She walked away.
The evening was gathering, the sky darkening. She should be getting ready to hit the town with her girlfriends for their regular Friday night out. Easter or no Easter. But she didn’t want to.
Stuart Milton, who doesn’t exist. Jeff Hibbert, who says he doesn’t know him but probably does.
This is getting interesting, she thought.
20
Tyrell couldn’t relax.
He had tried sitting down. He had tried standing up. Then walking round. First one way, then the other. But nothing worked. Nothing made him feel at ease.
He thought the caravan might have helped. It reminded him of his cell. Small and cramped, it smelled bad, even with the windows open, like the ghosts of previous tenants were still lingering. Everything was worn, overused, and nothing was truly his; he was just using it until the next occupant replaced him.
But he couldn’t settle, and he thought the caravan, far from helping, was actually working against him, sending his emotions in the opposite direction.
He had spent the hours alone since Jiminy Cricket had left him there. No one had talked to him or looked in on him. That was OK. He was used to spending time in his own head. He had spent years there. But this felt different. He had decided to try and work out why.
It wasn’t the space. That much he knew. It wasn’t the view. He had been able to look out of his cell window. And now it was dark, anyway. The lack of noise? Perhaps. There had been plenty of noise in prison. Men locked up behind thick, soundproofed metal doors should have been silent. But prisons weren’t silent places. He had lost count of the nights he had lain awake on his bunk trying not to listen to men screaming and crying. Blubbering and bargaining. Then the other voices, weak but trying to be strong. Shouting at the screamers. Sing us a song. Tell us a joke. Give us a poem. A life story. Laughing, promising what would happen if they did. And what would happen if they didn’t.
At first he had tried to match the voices with the faces the next morning. Pick them out. But he soon gave up on that. Because while he was doing it to them, they were doing it to him. And he didn’t want anyone working out his daytime talking voice from his night-time crying one.
Sometimes he doubted he would be able to sleep without the noise. And there was hardly any noise here.
Apart from the child.
He had heard it when he arrived. Asked about it. Where was the child, why was it crying? No reply. And then it had stopped and he had stopped thinking about it. Began to doubt he had even heard it. Not outside, anyway. For real. Just inside his head. He could always hear things inside his head. And was always being told they weren’t real.
So he had ignored it. Let it go. Kept his mind blank, which wasn’t hard. They had given him medication to help in prison. Tablets that took his headaches away and made him forget. Traded a head full of needles for a head full of fog. But it wasn’t always his head that hurt, he told them. Sometimes it was his heart. But he couldn’t remember why. And that made it worse. Forgetting was better.
Prison. Even that was starting to slip away. How long had he been out? One day? More? Less? No. One day. He was sure. Because he hadn’t slept in the caravan yet. He would have remembered waking up there.
Prison was a room like this. Prison was someone feeding him three meals a day. Prison was walking in a square. Prison was classrooms and workshops. Prison was books. Prison was living inside his own head. Prison wasn’t this. Prison didn’t have a door he could open.
And that was what unsettled him.
He could get up, cross the floor of the caravan and open the door. Step out any time he wanted. No one had to do it for him. He didn’t have to wait for special times. He could just get up and do it himself.
But he didn’t. Couldn’t.
Hadn’t.
He looked again at the door. The handle. Both thin metal. Easy to open. One turn. A push. And out.
He kept staring at the door. And felt himself rise to his feet. Like an unseen force was pulling him upright and moving him towards it. Like a horror film zombie in a voodoo trance.
He crossed the floor of the caravan. Reached the door. Put his hand out. Held it over the door handle. Not touching, but he could feel it, sense it. Waves of energy came off it towards his hand. Willed him to grasp it, turn it …
He took his hand away. Let it drop by his side. He couldn’t do it. Not after all this time. Not after …
His hand reached out again. Again he felt that force around his fingers. And again he let his hand drop by his side.
He sighed. Turned. Crossed the caravan again. Was about to sit down when he heard something.
The child crying once more.
Tyrell stopped. Looked round. It was coming from outside. From the house beside the caravan. He hadn’t imagined it. The crying was real.
He turned back towards the door. Held out his hand. Let it drop.
The child kept crying.
He felt something in his mind. Some trigger. Long ago and out of reach of his memory. Something in the fog. It was about a child. A small child. A night-time crying voice. In his head. His heart. Buried deep. Way deep. And every time he wanted to make it stop. Had to find a way to make it stop. To give it rest.
The child kept crying.
He reached out for the handle. His heart was hammering, his legs shaking.
He gripped the handle.
He could feel the blood pumping in his head. Hear it in his ears. It nearly blocked out the child. Nearly, but not quite.
He tightened his grip. Took a deep breath. Another.
Turned the handle.
And stepped outside.
21
Marina couldn’t sleep. Out of all the things that had happened to her that day, this was the least surprising.
The hotel was recently built and virtually deserted. No Good Friday business overnights. Muzak echoed round beige hallways. Marina wondered how somewhere so new could feel so haunted.
She sat on the edge of the bed, perched, ready to jump, unable to relax. She pointed the TV remote, flicked round the channels, looking for news of her daughter, her husband. A comedy panel show she had previously found funny was now just irritating and arch. Flick. A big-budget Hollywood blockbuster with last-second stunt escapes from explosions. Flick. A contemporary musical retelling of Jesus’s crucifixion with stage-school kids pretending to be urban. Flick. The news. She watched, flinching, like she was expecting a punch. Nothing.
She dropped the remote on the bed. Lay back and stared at the ceiling, despair eating her up from inside, and thought about her family.
Until she met Phil, until they had Josephina, she had believed family to be something to escape rather than embrace. The nuns who taught her at school had told her that it was the most important thing a person could have in their life. Marina had sat there, not daring to speak up for fear of being hit again, but thinking:
Her father, a lying, bullying, cheating, alcoholic wife-beater who had walked out on the family when she
