’s yours, as are the pictures, Eve. There’s one last picture in the camera.’
‘I’ll see you in an hour, Maggie.’
*
As Clay walked on to the beach, she took the two photographs from the envelope and, pausing on the sand, looked at them.
Christmas 1984. She, aged six, and Jimmy, just turned fourteen, in front of the Christmas tree in St Michael’s.
Christmas 1985. An almost identical image, but both of them a little older and dressed differently.
Both images had one strong link in common. The love shared by two lost children.
The wind whistled around her head as she put the pictures away. She looked to the sea and saw two figures at the water’s edge, a man and a boy throwing stones into the water.
She walked towards her husband and son and within a few steps was running towards them, freshly understanding how blessed she was.
Thomas picked Philip up and, spinning him around in a circle, made the little boy shriek with laughter. His laughter carried on the wind, filling Eve’s ears like precious balm.
‘Hey! You two!’ she called.
The spinning slowed down and Thomas held Philip to his body. They turned to Eve.
‘You’ve been crying, Mummy?’
‘It’s the cold and the wind, son, that’s all. Say cheese!’
She held Maggie’s camera to her face, framed the image of her husband and son against black water and a grey sky and her heart danced inside her. She took the picture of love with the camera but also with her mind’s eye, an image she would hold on to through whatever storms she would face in the future.
Eve handed the camera to Thomas and wrapped her arms around both of them.
‘What have I got to cry about, Philip? Thomas? What have I got to cry about?’
We hope you enjoyed this book!
The next book in the Eve Clay series is coming in 2018
For more information, click the following links
Acknowledgements
About Mark Roberts
About the Eve Clay Series
An invitation from the Publisher
Acknowledgements
I’d like to thank Steve Le Comber, Alfie Harris, Martin McKenna, Peter, Rosie and Jessica Buckman, Laura Palmer, Maddy O’Shea, Lauren Atherton and all at Head of Zeus, Nicholas Jackson and Abby Brennan, Frank and Ben Rooney, Paul Goetzee, John Gunning, Linda and Eleanor Roberts, Conrad Williams.
About Mark Roberts
MARK ROBERTS was born and raised in Liverpool, and was educated at St Francis Xavier’s College. He was a teacher for twenty years and for the past thirteen years has worked with children with severe learning difficulties. He is the author of What She Saw, which was long-listed for a CWA Gold Dagger.
Find me on Twitter
Visit my website
About the Eve Clay Series
Find out more
Find out more
Find out more
Visit Head of Zeus now
An Invitation from the Publisher
We hope you enjoyed this book. We are an independent publisher dedicated to discovering brilliant books, new authors and great storytelling. Please join us at www.headofzeus.com and become part of our co
mmunity of book-lovers.
We will keep you up to date with our latest books, author blogs, special previews, tempting offers, chances to win signed editions and much more.
Get in touch: [email protected]
Visit Head of Zeus now
Find us on Twitter
Find us on Facebook
Find us on BookGrail
First published in the UK in 2017 by Head of Zeus, Ltd.
Copyright © Mark Roberts, 2017
The moral right of Mark Roberts to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
9 7 5 3 1 2 4 6 8
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (HB): 9781784082963
ISBN (XTPB): 9781784082970
ISBN (E): 9781784082956
Design: kid-ethic.com
Images: Shutterstock
Author photo: Frank Rooney
Head of Zeus Ltd
First Floor East
5–8 Hardwick Street
London EC1R 4RG
www.headofzeus.com
