by Alex North
“Actually, I was meaning both of you. You look worried. Honestly, I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
“Yes, I’m sure he will. He didn’t even look back.”
“Mine stopped doing that a while ago. In fact, once we get to the playground on a morning, I might as well not exist. Heartbreaking at first, but you get used to it. It’s a good thing, really.” She shrugged. “I’m Karen, by the way. My son’s Adam.”
“Tom,” I said. “Nice to meet you. Karen and Adam? I need to start learning all these new names.”
She smiled. “It’ll take a while. But I’m sure Jake won’t have any problems. It’s hard when you move somewhere new, but they’re a good bunch of kids. Adam only started here the middle of last year. It’s a good school.”
As she walked back toward the gate, I committed the names to memory. Karen. Adam. She’d seemed nice, and I needed to make some kind of effort here. Perhaps, despite all evidence to the contrary, I really could become one of those normal adults who talked to other parents in the playground.
I took out my phone and put my headphones in for the short walk home, with something else to be nervous about now. I had been a third of the way into a new novel when Rebecca died, and while some writers might have thrown themselves into their work as a distraction, I hadn’t looked at those words since. The idea I’d been working on felt empty to me now, and I suspected I was going to have to abandon the whole thing and leave it decaying on my hard drive as some uncompleted folly.
In which case, what would I write?
Back home, I turned on the computer, opened up a blank document in Word, and then saved it under the file name “bad ideas.” I always did that to begin with. Acknowledging it was early days took some of the psychological pressure off. And then, since I’d always been of the mind that making coffee didn’t count as procrastination, I went through to the kitchen and started the kettle boiling, then leaned against the counter and stared out of the window at the back garden.
A man was standing out there.
He had his back to me, and appeared to be rattling the padlock on my garage door.
What the fuck?
I tapped on the glass.
The man jumped and turned around quickly. He was in his fifties, short and portly, with a monk’s ring of gray hair around his otherwise bald head. He was also dressed neatly in a suit, gray overcoat, and scarf, and seemed about as far away from a potential burglar as I could imagine.
I made a what-the-fuck? gesture at him with my hands and the expression on my face. He stared back at me for a moment, looking shocked, then turned and disappeared off in the direction of the driveway.
I hesitated for a moment, still thrown by what I’d just seen, then moved back through the house, determined to confront him and find out what he’d been doing.
As I reached the front door, the bell rang.
Fourteen
I opened the door too quickly, and found the man standing on the step outside, an apologetic look on his face. Up close, he was even shorter than he’d seemed through the window.
“I’m terribly sorry to bother you.” He spoke formally, in keeping with the old-fashioned suit he was dressed in. “I wasn’t sure if anybody would be home.”
One obvious way to check if someone is home, I thought, would be to ring the fucking doorbell.
“I see.” I folded my arms. “What can I do for you?”
The man shuffled uncomfortably. “Well, it’s a slightly unusual request, I have to admit. But the thing is—this house. I actually grew up here, you see? Many years ago now, obviously, but I have such fond memories of the place…”
He trailed off.
“Okay,” I said.
And then I waited for him to continue. But he just stood there, looking expectant, as though he’d provided me with enough information already and it was awkward, or perhaps even rude, of me to make him say the rest.
A moment later, the penny dropped.
“You mean you want to come in and look around or something?”
He nodded gratefully.
“It’s a terrible imposition, I know, but I would appreciate being able to do so immensely. This house holds such special memories for me, you see.”
Again, his tone was so ostentatiously formal that I almost laughed. But I didn’t, because the idea of having this man in my house set my nerves on edge. He was dressed so properly, and his manner was so ostentatiously polite, that it all felt like some kind of disguise. Despite the apparent lack of physical threat, the man seemed dangerous. I could picture him stabbing someone with a sliver of a knife, looking into their eyes and licking his lips as he did so.
“That’s not possible, I’m afraid.”
The prissy manner faded immediately, and a hint of annoyance crept onto his face. Whoever he was, he was clearly used to getting his own way.
“What a terrible shame,” he said. “May I ask why?”
“For one thing, we’ve only just moved in. There are boxes everywhere.”
“I see.” He smiled thinly. “Perhaps another time, then?”
“Well, no. Because I’m also not particularly inclined to let complete strangers into my house.”
“That is … disappointing.”
“Why were you trying to get into my garage?”
“I was doing no such thing.” He took a step back, looking affronted now. “I was looking to see if I could find you.”
“What—inside a locked garage?”
“I don’t know what you think you saw, but no.” He shook his head sadly. “I see this has been a regrettable mistake. What a shame, indeed. Perhaps you’ll change your mind.”
“I won’t.”
“Then I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
He turned and began walking away up the path.
I followed him out, remembering the letters I’d received.
“Mr. Barnett?”
He hesitated at that, then turned around and looked at me. I stopped where I was. His expression was entirely different now. His eyes had gone completely blank, and despite the difference in our sizes, I thought that if he took a step toward me right now, I would back away.
“I’m afraid not,” he said. “Goodbye.”
