How the Dead Speak

by Val McDermid

  ‘I have a long way to go but yes, it’s given me back some control. Now when I panic, I know what it is. I can recognise when it starts and I can head it off.’

  ‘I’m pleased for you.’

  She laid a hand on his. ‘And I’m not drinking. You got me over the worst and I’ve been solid.’ She heard a tremble in her voice and stopped.

  ‘I’ve missed you,’ he said.

  ‘I missed you too. I know you pushed me away for my own good, but it’s been the hardest thing I’ve ever had to deal with.’ Carol swallowed hard. ‘All that kept me together was the last things we said to each other after you were sentenced. You remember?’

  He closed his eyes momentarily. ‘Of course I remember. Three words apiece, three words we’d been running away from forever. I love you.’

  She felt a tremble in her chest. Could you really feel your heart contract? ‘I love you too. I want us to find a way to make that work.’

  He coughed, something in his throat like the lump in hers. ‘I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. I’ve had plenty of time—’

  ‘I thought you were supposed to be writing your book?’ Forcing herself to keep it light.

  ‘You can only write so many hours a day.’ He sighed. ‘Carol, we’ve spent years together, you and me, dealing with the worst things that human beings can do to each other. We’ve seen things nobody should have to see. We’ve confronted people who strain our belief in the possibility of redemption.’

  ‘We’ve saved lives, though. We’ve made some things better.’

  ‘No question. But since I’ve been in prison, I’ve started to find positive ways to make things better. I’ve been teaching meditation on the prison radio. Don’t laugh.’ He chuckled. ‘OK, my first class in helping dads to read to their kids didn’t go so well. But it’s starting from a positive place. And what about you? I hear you’re using your skills not to put criminals behind bars but to free people who shouldn’t be there in the first place. How’s that going?’

  She smiled. ‘Beginner’s luck. Looks like my first attempt might be working out.’

  ‘Feels good, doesn’t it?’

  ‘I’ve not had much time to enjoy the experience.’ She resisted the impulse to stroke his face. ‘I was too busy worrying about you.’

  ‘I’m tougher than I look. You should know that. But here’s the thing.’ He was speaking more slowly now. Tiring, she thought. But he wasn’t giving up. ‘I’ve been forced to figure out a new future for myself. Nobody is going to let me anywhere near a patient or an offender profile again. My past is done with and to be honest, I’m not altogether sorry. But that set me thinking about my future. And what I realised was we both spent so long staring into the darkness we forgot about the light. I’m tired of the darkness, Carol. I want to come out into daylight. And I think you’ve got to the same point as me at the same time as me.’

  As his words sank in, she recognised herself in them. He was right. She was so, so tired of pushing back against a tide that never seemed to turn. Tony had put into words what she’d known subconsciously for some time. ‘Hope,’ she said. ‘At the risk of sounding like some politician’s cheesy soundbite, I think we both need hope.’

  ‘You’re right. And in our own different ways, we’re starting to find it. Carol, I know it’s the best part of a year till they let me out, but when they do, do you think we might do this together? The hopeful thing? The positive thing?’

  ‘We should try, Tony. We really should try.’

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Like the song says, there are more questions than answers. And the more books I write, the more gaps in my knowledge I discover. Thankfully, there are people out there who willingly put their expertise at my disposal. Sometimes I ignore what they tell me for dramatic effect, but mostly I absorb it gratefully and play it back to my readers.

  This time, I’d like to thank the following: Ann Cheshire, whose insight and practice in working with people with PTSD gave me a way forward for Carol Jordan; Triona Adams, whose personal experience fleshed out my limited knowledge of convent life; Professor Lorna Dawson of the James Hutton Institute, whose knowledge of the earth beneath my feet means I’m always on solid ground; Mari Hannah for her insider knowledge of prison practicalities; Professor Niamh Nic Daied for the chromophores; James and Marilyn Runcie for the ice cream; Dame Professor Sue Black for the hairy soup; and Jackie Johnston, whose name I have taken in vain thanks to her generous support of the Punjabi Junction Social Enterprise.

  And then there are the people who always have my back; Jane Gregory and her team at David Higham Associates; Lucy Malagoni at Little Brown, Amy Hundley at Grove Atlantic and David Shelley at Hachette UK, whose editorial advice and support makes everything better; Anne O’Brien and Thalia Proctor for keeping everything in order; and Laura Sherlock who could, given half a chance, make the trains run on time.

  Last but definitely not least: Jo Sharp, for putting up beds, putting up blinds and putting up with me, always with a smile.