It was more than the scam. I know that now. The Minecraft; the football matches they went to; the cliff walks as the sun was setting. Nev wrote the letters because it kept Josh alive. They were his love notes. And in that, Nev was no different from me.
Subject: Hello
Sent: Mon Jul 22, 2017 10:05 am
From: Rob
To: Nev
Dear Nev,
Thanks for your note and I appreciate your apology. I’m glad you’re trying to make it up to people. I think that’s the right thing to do.
Believe it or not, I do understand. I know how grief can do terrible things to people. And to be honest, I’m no better. I hurt my wife, Anna, very much and I am very ashamed of how I behaved.
I think what you did was wrong, but I do understand why you did it. You were desperate and doing what you thought was best for your family. You have lost two people you love in the most horrible way. No one should ever have to go through that.
The truth is that you helped me a lot when Jack was dying. You listened to me when I needed it and, despite everything that happened, you were a good friend to me.
I’m going to be up in your neck of the woods next weekend, at the Plover Scar lighthouse, to take some pictures, so if you’d fancy a coffee or something then do let me know. It would be good to meet.
I hope you and Chloe are well.
Rob
It is strange to walk through Hampstead graveyard with someone else. We walk closely, our arms touching, and there is something formal, funereal, about the pace of our walk—like the slow march of a ceremonial soldier. The graveyard always seemed like a wintery place—even in summer it was dark and dank, the trees forming a shroud, blocking out the light. Today, though, it is different. There is a lightness here, an orderliness, as if the place has been spruced up.
“I always knew you came here,” Anna says. “The grave was always nice and tidy.”
“When did you come here?”
“Normally Sundays. It seemed proper, like going to church. And you?”
“Early mornings, in the week.”
“Hmm,” Anna says. “I don’t like it here much, if I’m honest. That probably sounds awful, but I don’t find it to be a place of peace, or anything like that.”
“Yeah, me too,” I say, and we walk on in silence.
At Jack’s headstone, we put down our flowers and stand in silence. The sandstone was a good choice. It is hardy, and will endure the weather. We look at each other, unsure what to do.
“Shall we get out of here?” Anna says. “Sorry. I just...”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t like saying goodbye or anything like that,” Anna says. “I don’t like even thinking that he’s here.”
“I know,” I say. “C’mon, let’s go,” and we walk, quicker this time.
We go to a pub in Hampstead, one of the places I used to come to before I took the train back to Cornwall.
“Are you okay coming here?” Anna asks.
“You mean with the drinking?”
“Yes.”
I laugh nervously. A little pulse of shame. “Yes, I am. But thanks.”
“Did you talk to anyone about it?” Anna says quietly, as we are waiting at the bar. “The drinking I mean.”
“No. I meant to, but I thought I would try to do it on my own. It’s been difficult but, well, I’m managing so far.”
Anna smiles approvingly. “Well, I’m very proud of you. I’m sure it’s not easy.”
“Thanks,” I say, and I realize I don’t like talking about my drinking because it makes me feel weak.
We order two roast dinners and two tonic waters and find a seat in a wood-paneled alcove.
“I see you’re doing a lot more on Hope’s Place,” Anna says.
“Yeah,” I say. “I enjoy it, if that’s the right word. It’s so sad, though, from the minute they post, you kind of know that for many of them, for their kids, there’s probably no chance.”
“Yes,” Anna says, and then shakes her head. “Just like Jack. It was just too aggressive. He didn’t stand a chance.”
She looks away from the table. A couple with a small child comes in and sits at the table next to us. The mother fusses to get the child in a high chair, to take off his coat, to arrange his toys and sticker book in front of him. Anna smiles at the boy, and he smiles back and holds out a little plastic dog.
“To our beautiful little boy,” I say, looking at Anna and raising my glass.
“To our beautiful boy,” Anna says, and we softly clink our glasses. “To Jack.”
We sit for a moment in silence, listening to the happy chirp and chink of Sunday lunchtime. I want to reach out across the table and hold Anna’s hand, the way I used to make a small cocoon around her fist in our old, cold Clapham flat. But I don’t. I keep my hands down by my side.
“I’m so sorry I was awful to you,” I say again. “I just don’t know how to...”
“Stop bloody saying sorry,” Anna says, laughing a little, and she can’t keep her eyes off the little boy, who is babbling and batting away the spoon his mother is holding out for him.
“Oh, there’s something I wanted to show you,” I say.
“Really? Exciting.”
I reach down into my bag and pull out my laptop. I log on to the Wi-Fi and load up We Own the Sky.
“Ah, your website. Any new ones?”
“Yes, that’s what I wanted to show you actually. Some photos. I think you’ll recognize them.”
“Excellent. Can I see?”
I pass the laptop to Anna, and she starts to scroll through the new photos. The view from our garden in Hampstead. A blinding shot into the sun from Jack’s bedroom window. The lighthouse in Swanage, gleaming a bold and brilliant white. And then Greece, the panorama from our terrace; Jack, the