And then he walked away, reaching the street, then heading away without another word. I followed him again, then stood on the pavement, unsure whether to pursue him down the road or not. Despite the warmth of the sun, I was shivering slightly.
I’d been so preoccupied with the inside of the house that I hadn’t gotten around to looking in the garage yet. Certainly it was not the most desirable part of the property: two blue, corrugated metal doors that barely met in the middle; gray walls with a cracked window on the side. Overgrown grass wavered at the base. It seemed to be squatting at the back of the house like an old drunk, unsteady on its feet and trying not to teeter over to one side.
The doors were secured by a padlock, but the real estate agent had given me the key. The metal scraped and scratched against the driveway as I unlocked it and pulled one door open, and then I ducked slightly and stepped inside.
I looked around in disbelief. It was full of junk.
I’d assumed that when Mrs. Shearing had emptied the house after that first viewing, she’d hired a removal firm to empty out the old furniture. It was clear now that she’d saved herself that particular expense, and that it was all in here instead, smelling of mold and dust. There were piles of cardboard boxes in the center, crumpling damply under the weight of the ones above, and old tables and chairs stacked and intermingled like wooden puzzles down one side. An old mattress was leaning against the back wall, the tea-colored stains on the fabric so extensive that it resembled a landscape map of some foreign world. I could smell the blackened barbecue to one side of the door.
There were piles of crisp brown leaves around the walls. I gingerly moved a can of paint in the corner with my foot, and found the largest spider I’d ever seen. The thing just bounced gently where it sat, a
pparently unperturbed by my presence.
Well, I thought, looking around.
Thank you very much, Mrs. Shearing.
There wasn’t much room to move about, but I stepped forward to the piles of boxes and opened the one on top, the cardboard moist beneath my fingers. I peered in to find old Christmas decorations. Faded coils of tinsel, dull baubles, and what looked like jewels on the surface.
One of the jewels flew straight out into my face—
“Jesus Christ!”
—and I nearly lost my balance, one foot skidding on the leaves behind me, my arm waving at the air in front of my face. The thing fluttered up to the roof, then bounced down and whirled around, before hitting the gray window and smacking itself repetitively against it.
Tap, tap, tap. The gentlest of collisions.
A butterfly, I realized. Not one I recognized, although admittedly my knowledge extended about as far as cabbage whites and tortoiseshells.
I edged carefully over to the window, where the butterfly was still fluttering against the glass, and watched for a few seconds until it finally got the message and settled down on the grubby sill, its wings splayed flat. The thing was as large as the spider behind me, but where that had been an ugly shade of gray, the butterfly had astonishing coloring. Yellow and green swirls played across its wings, with hints of purple at the tips. It was beautiful.
Moving back over to the box, I looked in again and saw three more, resting on the surface of the tinsel. These ones weren’t moving, so perhaps they were dead, but glancing down I saw another on the side of the lowest box in the pile, its wings moving as slowly and gently as breath.
I had no idea how long they had been in here, or what their life cycle might be, but there didn’t seem to be much hope for them, except perhaps as meals for that spider. I felt an urge to disrupt that particular ecosystem. Tearing off a damp square of cardboard from the top box, I made an effort at wafting one of the butterflies on the pile toward the door. The butterfly was having none of it, though. I tried the one by the window instead, but it was equally stubborn. And despite the size of them, they appeared very delicate close up, as though they might crumble to dust at the faintest touch. I didn’t want to risk brushing them.
So that was that.
“Well, guys.” I threw the cardboard to one side and rubbed my hand against my jeans. “I did my best.”
There didn’t seem any point in staying in the garage any longer. It was what it was. Clearing it out could now be added to my long list of tasks, but at least it wasn’t an urgent one. What was it in here that had interested my visitor so much? It was obviously just junk. But now that the encounter had faded a little, I wondered if he might even have been telling the truth and I’d simply misunderstood what I had seen.
Outside, I clicked the padlock back in place, sealing the butterflies within. It seemed remarkable that they’d survived in there for so long in such fruitless and insubstantial conditions. But as I walked back up the drive to the front of the house, I thought about Jake and me, and I realized that was just what happens. The butterflies didn’t have a choice, after all. That’s what things do. Even in the toughest of circumstances, they keep living.
Fifteen
The room was small, but because every surface was painted white it had the sensation of infinite space. A place without walls. Or perhaps somewhere out of space and time altogether. To anyone watching on CCTV, Pete always imagined it must look like a scene from a science fiction film, with one person sitting in an endless, empty environment in which the virtual surroundings had yet to be built around them.
He ran his fingertip over the surface of a desk that completely divided the room. It squeaked slightly. Everything here was clean, polished, sterile.
And then the room was silent again.
He waited.
