The Shadow Friend

by Alex North

  I wanted to believe it.

  But while I didn’t like to admit it, I had been scared just now. I could tell myself there had been no point pursuing the man – that the woods were so dense and impenetrable I would likely have lost him quickly – but however true that might be, I knew it was not a calculation I had made at the time.

  No, the sight of him had terrified me.

  And I had stood there – frozen – a teenager again.

  A sudden clattering noise behind me now made me start. But the sound brought a familiar echo of memory from my childhood. It was just the letter box. I turned around to see the day’s post had arrived.

  I walked down the hall and picked up the spread of letters. More bills and circulars. I placed them on the side with the others, but then thought better of it. They were obviously trivial and irrelevant in the grand scheme of things, but they’d have to be gone through at some point, and a mundane distraction might help right now. Something to ground me in the real world again. So I gathered up the whole pile, took it through to the front room, and sat down on the settee.

  My mother was resolutely old-school and was still getting paper copies of everything. There were the standard utility bills, which I tore open and scanned without interest, along with a bank statement that I decided to leave alone for the moment. There were takeaway menus, and flyers for local gardening and guttering firms.

  And then there was a phone bill.

  I stared at that for a few seconds after I opened it. It was a quarterly bill for the landline, and it was three sheets thick. My gaze moved down the itemized list of numbers – all of them calls my mother had made – and then moved to the next sheet, and then the last.

  Going back close to two months, I found my mobile number. The date seemed like such a long time ago. What had we talked about? I realized I couldn’t remember. Nothing, probably – just a standard catch-up, which I’d doubtless hurried to the end of without thinking. It had always been my mother who phoned me, and time seemed to pass between those infrequent calls without me ever feeling a need to make contact myself.

  A wave of sadness washed over me at that.

  I don’t care if you ever think about me at all.

  I’ll think about you instead.

  Because that was what parents did, wasn’t it? They wanted to protect their children. They wanted the best lives possible for them. And they expected nothing in return for that. But it was clear from the volume of numbers listed here that my mother had felt the need to talk to someone, and I felt guilty now that it had not been me. That I had not thought about her more than I had.

  Who had she spoken to instead?

  I turned back to the first sheet. There were several calls over the last month to what I recognized as Sally’s phone, along with a few other numbers that meant nothing to me. One in particular stood out from the amount of contact. It was a mobile number, and while my mother hadn’t called it every day, it had been close enough. The conversations varied in length and had taken place at irregular times, often in the middle of the night. I had no idea who it was, but then, why would I? I knew so little about my mother’s life.

  Perhaps it wasn’t quite too late to change that.

  I took out my own mobile and dialled the number. It rang for an age before cutting to an anonymous, robotic voicemail that invited me to leave a message. I didn’t. Instead, I killed the call and then tried again a minute later. Maybe whoever the number belonged to just hadn’t been able to get to the phone.

  This time, it didn’t ring at all. It just bleeped emptily.

  I ended the call and then frowned at my mobile. Whoever was on the other end of the line had decided they didn’t want to answer and had turned their phone off. There didn’t seem to be any other way of interpreting the situation, but I also couldn’t think what to make of it.

  I sat there for a moment, confused.

  And then my mobile rang – a sudden shock of noise and vibration in my hand. I looked down at the screen, expecting to see the same number there, but the call was from Sally.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s your mother,’ she told me. ‘She’s awake. She’s asking for you.’

  I drove too quickly to the hospice. There had been no obvious urgency in what Sally had told me – no sense that I needed to get here before it was too late – but even so. My mother was awake and asking for me, and I was familiar enough with her sleeping patterns that I didn’t want to miss this window to talk. After years of mostly silence between us, it felt like there was so much I wanted to ask.

  After parking up, I went inside and found Sally waiting for me at the desk. I signed in, and then we walked quickly.

  ‘Is she still awake?’ I said.

  ‘She was a minute ago.’

  ‘What did she want to talk to me about?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Sally looked at me sympathetically. ‘I wouldn’t get your hopes up. She was asking for you, but she still seemed confused to me.’

  When we reached the room, Sally waited in the corridor. I pushed the door open slowly and saw my mother lying in the bed. She seemed smaller and weaker than yesterday, her body fading by the hour now, but her eyes were open. She looked at me as I gently closed the door, and then her gaze followed me across the room as I moved to the seat by the bed.

  ‘Hi, Mum.’

  ‘Hello, Paul.’

  ‘Sally said there was something you wanted to tell me?’

  She frowned. ‘Who’s Sally?’

  The woman who’s been your care worker for months, I thought.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said.

  ‘Is she your girlfriend?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘The one you won’t let me meet yet?’

  My mother smiled and looked at the ceiling. I said nothing. It was Jenny she was talking about – that was when and where she was right now.

  ‘You’ll have to ask your father.’

  My father, who had been dead for six years. Even in life, I wouldn’t have wanted to ask him anything, and for a moment I couldn’t work out what my mother meant.

