The little guy—what’s his name, Emmanuel?—well, he’s beside himself. He’s got his face buried in his granny’s cardigan, and she’s hugging him. Six years old, and he’s just watched Sam point a gun at the head of someone he loves. He’ll probably have screaming nightmares for the rest of his life. Sam knows exactly what that feels like. Sorry, sorry, sorry.
Oh, how he loved his own grandmother. She was a bit like this Mutesi in that she was never scared of anyone—though even she couldn’t win against Robert. She lived in the middle cottage of a row of five. She called it her doll’s house: just two rooms on the ground floor, a staircase so steep it was almost a ladder, two rooms upstairs. Apparently it was built in the time of the Elizabethans—who, Sam used to think, were some kind of tribe with blue war paint on their faces.
Granny used to collect him in the afternoons after primary school and take him home for tea. It was always the same: Amir the grey Persian cat would be snoozing on the grey Persian rug by the fire. Radio 4 would be on, droning voices. The cottage smelled of incense sticks, and the sofa was covered in cushions Granny brought back from her holidays in India. Sam’s feet stuck out straight when he sat on it because he was a little runt at seven or eight years old. Granny had a map of the world in a frame on the wall, and a carved coffee table from her travels. They used to pull it up close to the sofa. Earl Grey for her, orange squash for Sam, and scones and jam if he was lucky.
She didn’t behave much like his friends’ grandmothers. She was lean like Dad, with hair the colour of storm clouds. She wore it in a plait that hung all the way to her waist. She used to ride Sundance Kid, her old piebald horse, until Sundance hurt his back and had to retire. After that he lived the life of Riley, just mooching around in his field by the spinney while people brought him apples and other goodies. The spinney was a small wood—though it seemed like a giant forest to Sam when he was little—and one of Dad’s favourite places on the farm. It was part of a network of ancient woodland, he said: oak and ash and hazel and field maple, home to a host of species.
One afternoon, Granny showed Sam a photograph in a silver frame.
‘Found this down the back of my desk. D’you recognise any of this horrible mob?’ she asked, as she poured her tea.
‘Yep,’ he mumbled, shoving a massive piece of scone into his mouth. ‘Mum and Dad getting married.’
There was a wedding photo on the dresser back home, just his parents cutting a cake. This picture of Granny’s showed a big group. Mum stood out a mile in her white dress, her hair a bird’s nest of curls, flowers everywhere. Dad looked even thinner back then, with high cheekbones and his sandy hair really short. Both of them were laughing. Mum’s dimples were very dimply.
‘There’s Aunt Monique. Yeuch!’ He made a face at Mum’s gruesome sister. ‘And there’s you.’
‘Mm, yours truly. And Grandpa John.’ Granny was looking at a man with a beard and epic eyebrows, like a chimneysweep’s brushes. ‘The old man got quite emotional that day.’
Sam couldn’t remember meeting either of his grandfathers. His mother’s father died quite young after having lots of small strokes, and then bigger ones, and ending up sitting in a chair in an old people’s home, even though he wasn’t that old. Sam didn’t know what a stroke was, but he knew his mother was scared of them. Then there was Grandpa John, with the beard. Like Sam, he was born in Tyndale farmhouse. He farmed the land, and so did Sam’s dad, and so would Sam one day. He had no doubt at all about that.
Granny was still talking, naming all the aunts and uncles and cousins in the photo. Boring. It was old history, like the Elizabethans.
‘You’re wearing a ginormous hat,’ he said, interrupting her.
‘I was trying to be conventional. Your dad told me I wasn’t to make an exhibition of myself on his wedding day. Then he said my hat was outrageous and constituted making an exhibition of myself. Ha! There’s no pleasing some people.’
‘You look much younger in the photo.’
She put on her thoughtful face, chewing one side of her mouth.
‘Well, it’s all relative. I was … let’s see … I would have been about two hundred back then.’
He giggled, spitting crumbs. Then he spotted someone standing among the bridesmaids.
‘Is that Robert?’
‘Mm.’
‘Why’s Robert there?’ He felt as though the man had jumped onto the photograph like a flea.