When there was something awful that had to be faced, it was better to face it immediately; as bad as the event might be, it would occur regardless, and at least that way you wouldn’t have to endure the anticipation as well. Frank Carter understood that. Pete had visited him at least once a year since his incarceration, and the man always made him wait. There would be some petty delay back in the cell block—some manufactured incident. It was a statement of control, making it clear which of the two men was in charge of proceedings. The fact that Pete was the one who could leave afterward should have been reassuring, but it never was. He had nothing to offer Carter but diversion and entertainment. Only one of them had anything the other wanted, and they both knew it.
So he waited, like a good boy.
A few minutes later, the door on the far side of the desk was unlocked, and two prison guards entered, moving to either side of it. The doorway itself remained empty. The monster, as always, was taking his time to arrive.
There was the usual sense of unease as the moment approached. The escalation of the pulse. He’d long stopped trying to prepare questions for these meetings, as the words inevitably scattered into a jumble in his mind, like birds startled from a tree. But he forced his face into a blank expression and tried to keep as calm as possible. His upper body ached from the gym that morning.
Finally, Carter stepped into view.
He was dressed in pale blue overalls and was manacled at the hands and feet. Still sporting the familiar shaved head and ginger goatee. As always, he ducked slightly as he shuffled in, even though he didn’t need to. At six-foot-five and close to three hundred pounds, Carter was an enormous man, but he never missed an opportunity to make himself seem bigger.
Two more guards followed him in, escorting him to the chair on the far side of the desk. Then the four departed, leaving Pete alone with Carter. The door closing at the back of the room seemed like one of the loudest sounds he had ever heard.
Carter stared at him, amused.
“Good morning, Peter.”
“Frank,” Pete said. “You’re looking well.”
“Living well.” Carter patted his stomach, the chains that bound his wrists rattling softly. “Living very well indeed.”
Pete nodded. Whenever he visited, it always surprised him how Carter seemed to be not only surviving his incarceration but thriving on it. Much of his time appeared to have been spent in the prison gym, and yet, while he remained as physically formidable as he had been at the time of his arrest, there was also no denying that the years in prison had softened him in some way. He looked comfortable. Sitting here now, with his legs splayed and one beefy arm resting on the chair arm, he might have been a king lounging on a throne, surveying a courtier. It was as though, outside these walls, Carter had been a dangerous animal, angry and at war with the world, but caged in here with his celebrity status and coterie of fawning fans, he’d finally found a niche in which he could relax.
“You’re looking well too, Peter,” Carter said. “Eating well. Keeping in good shape, I see. How’s the family?”
“I don’t know,” Pete said. “How’s yours?”
The sparkle went out of Carter’s eyes at that. It was always a mistake to needle the man, but it was sometimes hard to resist, and Carter’s wife and son provided an easy target. Pete still remembered the look on Carter’s face as he’d listened to Jane Carter’s testimony playing in the court via video link. The man must have imagined she was too scared and broken to turn against him, but in the end she had, letting Pete into the extension and retracting the alibis she’d given her husband in the months before. His expression that day was similar to the one he wore now. However comfortable Carter might be in here, the hate he felt for his family had never waned.
He leaned forward suddenly.
“Do you know,” he said, “I had the most extraordinary dream last night.”
Pete forced a smile.
“Did you? Jesus, Frank. I’m not sure I want to know.”
“Oh, no, you do.” Carter settled back, then laughed to himself. “You really do. Because the boy was there, you see? The Smith boy. At first, as I’m dreaming, I’m not sure it�
��s him, because all those little bastards are the same, aren’t they? Any one of them will do. Plus his top is all pulled up over his face so I can’t see it properly, which is the way I like it. But it’s him. Because, you see, I remember what he was wearing, right?”
Blue jogging pants. Little black polo shirt.
Pete didn’t say anything.
“And someone’s crying,” Carter said. “But it isn’t him. For one thing, he’s long past the crying stage by now; that’s all done with. And the sound’s coming from off to one side anyway. So I turn my head, and I spot them both there—the mother and father. They’ve seen what I’ve done to their boy and they’re sobbing—all their hopes and dreams, and look what I’ve gone and done.” He frowned. “What are their names?”
Again, Pete didn’t reply.
“Miranda and Alan.” Carter nodded to himself. “I remember now. They were in court that time, weren’t they? You sat with them.”
“Yes.”
“Right. So, Miranda and Alan are crying these big fat tears, and they’re looking at me. Tell us where he is. They’re begging me, you see? It’s a bit pathetic, but all that does is remind me of you, and I think to myself, Peter wants to know that too, and he might come visit me again soon.” Carter smiled across the table. “He’s my friend, right? I should try and help him out. And so I look around more carefully, trying to work out where I am and where the boy is. Because I’ve never been able to remember that one, have I?”
“No.”
“And then the most amazing thing happens.”
“Does it?”
“Really amazing. Do you know what it is?”
“You wake up,” Pete said.
Carter tipped his head back and laughed, then clapped his hands together as best he could. The chains rattled as he applauded. When he finished and spoke again, his voice was back to its normal volume, and his eyes had regained that familiar sparkle.
“You know me too well, Peter. Yeah, I wake up. A shame, though, isn’t it? Guess Miranda and Alan and you will have to keep crying for a while longer.”
