Then Jim had cried.
“Awful thing, mind. Awful. He doesn’t like to talk about it. I did try.”
“Mum!”
“No, well, he’s not well, is he. Not feeling very chatty. He was in a fire, you know?”
There were footsteps, out in the hall, and Jim shifted his gaze, anything to distract from the inane twittering. Was hoping that it would be Esther. He had rung her, after Tom had gone. Had told her what he had said. Had held the phone, useless, as she cried. Then the steps rounded the corner. Ethan looked like he hadn’t slept, was wearing cargo pants, a sweater, two days worth of stubble. He glanced up, giving Jim a water weak smile and Jim felt a flash of irritation, and then a spill of something else, guilt, bile rising in his throat.
Staring at his son, now two years old again, shrieking “Uppa, Daddy!”, always so happy to see him, a laugh that would light up your world.
When did it change? When did it go from that to this? They say the teenage years are the hardest. Was it then?
His son striking out, becoming a person that Jim simply didn’t recognise, and Jim not man enough to cope with it. Or was it simply that Libby came along, and was so much more like him, so much easier to understand, that he got lazy, just stopped trying with Ethan, allowing him to vanish into his sister’s shadow.
Ethan wasn’t looking at him. Or rather was, but from under lowered lids, like he was afraid to face him head on, like he didn’t know what to say to his father, in case the words he chose would be the thing that would annoy him, set him off.
Jim wanted to cry again.
“You alright, boy?”
Ethan paused, taken aback. “Yeah, I…well, you know. Mum, Isabelle’s with her. She’s doing okay. She’s having a little sleep. Said she’ll be along later.”
“Good. That’s good.”
Ethan pulled out the chair, lowered himself into it, a quick glance at the curtained bed across the way. They were talking about Eastenders now.
“Dad. I, can I ask you something?”
Thinking of the first time he had ridden a bike, baby round hands gripping onto the handle bars like they are all that lies between him and the end of the world, knees pumping. “Daddy, I’m doing it. I’m doing it, Daddy.”
“Of course, Ethan.”
“Did you think it was me?”
Jim stopped, stared at his son. Ethan was plucking at the blanket.
“We had that argument, me and Libby, before she…Did you? Did you think I killed her?” A tear slid down Ethan’s cheek.
Did he? Did it ever cross his mind?
“No.” Said Jim. “Never.” He grabbed hold of Ethan’s hand, held on for dear life. “You are my son. I know you. I know I’m tough.” His voice was giving, bowing under the pressure of the words. “But you…you and your Mum. You’re all I’ve got, boy.”
Jim felt Ethan’s hand close around his own.
Chapter 54
Tom - Wednesday, 28th March - 1.32pm
Tom rolled the blu-tack, between his fingers, back and forth, feeling it soften with his body heat. There was music playing, a tinny bass from the radio in the kitchen. He reached up, tugging softly at the banner, pushing the putty onto the plastic, the plastic onto the wall. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BEN!! Ben would be home soon. Tom glanced at the clock, another half hour or so. Tom had already wrapped his presents, a neat pile stacked beside the sofa, and in another hour the guests would start arriving - his Mum, some of the kids from playgroup, a neighbour or two. And Cecilia. He pulled in a breath in. If she came. She had said that she would try, but…He wouldn’t tell Ben. Wouldn’t mention it, just in case.
“What the hell is wrong with these things?” Dan studied the balloon in his hand, frowning. “I’m telling you, mate, you got a dud batch.”
“They’re not dud. You just can’t blow them up.” Tom slid from the step-ladder, looked up at the banner. Crooked. Damn. “Surprises the shit out of me. What with you being so full of hot air and all.” He moved the ladder over, one step, two, and climbed up it.
“Funny. You’re funny.” Dan pulled at the red latex. “Who’s got Ben, then?”
Tom tugged the banner straight, leaned back, eyed the line, then pushed his thumb into the putty. “My Mum. They’ll be back in a bit.”
“Oh, I was wondering, you know, if he was with Cecilia.”
The house smelt different. That was what he had noticed when he had woken this morning. That there was no trailing musk of her perfume, nothing left behind to mark her presence. He had gone to the spare bedroom, her bedroom, had stood in the doorway and stared at the empty bed, the skeletal wardrobe. There was nothing, no one big thing that marked out the change. She hadn’t taken the television, the sofas. The fridge was still where it was supposed to be. In essence the house was as it had ever been. But still there was the smell.
“No. I invited her to the party. I thought it would be good. You know, for Ben.”
Dan nodded, blowing hard into the balloon, his face flushing as the latex expanded.
Tom climbed down the ladder. “How’s Freya?”
A pause as Dan finished exhaling, then the grating squeak of the latex being tied. Dan shrugged, studying the tiny knot between his thick fingers. “About as good as you would expect I suppose. Her mother’s a wreck, apparently. The brother was in Magistrates this morning. Crown next week.”
“So you’ve talked?”
“Yeah,” still wasn’t looking at Tom, face flushing darker. “I called her, just to, y’know, see how she was doing. Last night. We talked for an hour or so.”
“So, you think…”
Dan leaned over, slipping another balloon from the packet. “I don’t know. It’s not a good time for her really, is it? I’m guessing dating is probably the farthest thing from her mind.”
“But you like her?”
“Bloody hell, mother, yes. Yes, I like her a lot.”
Tom grinned. “Good.”
