by Steve Mosby
I opened the drawer in my bedside table, then lifted the pile of papers there, searching out the photograph at the bottom. I took it out and stared at it.
Lise and me. I’d taken it myself, holding the camera out at arm’s length, but I couldn’t remember the exact circumstances. We’d been on holiday, obviously, but not the one on which she’d drowned. It was strange: I just couldn’t remember any more. There was a whole period of life on either side of this still image, and I just couldn’t recall it. I didn’t even know what I’d been thinking when I pressed the button and froze this single moment in time.
‘Are you not ready?’ Sasha shouted up.
‘I’m ready.’
I put the photograph back in the drawer, the other stuff on top of it. So much wonderful stuff – all the cards and notes from Sasha especially. I had loved Lise once; I knew that. But that was a long time ago. The photograph, recording a moment that must have been lovely at the time, went back to the bottom of the drawer, hidden away now by all the other stuff that I’d piled on top of it.
Exactly where it belonged.
The sides of the road were lined with thick trees, the branches above ending in luscious bunches of leaves, while the drive itself was powdery and dry but had the carefully raked appearance of stones in a Zen garden. The car’s tyres pushed it gently down, making the compacting noise of a boot pressed slowly into snow. There was no sign of the fences behind the trees, or the fields and groves of apple trees beyond, but the sun flickered across the road, the foliage scattering the light like handfuls of bright leaves. We could have been driving through an idyllic forest – the only traffic for miles – rather than into a secure compound.
It was a world away from the drab road and dirty clearing of Cane Hill. There were certainly far worse places that David Groves could have ended up.
Sasha took the car round a corner. Fields opened up to the sides, far and wide, and the main building revealed itself up ahead. We pulled up in the parking area close to the entrance.
‘Am I waiting here?’ Sasha said.
‘Do you mind?’
‘I have absolutely no desire to go in there.’ She smiled. ‘So long as we get the rest of the week together.’
‘We will, don’t worry.’
Inside, the floor of the reception was tiled – black and white squares, alternating, like a chess board – and polished so well that a mirror image of myself hung down below me as I approached the front desk. I might have been walking into a prestigious hotel, except that the young woman behind the desk was dressed in a pale-blue nurse’s uniform, and there was only a single other door in the whole area. It was to the left of the desk, with an electronic keypad on the wall beside it.
‘Hello,’ I said.
The woman gave me the professional smile.
‘Detective Nelson?’
‘That’s right.’ I showed her my badge for identification. ‘I have an appointment. I’m sorry. I’m a little early, I know.’
‘It’s fine. Bear with me, please.’
She smiled again, but checked the identification carefully, then made a brief phone call.
‘He’ll be right through,’ she told me.
‘Thank you.’
There was nowhere to sit, so I paced back and forth a little, but I didn’t have long to wait. It was barely a minute before the secure door buzzed open and a man stepped through. He was short and, despite his obvious youth, dressed in an old-fashioned way: suit, shirt and waistcoat beneath a long white coat.
‘Dr Gallagher?’
He shook my hand.
‘Detective Nelson. Good to see you. Please follow me through.’
After a short trip through corridors that were as plush as the reception, he ushered me into a large office, closing the door behind us. The walls were lined with bookshelves, most of the titles on them academic: big, thick books. I scanned them, a small number of them bringing back vague memories from my own studies. The air smelled of wood and varnish, with an undercurrent of flowers.
‘Have a seat.’
He gestured to a comfortable chair by his desk. When I sat down, Gallagher moved to the other side and took his own. The window behind him was bright white in the sun, making the doctor slightly hard to make out, almost silhouetted against it.
‘Thank you for seeing me,’ I said.
‘Not at all. I’m grateful, to be honest; I know you’ve come a long way. But I’m sorry, you’re going to be disappointed.’
I felt a little deflated, although not entirely surprised.
‘I can’t see him?’
‘No. I don’t think that would be wise today.’
‘Okay.’ I nodded. ‘Well, I knew it might not happen. And I don’t want to do anything that’s going to ... distress him.’
‘David has suffered a break from reality. He still believes that he committed suicide two years ago, but that ultimately he passed a test God set for him. He believes he’s in Heaven now. And he’s happy. I’m reluctant to disturb that for the moment.’
I reached into my coat pocket, retrieving the piece of paper I’d brought with me, then unfolded it carefully on the desk between us. I’d cut it out from a newspaper a week ago. It detailed how Paul Carlisle had been charged in connection with the abduction of numerous children, and the possible murder of five. While many of his victims had not been identified and traced, early indications suggested Carlisle was not intending to contest the charges so far.
‘David was a good man,’ I said. ‘A good policeman. His expartner told me that if he ever came face to face with the people who’d abducted his son, he wouldn’t have taken revenge. He’d have arrested them.’