  She looked at me and smiled encouragingly, willing me on to understand.

  ‘For the envelopes, Paul. You know he’s the one who keeps things like that. You’ll need two, won’t you? And stamps, of course.’

  Then I understood where she was. It was the day I’d showed her the magazine that Jenny gave me, with the details of the short story competition on the back. It might have been free to enter, but that didn’t mean I had everything I needed. Envelopes and stamps. I still remembered the sick feeling in my stomach at the prospect of asking my father for help, along with the dismissive look on his face when I had, after he’d made me explain what I wanted them for.

  ‘Not that they’ll be sending your story back.’ My mother tutted to herself. ‘Not if they know what’s good for them, at any rate.’

  ‘I don’t think it was very good, Mum.’

  ‘Rubbish. I snuck into your room, you see, and read it when you were at school. The one about the man walking around the streets where he grew up? I thought it was brilliant.’

  Then she frowned to herself.

  ‘I mean, I know I shouldn’t have done that. But you never show me anything, Paul. I’m sorry.’

  I swallowed. At the time, it would have mortified me to know she’d done that, but it all felt so distant now that it scarcely seemed to matter.

  ‘That’s okay, Mum.’

  She looked back at the ceiling again and closed her eyes. I waited, unsure what to do or say. I’d sped here because she was awake and there had been something she wanted to tell me. Maybe it was foolish, but after what had happened at the house today, I’d imagined it might be connected to that: the knocks at the door; the man I’d seen in the woods.

  But it was only this.

  ‘Mum, do you remember me telling you I went in the attic?’

  For a moment, there was no response. Then she sighed.


  ‘They’re all the same.’

  ‘The … cases?’

  ‘No.’ Her eyes still closed, she smiled as though she was quietly pleased about something. ‘They’re all the same. That’s why he won’t find it.’

  ‘Who? And what is it he won’t find?’

  But she just shook her head. It seemed that whoever he was, and whatever she was hiding from him, she was determined to keep it a secret from me as well. Well, I could search through the newspapers again later. I forced down the frustration I felt and tried a different angle.

  ‘Have you … seen anybody in the woods?’

  Again, she didn’t reply immediately. But the smile disappeared, and then, a few seconds later, her eyes suddenly opened and she looked at me in alarm.

  ‘He’s in the woods, Paul!’

  ‘It’s okay, Mum.’

  ‘He’s in the woods. He’s there right now!’

  I reached out and calmly smoothed the edge of the cover down over the corner of the bed. It felt like a futile attempt to soothe her, but after a moment her body seemed to relax a little.

  ‘Who is in the woods, Mum?’

  ‘I don’t want to say that horrible boy’s name.’ She shook her head again and closed her eyes. ‘Not after what he did. Not after all the pain he’s caused over the years.’

  I hesitated.

  ‘You saw Charlie in the woods?’

  She nodded absently. ‘Flickering in the trees.’

  The image disturbed me and I moved my hand away from the bed. My mother was seeing ghosts now. But I told myself she had likely been seeing them for months.

  It didn’t mean they were real.

  ‘Oh,’ she said suddenly. ‘I remember.’

  ‘Remember what?’

  ‘What I needed to tell you.’

  Her eyes remained closed, and her voice was fainter now. She was drifting off. The window was closing, and I didn’t know how many more there would be.

  I leaned closer again.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m so proud of you.’

  She smiled slightly. As she drifted back off to sleep, her mind was moving between times, and I knew where she was now. Standing on a railway platform with her son, waiting for him to leave, knowing he would not return. Throwing him out into the world without a thought for herself.

  Silence in the room for a moment.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said quietly.

  ‘You’re going to be a writer, I think.’

  Even though her voice was barely there now, she said it with such conviction that I was unable to reply. Instead, I just sat there, watching the covers rising and falling almost imperceptibly with every small breath she took. And then, eventually, I found the words.

  ‘I love you,’ I said.

  But my mother was asleep again by then.

  I kissed her gently on the forehead and then sat with her for a time.

  I’m so proud of you.

  Walking outside again later, I thought about those words. They should have brought some comfort, but I knew it hadn’t really been me she was talking to – or at least, not me now. There was nothing about my present-day life for anybody to be proud of, and whatever there might have been back then had been squandered since. While my mother had been happy that I was escaping from Gritten and what happened here, the reality was that I never had. Not really. The shadow had always been there.

  You’re going to be a writer.

  What a joke. A part of me was glad her mind had retreated to a time and place where she could still believe I might amount to something.

  I pushed open the doors to the hospice, and then squinted as I stepped out into the bright afternoon sun. I walked over to my car, the gravel crunching under my feet, and because of the light and the heat and the emotions churning inside me, it was only when I reached it that I realized another vehicle was parked beside it now, and that a woman was leaning against it with her arms folded, watching me.

  She looked to be in her late thirties, with long brown hair, tied back in a ponytail. She was not dressed for the weather – dark jeans and a long black coat – but from the look on her face, the temperature was the least of her worries.