One of Granny’s eyebrows went up. ‘Lacey was best man.’
‘No, he wasn’t! Dad was the best man.’
‘No—well, yes. Angus is of course the best man in the world, but being best man at a wedding is a job. He’s the groom’s sidekick on the day, making sure he’s all scrubbed up and doesn’t leg it out of the back door of the church while the bride’s shimmying in the front. And if the groom doesn’t show up, the best man is supposed to marry the bride instead.’
Sam made a gagging noise, and Granny joined in.
‘Nasty thought, isn’t it? Never understood why your father’s so fond of the man. They met at university.’ She was slotting the picture back among the others on her mantelpiece. ‘Handsome brute, I’ll give him that. He’s a bit like a toothpaste advert—all teeth and smiles. By Jove, he can turn on the charm. The bridesmaids were scrapping over him.’
Sam didn’t like Robert. He didn’t want him in his parents’ wedding photo. He had no idea why bridesmaids would scrap over him.
‘I’m dad’s best friend.’
‘You certainly are! But you weren’t born back then. You weren’t even a twinkle in your father’s eye.’
It was years before he worked out that she’d said something a bit naughty. He was still fretting about Robert being Dad’s best man.
‘I hear Lacey’s turned up in this neighbourhood,’ mused Granny, as she sipped her tea. ‘Like a bad penny.’
‘His wife was mean to him.’
‘Connie? Is that what he’s saying? Hm.’ He saw her mouth tighten. There were little creases all around it.
‘They got divorced.’
‘There’s a surprise.’
Sam was enjoying her disapproval. ‘He’s cooking in Jackson’s Lodge. Mum looks after the garden. She says Jackson’s is really posh and she’d like to have dinner there on her birthday.’
‘I hope she gets her wish.’
‘Robert’s been showing her how to decorate cakes.’
‘Has he now?’ Those lines again, and the empty voice adults used when they had something they wanted to say but knew they mustn’t.
‘He says I’m spoiled.’
Her teacup smacked down onto its saucer with a sharp rattle.
‘You’re not spoiled, Sammy! You’re loved. Loved, loved, loved. There’s a world of difference.’
He imitated Robert’s deep voice. ‘D’you ever stop talking, little squirt?’
Robert used to say it with a grin that showed those white teeth, head tilted to one side as though he was being playful and jolly. He’d tickle Sam under the arms while he asked whether he ever stopped talking. You laugh when you’re being tickled. You can’t help it—you have to laugh, just like you have to sneeze when you breathe in dust from the grain dryer. It doesn’t mean you’re happy. Sam was never happy when Robert tickled him; he wanted the man to leave him alone. He felt angry about him being the best man before Sam was even a twinkle in Dad’s eye. He felt hot and fidgety just thinking about it.
‘He says I’ve got ADHD because I never keep still.’
‘He should keep his opinions to himself. Don’t let anyone stick labels on you, Sammy. Hey, grubby little urchin—stop wiping jam on your school trousers. Harriet will have my guts for garters.’
She was always saying Harriet would have her guts for garters. Sam didn’t think his mum would do that. She used to tell her friends that she had the best mother-in-law in the world.
‘Robert did the writing on my birthday cake,’ he said. ‘Mum says he’s got steady hands.’
‘Steady hands, eh?’
Amir stood up and stretched himself like a croquet hoop, his tail all fluffed out along his back. He had a squashed face as though he’d just run into a wall. Sam slid down from the sofa to lie on the rug by the fire, curling himself around Amir.
‘Steady hands,’ repeated Granny. ‘Wow. Well, I’m surprised Robert Lacey’s got time to be decorating cakes with his steady hands, being such an important chef and all. Now, where’s your homework? Your mum says I have to be the enforcer.’
He had a maths sheet to finish, and a reading book, but he had no intention of doing either of them. Homework was torture. Last year, his parents had tackled his class teacher about how he struggled to read and write. He was in the room at the time, ‘reading quietly’ in a corner—which meant holding up a book and flapping his ears.
Mrs Poulson said he was educationally challenged. It didn’t go down well.
‘You mean slow?’ asked Dad.
‘I never use that word.’