I passed the news clipping over.
‘And I thought that if at some point he does get better, he might like to know that’s what happened.’
Gallagher read it through.
‘May I keep this?’ he said. When I nodded, he folded the clipping away and placed it in the pocket of his suit jacket. ‘It wouldn’t be a good thing for him to see right now, I don’t think. But maybe one day.’
‘You say he’s not well today?’
‘That’s one way of looking at it. Another is that he’s very well indeed, given what’s happened to him.’ Gallagher stood up and moved over to the window, peering out. ‘Come over here and look.’
I got up and joined him.
The window of his office looked out over the rear garden: a large, gently sloping expanse of grass, dotted with bright yellow dandelion stars and surrounded by apple trees. There were orderlies wandering around, here and there, their white uniforms blindingly bright in the sun. There were also patients, some meandering over the grass, with an orderly keeping pace beside them, others sitting all but alone on the handful of benches.
I scanned the grounds for a moment, until finally I saw him. David Groves was sitting alone, cross-legged on the ground, surrounded by objects, although the distance made it difficult to work out what they were and what he was doing with them. Even from here, though, it was obvious that he was talking to himself. An orderly was stationed casually nearby – but a little distance behind Groves, and not close enough to be part of the conversation.
‘What’s he doing?’ I said.
Gallagher smiled sadly.
‘He’s playing with his son.’
‘Catch!’
Jamie giggled as he brought his hands together, and caught the stuffed Pooh by accident rather than real design. But he caught it all the same, and that counted, so he shrieked with delight.
Hello, Pooh Bear. He gave the top of the bear’s head a smacking kiss.
Groves felt an indescribable burst of love. Jamie was exactly as he remembered him. With the long blond hair that didn’t quite brush his tiny shoulders, but curled up as though afraid to touch them. With the shark T-shirt and jeans, and the little red mark on his cheek that never seemed to get better or worse. With his love of life and complete lack of fear, and the way he ran about this field at ful
l tilt – at a speed that was almost frightening – with his arms out to the sides like an aeroplane. With the way he spotted a butterfly and squatted slightly, hands on knees, and stared at it in wonder – at everything in wonder, in fact, because so much of the world was new to him. Because there was so much to be discovered.
Again, Daddy, again!
He passed Groves the stuffed toy. He was so excited that the words ran together:
Letsdothatagain!
And so they did.
Of course they did.
There was so much lost time to make up for. Against the backdrop of a perfect bright green field, they played with his toys, over and over, in whatever way he wanted. It was a sunny day. The breeze ruffled Jamie’s hair, but if he was at all cold, he never mentioned it. He was too busy. Too delighted. And there was nothing else Groves would rather be doing. He couldn’t think of anything that would be more lovely than this.
Can I give you a cuddle?
‘Yes,’ Groves said. ‘Of course you can.’
Jamie ran up and pressed himself against him. Groves hugged him back, closing his eyes, and then his son leaned away and yawned.
Are you happy now, Daddy?
‘Yes,’ Groves said. ‘I couldn’t be happier. Sleepy, little man?’
Yes, Daddy.
‘You can have a nap if you want.’
Okay.
Jamie lay down on the grass, and immediately rolled on to his side. Hands clasped in front of his slightly open mouth; feet crossed at the ankles; soft blond hair swept back behind his ear. The peace of him stunned Groves. A little boy drifting off to sleep. Everything else was worthwhile; the day had been won.
And so many days to come, here in Heaven, where they had finally been reunited.
Endless possibilities.
Just for a second, it was like the sun went behind a cloud, and when Groves looked down at his son, he thought he could see something else. As though Jamie was flickering slightly. Not quite there.
But then he concentrated, and he was back.
Jamie yawned again. Can I have a story, please?
‘Yes.’
Of course he could have a story. We’re all allowed stories, Groves thought. He didn’t even need a book to read from. Having read it so many times, he could do it from memory, and he did so now, as the breeze gently moved the grass.
Over time, Jamie grew still, slumbering peacefully, but Groves finished anyway. A story about how we leave things behind as time passes, but how they’re always there, waiting for us to come back to them, or them to us, whenever we care to remember.
Also by Steve Mosby
The Third Person
The Cutting Crew
The 50/50 Killer
Cry For Help
Still Bleeding
Black Flowers
Dark Room
The Nightmare Place
THE RECKONING ON CANE HILL
Pegasus Books, Ltd.
148 West 37th Street, 13th Floor
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2016 by Steve Mosby
First Pegasus Books hardcover edition September 2016
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or
in part without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who
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or electronic publication; nor may any part of this book be reproduced, stored in
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ISBN: 978-1-68177-208-0
ISBN: 978-1-67177-267-0 (e-book)
Distributed by W. W. N orton & Company, Inc.
