‘But did he believe?’
‘I don’t think he’d ever questioned it until the explosion. And then none of his life made sense any more. And he found a religion of his own.’
‘Did he still pray at Linwood?’
‘Not in front of me.’
‘What did it, Chandler? What did he fill himself up with?’
For a moment there is no sound in the room save Chandler’s wheezing breath. Finally, he says: ‘I mentioned miracles. Cheating death. Cheating God, I suppose. I said something clever. It might even have been a title for the book. It was just a phrase …’
‘Which was?’
‘The Unjust Distribution of Miracles.’
‘And Gibbons liked that?’
‘It was as if he’d just found the head of John the Baptist under his bed. I’ve never felt so fucking worthy in all my life.’
‘Worthy? He took your words and made a religion out of it. He found a cause. A mission! A way to bring her back.’
‘I didn’t know,’ says Chandler, shaking his head and sniffing back snot. ‘I didn’t know what he was planning.’
‘But he spoke to you about it,’ says McAvoy, biting his lip. ‘He ran his ideas past you. Asked his preacher’s opinion.’
Chandler flashes him a look of anger but just as quickly bites it back. ‘I liked the attention.’
‘What did he ask you?’
The answer comes from the pit of the writer’s stomach, and reeks of bile and regret.
‘He asked me whether I thought mercy was a finite resource. He read me passages from the Bible. From books he’d found. About righteousness. About justice. About miracles.’
McAvoy can already see the answer to his next question.
‘He asked you whether you thought taking away one miracle would leave room for another,’ says McAvoy, with his eyes closed. ‘Whether cancelling out an act of mercy would create another.’
There is silence in the room.
‘And you said yes.’
‘I said it might do.’
‘And then you phoned the Russian for him. The onearmed bloody pop star.’
Chandler looks confused. He shakes his head as if not understanding and then slowly stops as a drunken memory emerges from his ruined, pickled mind.
‘I was pissed,’ he wails.
McAvoy shakes his head. He can feel his throat closing up. The old wound in his shoulder begins to throb with an icy pain.
‘Who’s next, Chandler? Who else did you tell him about?’
Chandler licks his teeth. Raises his hands and begins to rub at the crusted saliva on his chin.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, and turns away.
‘Chandler?’
‘It was just talk. Just chat. I didn’t think …’
‘What is it, Chandler? What have you done?’
‘After we spoke,’ he sniffs, between the sobs. ‘I told him about you. About your wife. About how strong she was. About how she endured so many miscarriages and still kept trying …’
‘What do you …?’
McAvoy stops. It feels as if fingers made of ice have closed around the nape of his neck and begun to squeeze.
‘I’m so sorry.’
Adrenalin surges through McAvoy’s body. All he can see is Simeon Gibbons, smothering his newborn daughter between Roisin’s thrashing, bloodied legs …
He runs. Sprints for the exit, pulling his phone from his pocket, blood rushing in his ears, boots squeaking on the floor; Chandler’s sobs echoing down the hall.
The prison guard sees him. Begins to push himself away from the desk where he lounges with his plastic cup. Sensing something wrong, he moves to slow him but McAvoy clatters into him and through; pulling open the door and thundering down the steps three at a time.
He looks at his phone. No signal. No fucking signal.
Tries to find a way to make himself believe that what is happening to his wife and children is not a direct result of his own vile vanity.
Runs through all he knows about the man who intends to kill his child. Recalls the physical strength, the ease with which he had avoided McAvoy’s blows.
That boxer’s gait …
McAvoy stops. Pulls up short on the green linoleum; a statue of sudden, horrid comprehension.
Chandler’s protege. The boxer. The room-mate. The guy with his face in shadows …
He tears through the lobby, staring at the screen of his mobile. He tries the home number, but the damn thing won’t ring. He presses the wrong digits with his shaking, frantic fingers.
Finds himself listening to the message Trish Pharaoh had left after her meeting with Monty Emms:
McAvoy slams the phone closed to silence it and opens it again. He almost exclaims with joy as he sees that he has a full signal. Sprinting across the car park, pulling his keys from his pocket, he dials Roisin’s mobile.
Three rings …
‘Hi, baby, how did it go?’
Relief floods him. His wife sounds tired, but very much alive.
Safe.
They are safe.
Breathing heavy, sweat running down his face, he pulls open the car door and slumps heavily into the driver’s seat.
‘Oh darling …’ he begins. ‘I thought …’
He looks at himself in the rear-view mirror.
Too late sees the movement in the back seat.
And then the blade is at his throat.
A face, turned to melted plastic and charred meat by flame, eases out of the darkness, and a hand partially covers McAvoy’s own, closing the phone.
McAvoy stares into the wet, blue eyes of Simeon Gibbons.
Feels the knife move down his body.
Feels the pressure as it slices through his coat, his shirt. As it nicks at his skin.
Feels Gibbons lean forward, and part the ruined clothing with his hand. Sees him stare at the wound left by a murderer’s blade a year before.
Realises, too late, that he, too, is a survivor. A man who walked away.