‘You’ve just implied it, and you’re wrong. Sam grasps new concepts faster than most adults. He’s always questioning what he sees in the world around him. He’s an excellent shot—that takes concentration. He can spot what’s going on with a broken bit of machinery just by looking at it. He’s competent with stock. If I’m in a jam with something on the farm I know I can call on him for help. There’s nothing wrong with his cognitive abilities.’
‘Could he be dyslexic?’ asked Mum.
Mrs Poulson wasn’t having a bar of it. She didn’t like Sam, and the feeling was mutual.
‘Dyslexia is sometimes used an excuse for laziness and poor time management. Sam would have an easier life if he would only sit still. He needs to stop losing things, take more care with his written work and get his head out of the clouds.’
So his parents researched dyslexia, using the library and the old dial-up internet that took hours. They contacted the Dyslexia Institute. Thanks to their determination Sam now had a special teacher once a week and extra time in exams. His parents were his champions.
‘I haven’t got any homework,’ he told Granny. ‘I did it all at break time.’
‘Oh yeah? Was I born yesterday?’
He closed his eyes and pretended to snore. Granny was laughing as she carried the tray away. After a while he heard the clink of glass and knew she was pouring herself a brandy from her decanter. It was warm by the fire, and it had been a long day at school. He didn’t see the point of school. Amir’s purring was peaceful, especially when he rubbed his squashed nose against Sam’s cheek. He was as soft as a cloud. Sam could see the point of Amir.
If being happy and feeling loved meant you were spoiled, maybe he was spoiled. But not for much longer.
Eliza
One of the facilitators during the gruelling weeks of negotiation training was an ex-FBI negotiator called Ethan. He pretended to be a bookish type, with his round-rimmed glasses and wispy beard, but in a past life he’d been a fighter pilot. His trademark obsession was his insistence that negotiation and flying had a lot in common.
‘You have to be completely attuned to ten things at once,’ he told them. ‘Monitor data in three dimensions, control movement across three different axes. At the same time, you’re listening for the engine note, watching for subtle changes, constantly checking instruments, coaxing twitchy, unforgiving controls that could flip out any moment. It’s pitch-black, you’re flying down a canyon at the speed of sound. One mistake and you’re embedded in the cliffs for eternity.’ He scratched his nose, looking around the group. ‘You don’t get a parachute.’
The remark wasn’t very funny, but it earned a murmur of laughter.
‘Word of advice,’ added Ethan. ‘Never look down. Whatever you do, don’t ever look down.’
He had a point. She nips into the kitchen, makes a mug of coffee. Then she leans her elbows on the crazed paintwork of the windowsill, squinting towards Tuckbox. An image of those frightened children keeps barging into her mind. Don’t look down.
‘Got something for you,’ says Ashwin, returning from a briefing meeting. ‘CCTV footage from two points shows our guy heading down Wilton Street towards Tuckbox at seven twenty-five.’ He lays two photos on the table, side by side. One is a grainy close-up of a face. ‘Fits descriptions of the attacker. Looks like an injury to his forehead, see?’
Paul holds the close-up to the light. ‘Yes, I see it.’
‘Here he is again, sprinting back in the direction he’s come from, two minutes later. And look at this—’ Ashwin lays down his last photo ‘—there’s our lad, on his way back towards the café for a second time. You can see the shotgun in his right hand. They’re running his image through facial recognition software. Nothing yet.’
‘Any idea where he fetched this gun from?’
‘Glad you asked. They’ve found a Land Rover down a side street, blocking the entrance to a furniture removal business. Ancient thing, apparently, but in good nick. Someone’s loved it. Driver’s door wide open. There’s a child’s pedal car on the back seat. Shotgun cartridges all over the floor, and a canvas gun case on the front seat.’
Eliza clicks the end of her biro, ready to make a note. ‘And the vehicle is registered to …?’
‘Samuel John Ballard. Born 1994, so the age fits. He’s got an address in Sussex: Tyndale Farm, Holdsworth. Local police are on their way out there. Samuel John Ballard could be sitting at home, minding his own business, totally unaware everything’s kicking off. He’s got no criminal record. Our attacker might have swiped his vehicle.’
