“OK, newspapers, then. Is she political? What does she think?”
“None of what you’re saying is really her. She works long hours. She likes cooking.” Matt glanced at Alex’s face. “She’s a normal person, Al. Skin and hair and teeth.”
Alex wondered how Claire could be a normal person if she didn’t watch telly or read books or newspapers, but she let it go. “And Patrick?”
“God knows. The history of the cello? Or interest rates or mortgages.” Matt gave a snort. “Consolidated debt obligations.”
“He plays the cello?”
“The fuck would I know?” Matt gave another snort. “But that’s the kind of thing he would do.”
“OK, thanks. That’s not particularly helpful. Are they small-talk people?”
“Stop being weird, Al. Don’t overplan it. You need to get in the left-hand lane here.”
Alex changed lanes. “I hope we can get to normal quickly. Skip past the polite stage. So it’s not all ‘You first with the kettle,’ and ‘After you, no, after you, please go first.’ ”
She thought of how Matt sounded when he was on the phone to Claire. He didn’t sound like he was in the polite phase.
“What are you thinking?” Matt said. “You look thinky.”
Alex paused. “I was just thinking what you and Claire are like together. Wondering how civil you are.”
“We’re civil—these days anyway.”
“Weren’t you always?”
“Er…We weren’t there, for a while. A few too many conversations when we called each other ‘a lazy fucking waste of space’ and ‘a psycho control-freak bitch.’ ”
“Who was right? The lazy waste of space or the psycho control freak?”
Matt laughed. “Neither. Both.” He tapped a tooth in a gesture of thought. “Neither and both.”
After two hours of driving, Alex pulled over in a service station car park. They grabbed a Burger King meal and swapped driving positions.
Burgers eaten and with Matt behind the wheel, Alex played with her phone. She scrolled through Facebook updates—mainly pictures of artfully twinkling Christmas trees. She stopped scrolling, feeling nauseous—probably from reading in a moving car, though she preferred to think it was from the over-facing images of saccharine Christmas perfection that her friends should really be too self-aware to post by now.
Alex’s phone buzzed. It was a text from Ruby.
Are you there yet? Has the Christmas magic begun?
Alex put her phone in the cup holder and closed her eyes. “So what should I expect to think of Patrick? Will I like him?”
“He’s all right.”
Alex kept her eyes closed. “Then what did you mean when you said to talk to him about mortgages and interest rates?”
“You know exactly what I meant. I meant he’s a bit of a straight cunt. Always wears a tie.”
“Lots of people wear ties. You wear a tie to work.”
“He wears a tie like he wants to. He’s harmless, really, just a bit full-on and blah.”
Alex’s phone buzzed in the cup holder.
Matt nodded at it. “You getting that?”
Alex sighed. “It’ll be Ruby.”
Eventually, she looked at the phone.
Do I take it from your silence you’re having far too much fun to respond?
“So.” Alex reached for her handbag at her feet. She put her phone in the bag and zipped the bag shut. “Patrick is blah.”
“It’s not his fault—he had kids young. That ages you.”
“What happened to you, then? You were thirty-one when you had Scarlett, and you still know your high score on Space Invaders.”
“That’s not young, it just feels young.” He glanced at Alex and back at the road. “And I mean having kids young ages you if you’re a certain type of person.”
“Do you mean he’s boring?”
“He just tries to do everything properly.”
Alex furrowed her brow. “And?”
“Well, there is just no such thing as properly, is there?”
Alex watched Matt tap his hand on the steering wheel in time to the baseline of the song. They had Matt’s phone playing music on random—it was a song Alex recognized but didn’t know the name of, a piano house track from the nineties.
“When did they get together?”
Matt tapped his hand on the wheel again. “I don’t know. They’ve been together a while.”
“Before us, or after us?”
“Before us. He was round there once when I went to pick up Scarlett.”
“Was that when you first noticed his ‘black hole of an anti-personality’?”
“Stop saying that! It’s just stuff Scarlett said that made me think that. He’s always on at her to shine her shoes—he wants her to do it every day after school. To teach her responsibility, apparently. He tells her off for bringing worms into the house, and tells her to stay out of the mud. What fun’s that for a kid?”
Alex didn’t know how to respond to that.
“And Patrick keeps trying to get Scarlett to drop Posey,” Matt continued. “Patrick thinks she’s too old. But, come on! She’s seven. Some days I wish I had a big arsey rabbit to kick about with.”
Alex felt her phone buzz in her bag at her feet. She ignored it.
“So what did you think when you first met Patrick? Was it strange to see Claire with someone else?”
Matt flicked a glance at Alex. “You know what? Let’s not talk about the past. It’s really unhelpful on a weekend like this.”
Alex nodded. “Fair enough. We’ll definitely need the satnav soon.” She opened the glove box. “I’ll get it set up.”
Matt tapped the side of his head: an it’s all in here gesture. “We don’t need it.”
“Have you gone full-on psychic these days? Got the Knowledge of all the roads in the whole country?”
Matt slowed down for a roundabout. “No. I’ve been here before.”