  She leaned away from the car.

  ‘Paul Adams?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She nodded to herself, as though I was yet another disappointment in a long line of them.

  ‘Detective Amanda Beck,’ she said. ‘Is there a bar around here, Paul? I don’t know about you, but I could really do with a drink.’

  20

  Paul didn’t drive far.

  A few minutes after they’d left the hospital grounds, he indicated and pulled into a car park. Amanda drove in and parked up behind, then followed him into the pub at the side. Given the general state of Gritten, she was worried it would be a pit, but it turned out to be nice enough: dark wood and polished brass, with enough screens to suggest it would be lively later, but quiet for the moment. Most importantly of all right now, of course, it had a bar.

  I need a drink.

  Amanda imagined she had said that numerous times in her life, usually after what had been, in hindsight, a comparatively mild day at work. Today it was genuinely true. The near encounter back at Billy Roberts’s house had caused her fight-or-flight mechanism to kick in, and after the police and ambulance arrived, the adrenaline had begun to settle listlessly in her system like sludge. Adrenaline was a poison; if you didn’t use it up, it used you instead. She had been shivering as she talked to the lead detective, a man named Graham Dwyer, and her hands were still trembling a little even now.

  The barmaid fetched a beer for Paul automatically. Mindful of the drink-driving limit, Amanda ordered a single vodka and coke along with a separate single shot. She downed the latter in one as soon as it arrived. Paul started to get his wallet out, but she waved him away, her throat burning.

  ‘On me.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Once the order was settled, she looked around and then led him to a table to one side, as far away from the handful of other customers as possible. As they sat down, she resisted the urge to down the second drink too. Instead, she just took a sip, closing her eyes and rolling the liquid around her mouth.

  ‘Is this about this morning?’ Paul said.

  Amanda swallowed slowly and opened her eyes.

  ‘This morning?’

  ‘The marks on my mother’s door,’ Paul said. ‘An officer came to the house. Holder, I think his name was. He took photos, but he didn’t seem that interested.’

  Amanda certainly was.

  ‘What kind of marks?’

  ‘Someone knocked on the door in the night and left fist prints on the wood. The officer thought it was probably just a prank.’

  ‘That’s a weird kind of prank.’

  ‘Yeah, I thought so.’

  He stared back at her for a moment, as though he wanted to explain a little more but wasn’t sure how. Then he shook his head.

  ‘But you’re not here because of that.’

  ‘No.’ Amanda got out her ID and showed him. ‘I’m not with the Gritten Police Department. I’m from a place called Featherbank.’

  She watched his reaction to that closely. If Paul Adams was behind the CC666 account, the place name would surely be familiar to him. But his face didn’t show a flicker of recognition.

  She put the ID away. ‘I’m here because of a crime that occurred there last weekend. A murder. Two boys killed one of their classmates.’

  That got a reaction. Paul closed his eyes and began rubbing his forehead with his fingertips. Again, she watched him. He would be forty or so now, she estimated, but had the kind of appealing face she imagined under normal circumstances could pass for much younger. Right now, he seemed weighed down by the world, every single one of those years etched on his features. It seemed like she’d just added more.

  ‘Another one,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Another?’

  ‘There have been two others over th
e years. At least.’

  Shit. Amanda took out her phone. ‘Do you have the names?’

  She typed the details he gave her into her notes app. She would need to look into those later. Was it possible CC666 was involved there too?

  ‘I didn’t know about those,’ she admitted.

  ‘I only found out about them yesterday. Until then, I had no idea. I assumed all that … that it had been forgotten about.’

  ‘Not online.’

  He raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Yeah, I saw. I don’t understand it.’

  ‘Well, you know …’ Amanda shrugged, and dropped her next reference as casually as possible. ‘People are always interested in the unsolved and the unknown.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘But it wasn’t unsolved.’

  ‘No, that’s true.’ If he had ever heard of the forum before, he was a good actor. She made a calculation. ‘That’s actually the name of a website. The Unsolved and The Unknown. You ever heard of it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Me neither until a few days ago. The thing is, the boys in Featherbank were both members on there. They were obsessed with the Charlie Crabtree case. And there was another user who seemed to be encouraging them. This person knew a lot about what happened here in Gritten.’

  ‘Yeah, I noticed a lot of people do.’

  ‘This particular one was implying they were Charlie.’

  That worked like a magic spell. For a moment, Paul’s whole body was totally still. Then an expression of disbelief appeared on his face: a mixture of disgust and confusion and grief. Nobody was that good an actor, Amanda decided. Whatever else Paul Adams might be, and whatever troubles were going on in his life, she was sure he wasn’t behind the CC666 account.

  Which was almost disappointing.

  ‘Why would anyone do that?’ he said.

  ‘I don’t know.’ She hesitated. ‘I mean, do you think it’s possible they were telling the truth?’

  ‘No. Charlie’s dead.’