‘Holdsworth? I drove through there a couple of years back,’ says Paul. ‘Stopped for a pub lunch with my ex. Sleepy little place, picture-postcard.’
Eliza picks up each of the photos in turn, trying to get a feeling for her man. There’s frantic urgency in the blurred figure, curls flying around his head. He seems so young. He’d look angelic if it weren’t for the shotgun in his right hand.
‘Who are you?’ she asks aloud. ‘And what do you want?’
Rosie
Nothing but damp and darkness, screaming muscles and the chanting of her thoughts. I didn’t even want to come to work! I didn’t want to be here.
The chill has penetrated right to her bones. Her bruised arms throb, her twisted spine feels as though it’s going to snap. And the icing on the cake? She’s coming down with a cold. It began as tightness in her throat last night but now it’s taken hold, raging through her sinuses and making it painful to swallow. She longs to stand up straight, to stretch her arms and rub her aching neck. She longs to be able to sneeze without terror. She keeps imagining a hot bath with Radox and a cup of Lemsip, or maybe red wine.
He’s still here, and it sounds as though he’s got some people trapped with him. Fuck, what’s he planning? She’d heard more screams and yells a little while ago. She risks letting the cupboard door swing open an inch and holds her face to the crack, peeking out. Only one light is on in the storeroom: a single bulb, not bright. Borrowed light gleams from the customers’ bathroom, through a high window. She can just make out the shapes of shelves and equipment, the industrial-sized fridge and freezers, the coat rack. The staff’s abandoned coats and jackets look like a line of people, all hanging from the hooks.
Her phone has been close by all this time, so tantalisingly available—just there, in the pocket of her denim jacket, which is hanging on those coat hooks. If she could only get hold of her phone she could let the police know she’s here. She could leave some kind of message for her daughter, in case they never see each other again. She might be able to text other people too, people she didn’t think she cared about. Especially her dad.
But the moment she comes out from her hiding place she’ll be risking her life. She keeps screwing herself up to make a break for it—I’ll go! I’ll run across there, grab the phone, be back in twenty seconds—then she remembers the terrible sound of gunfire and the weird animal shriek that followed it, and she shrinks back again.
<
br /> Robert’s been shot. She’s pretty sure of that. It might even be him she heard making that awful screeching sound. He can’t be dead, though. He can’t be. He has such energy, such effortless control of everything and everyone. Robert Lacey always comes out on top! He’ll have found some way to survive. He can talk his way out of any kind of trouble.
Her boss had been sitting on the edge of her bed at six o’clock this morning, with a towel around his waist and his hair wet, smacking her bottom as she lay face down—playfully, but not quite painlessly.
‘Ouch!’ she protested.
‘Come on, that didn’t hurt.’
‘It did.’
He rubbed the place where he’d slapped her. ‘Well, it shouldn’t have. You’re getting too skinny, Rosie! Nothing of you. I might as well be sleeping with a boy.’
She pulled the duvet over herself, and he laughed as he stood up. She heard him moving around the room. He told her he’d see her at work at seven-fifteen, and she’d better not be late again. Or else.
‘Or else what?’ she asked, turning over to look up at him. He was pulling on his jeans.
He leaned down, smiling; put his hands each side of her head on the pillow. She could smell his cologne as he kissed her.
‘That’s for me to know and you to find out.’
It was the very last thing he said to her.
Just a few hours ago. He’s got so much life in him. He can’t possibly be dead.
FIFTEEN
Neil
Water steams and gushes from the taps. He’s filled the basin and stripped down to his vest, squeezing frothing mounds of soap from the dispenser before using a towel as a flannel to scrub his face and arms and neck. That man’s blood. That dead man’s blood. Rusty streaks spiral into the vortex of the plughole. But no matter how hard he scrubs—how much soap he uses and how hot the water—he can’t get clean. He’ll never get clean. He’s just brought up everything he’s eaten in the past day, which isn’t much. It’s a relief to hide here in the bathroom, to have a break from watching that crazy lad charging around in circles. It’s a relief to take five minutes away from feeling like a snivelling coward.
The Secrets of Strangers Page 7