Alex felt herself frown. “When?”
“I came with Claire and Scarlett, when Scarlett was small. With Claire’s sister’s family.”
Alex sat forward in her chair; she felt the pressure of the seatbelt cut into her chest. “What?”
“I didn’t mention it?” Matt took his hand off the steering wheel and glanced at Alex. “Sorry.” He rubbed her knee. “Scarlett wouldn’t remember anything of it, of course. She was too young for it. She won’t be now.”
Alex stared at the road ahead. Something shifted in her stomach. It was like—something solid had been there till now. And now it had gone.
This changed everything.
“Hey, Al. You OK? You’ve gone weird.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you’d been here before?”
Matt stared straight ahead. “I didn’t realize I hadn’t told you. I didn’t deliberately not tell you, Al. Why would I do that?”
Alex took the thought in and rolled it around.
“Does it make a difference?” Matt asked. “That I’ve been here before?”
Alex rolled the thought around some more. She didn’t trust herself to articulate what she felt right now. She needed to process the thought before she could discuss it. She needed to label and categorize it.
So she didn’t answer Matt’s question, and Matt didn’t ask again.
9
Posey adjusted his seatbelt. “But I’m scared!”
Scarlett gave him a kind smile. “Don’t be scared.”
Scarlett and Posey had spent most of their three-hour journey to the holiday park whispering about how they were going to deal with Alex.
Mum turned round for the thousandth time. “Why don’t you put a film on?”
“We’re fine,” Scarlett said loudly. She turned to Posey. “Keep
your voice down. You’re not as good a whisperer as me.”
Mum turned back to face the front.
Patrick kept his eyes on the road. He always did the driving because Mum said he was a bad passenger. He kept jerking back in his seat and jamming his feet down. It was funny to watch, but Mum didn’t like it.
“Do we tell Alex we know?” Posey said. “About the scientist thing?”
“It’s safer to just treat her as normal,” Scarlett said. “And make sure we’re never alone with her.”
Posey nodded. His ears flapped against the car roof.
“We have to say hello to her,” Scarlett said. “But we just say we’re tired and go to bed early. And we have to give her that present today.”
“I don’t trust her.”
“Let’s just avoid her.” Scarlett still wasn’t sure Alex actually hurt rabbits for fun, but it was no problem avoiding her. It wasn’t like Alex was very interesting anyway.
Mum’s voice carried from the front. “Are you sure you don’t want a film on?”
“We’re fine,” Scarlett said in a normal voice.
“Remember what I said at home,” Mum said. “This is a human weekend. I do not want Posey to be around all the time this weekend.”
“Sorry, mate,” Scarlett whispered.
Posey folded his arms in a huff.
“Now,” Mum said. “There’s a petrol station coming up in a mile, if you need the loo?”
Scarlett realized she was feeling a bit fidgety. “OK.” It was funny how Mum knew she needed the loo before she did.
Posey looked out of the window. “I’ll be going back to China if that Alex keeps hanging around.”
“Posey, don’t say that.”
“For Christ’s sake, Scarlett! You are testing me, you know?” Mum turned round and made mean eyes. “So can you give it a rest with Posey, for five whole minutes? Otherwise I am seriously—seriously—going to explode.”
10
At the last petrol station before reaching the holiday park, Patrick pulled over to refuel.
He switched off the ignition and was relieved to see there was other activity at the petrol station. There had been no streetlamps for miles, giving the roads a spooky feel, even though it was only four o’clock. He was unsettled by anywhere too rural, which he blamed on watching Deliverance at too impressionable an age.
Patrick, Claire, and Scarlett got out of the car. Patrick couldn’t help frowning as he watched Scarlett open the other back door for “Posey.” Patrick didn’t like it when Scarlett whispered to the air—particularly because anytime anyone whispered, his default thought was that they must be talking about him. That thought was bad enough when it was about real people. He really objected to feeling self-conscious about what an imaginary creature might be saying about him.
“I’ll take Scarlett to the loo.” Claire slammed her car door. “Pick me up a Snickers when you’re in there.”
“OK.” Patrick put his hands in the hollow of his spine, stretching. He felt that teeny pain in his back that told him he’d been driving too long.
Patrick felt that Scarlett should be rid of that rabbit by now. Claire thought the rabbit was good for her, but Patrick was sick of having to get an extra chair out and play pretend. Sometimes he felt like Claire enjoyed the whole thing a little too much. Like Claire wanted an imaginary friend too.
Patrick refueled the car and idly watched a family of four get out of a red Corsa. This was three generations of family: two kids with their mum and grandma, he guessed. The mum looked cold in her denim jacket, hunching up in that way of trying to make herself smaller or the jacket bigger. She looked familiar, Patrick thought.
Car full, he put the nozzle back in the holster and went into the shop. He stood in the queue behind the denim-jacketed mum.
“Should we get more logs?” the woman shouted across the store. “If it’s cold we might rattle through them.”
“Whatever you think, love.” The grandma kept her attention on the two girls, who were, rather optimistically, looking at the contents of the ice-cream fridge.
Patrick studied the back of the mum’s ponytail. A few white hairs at her crown glowed bright against the rest of her dark hair. She was off-duty glamorous in her denim jacket and boots.
Yes, she definitely looked familiar.
Patrick wondered if she was someone he’d seen on TV. A reality star, or someone from a soap.
“What about firelighters, Nicola?” the grandma said to her daughter. “Have we got enough of those or shall I get more for luck?”
Nicola. Patrick furrowed his brow.
Nicola…Garcia. Of course!
Nicola turned round and shouted something back to her mother.
Patrick studied Nicola, peeling thirty years back from her face, imagining her with hoop earrings and fuller lips, lips bright-wet and reddened from those lollipops she’d always sucked on.
Nicola left the queue with an exasperated sigh, and went over to her mother.
“Pump four?”
Patrick blinked back to the present; he nodded at the petrol station attendant.
“Fifty-four forty-seven.”
A morose Christmas song from the seventies rang out on the radio: a song about being lonely this Christmas.
Patrick sensed a person step behind him. He just knew it was Nicola.
Patrick waved her ahead. “You go ahead. I may get something else.”
“That’s kind.” Nicola paid for her petrol.
Patrick picked up some sugar-free gum. “And this,” he said to the attendant. He handed his card over and glanced at Nicola, who was gathering her kids together. He hadn’t said anything, and she was leaving.
And now she was walking out. Right now. Right this second. And he wasn’t doing anything about it.
Patrick took his card from the attendant. He took a step toward Nicola.
Nicola turned to her kids. “I’m not getting you ice creams, girls. You can have some tea when we get to the Happy Forest. It’s only five minutes away.”
Patrick stopped. He gave a wave to the attendant, sugar-free gum in hand.
Patrick walked across the forecourt, a spring in his step. He threw his packet of gum in the air and caught it.
His good mood even lasted when, back at the car, Claire called him “useless” and sent him back inside for her forgotten Snickers.
* * *
—
A sign over the holiday park entrance had a speech bubble coming out of a cartoon hedgehog’s mouth. Welcome to the Happy Forest! Where relaxation is a force of nature.
Patrick drove under the sign. He followed the queue to the entrance huts and pulled up behind the one with the red Corsa.
“I’ll get us sorted,” Patrick said. “Wait here.”
In the entrance hut, Patrick waited in the queue behind Nicola, who was just being handed her keys and a map.
“Have a great time!” the receptionist said.
Patrick watched Nicola walk away. He strode up to the desk. “Patrick Asher.”
Patrick handed over his credit card. He watched Nicola get back in the car.
“Just wondering—I’m in a party with that lady who’s just left—with Nicola.” He gave the receptionist what he hoped was a charming, unfurtive smile. “Is it possible to get a lodge near theirs?”
He held his breath.
The receptionist didn’t even look up, she just tapped at her keyboard. “I’m sure we can sort something out.”
Post-shooting interview. Sheila Kapur, 57.
Happy Forest receptionist.
Face-to-face. Happy Forest entrance lodge.
Shall I get my coat? I’d be happy to come down to the station.
I know I’m not suspected of anything, it’s just nice to get out and about. I sit on
this reception desk in all weathers. I have a blanket on my knees between September and May. Do you want a cup of tea? I have my own kettle and fridge here.
If you’re sure. I’ll make myself one, though, if you don’t mind.
I suspect Jared told you to come to me because he knows I know what’s going on. Did he tell you that respectfully, or like I was a gossip? He’s a cheeky one. Always has something to say about my knee-blanket, calls me “Grannie,” but it’s OK for him, he gets to walk about all day. And I’ve done him lots of favors over the years. I’ve long known his mother from Weight Watchers, and I got him this job after he didn’t complete his GCSEs. His mother is grateful to me to this day. Though, thinking about it, we both need to get back to Weight Watchers.
I know quite a lot about the shooting family, and I’ve got a few ideas as well. I should have been a psychologist, because I know what’s going on in people’s heads before they do, or I can have a good guess, anyroad. I know who’s about to cry. I know who needs to come into my lodge and let it all out to old Sheila and her friendly kettle. I say to myself, Sheila—
Oh.
Of course, Officer. Far be it from me to hold you up.
They say it was an accident? Do you believe them?
I ask because there were arguments in that lodge.
I heard it from Ben Oakley, who does the gardening, and heard a man and woman shouting by the lake. Then Richard Crawford, who works behind the bar, heard the two men going at it in the bar. One of the men called the other one a “bell end.” That’s not very festive, is it?
Can I look at the photos? Jared said you had photos.
Yes! I did meet them after all! That man, at least.
Patrick Asher? Right. He came in to pick up the lodge keys on the first day. I didn’t meet the other three. But why aren’t you showing me pictures of the others in the group?
Far be it from me to correct you, Officer, but there were. That man, Patrick, came to my counter and told me he was in a group with the lady in the car before. I did some juggling and found him a lodge next door. It was no bother.
The Adults Page 5