“And Cecilia?”
She had called him, late last night. The phone had lit up, puncturing the darkness of the empty bedroom, and for a moment his heart had stood still in his chest. Because the house smelt different. And even though what there had been was so thin, surely that was better than the emptiness that it’s absence had left behind? And it would be so easy, to slip back, just close his eyes. Pretend. He could do that. He wanted to do that, wanted everything to be back as it was, familiar and spiky and incomplete.
“Hello?”
“Hi.”
“Hey.”
“I…” It sounded like Cecilia had been crying. “I’m sorry. I know it’s late.”
“It’s okay. I wasn’t asleep.”
“Oh. Okay. I just…I wanted to tell you, I needed to say, I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
He could hear her breath, thought it sounded like ocean waves. “I never gave you a chance. You are a good man. I know you are. And I never gave you a chance to be a good man with me. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. It wasn’t just you.”
“No, I…”
“Cecilia, it was me too.” Said Tom. “They weren’t just your mistakes. They were mine too.” Tom stared into the darkness, and had thought how much easier it would be, to step back.
Chapter 55
Cecilia - Wednesday, 28th March - 2.45pm
She drove slowly, steadily, along the M4. The snow was all but gone now, just the odd white patch turning the surrounding fields into an iceberg sea. She wondered if the party had started yet.
She had sat on the kingsize hotel bed, her legs pulled up tight to her, so that the bed beyond seemed so vast. Had needed to hear Tom’s voice. In a way that she wasn’t sure she had ever felt before.
“We’re going to be okay.” Said Tom. “You and me and Ben. We had to make a change. Things just weren’t working, for any of us.”
“No.” She had cradled her knees in, had stared out of the window at the starlit sky beyond. “I want…Tom, I want to do the right thing. For Ben. This time, I want to do what’s right.”
He sighed heavily. “Me too. But what we’ve had, where we’ve been, that hasn’t been it.”
“No.” Cecilia plucked at the quilt threads weaving their way across her feet. “I hope you find happiness, Tom.”
There was a long silence, and, for an uneven moment, it had seemed that the world could be about to spin again, throwing them backwards. Then “You too, Cecilia.”
Cecilia indicated, pulling around a Mini travelling tentatively along the inside lane. She would have to find an apartment, a house. Something with two bedrooms. So Ben could visit. Her heart took a leap into her throat. Perhaps she would try to get somewhere near the sea. He would like that. In the summer they could play in the waves.
Then she thought about the other baby, the way she always did.
She pushed her foot down a little harder on the accelerator, passing motorway junctions. She couldn’t forget. In truth, didn’t want to. But there was nothing she could do for that first child of hers. And there was one who remained. Perhaps it wasn’t too late for her to do something for him. You just had to keep on trying. An ambulance passed her, flying in the opposite direction, sirens blazing, and she could feel the flames, the screaming of the plane as it tore itself apart around her. And she kept going.
Breathing. In, out. In, out.
Indicated, took the turning. Worked her way around the roundabout, slow through the country lanes. A quick glance at the clock on the dashboard. Cecilia steered the car into her street. Their street. Pulled up outside the house.
Breathe. Just breathe.
There was a parcel on the seat behind her, wrapped in gaudy orange paper. A Mickey Mouse farmyard. She had gone to the shop, picked it out herself. Had handed the cashier the money, told her shyly that it was for her son. For his birthday. Cecilia reached over, hefted it with her good arm.
The lights were on inside the house, even though the day was bright, clear. That would be Tom forgetting to turn them off when the sun had crept over the horizon. He always did that. There were voices, tinkling laughter. She stopped on the path. They were in the living room, Tom, the couple from number 43, Dan from work. And Ben. Ben was bathed, dressed. His father had put him in the shirt and sweater set, the one that he wore any time they went somewhere nice.
She stood there on the path. Watching. Ben was opening a present, tugging at the paper, his mouth an O of delight, and she felt her heart skip. But then there it was again, the sense of ghosts crowding in on her. An almost child on flimsy paper. A sharp pain. The sense of falling through the sky.
Cecilia’s hands began to shake. She could leave the present. She could put it on the doorstep and go. She had only said that she would try to come. She hadn’t said anything definite. She could turn and walk away and get in the car and drive to somewhere where the ghosts wouldn’t follow her.
But they did, didn’t they? Wherever she drove to, wherever she went, they just came too.
You just had to keep on trying.
She stepped forward and pressed the doorbell.
Acknowledgements
It is daunting to even begin trying to thank all of the people who should be thanked for bringing this book to life. Writing is, by its very nature, such a solitary profession. And yet, were I truly alone, this book would not have been a fraction of what it has turned out to be.
My greatest thanks must go to my wonderful agent and dear friend, Camilla Wray of the Darley Anderson Literary Agency, who knew me from our first encounter, and who fed me cakes the size of a baby’s head (true story). Without your unswerving faith, wisdom and support, this book would never be and my sanity would be dangling on an even thinner thread than it already is.
To the lovely people at Random House. I can honestly say that you have made my dreams come true. Special thanks to Jenny Geras for your passion for this book and for your willingness to take a chance on me. Thank you to Francesca Pathak for your insights and your enthusiasm.
There were many people whose advice I sought and who deserve my thanks. Derek Morgan and Rhys Davies at Swansea airport, for your guidance and expertise in all things aeronautical. Michael O’Donoghue and Peter Claiden for your advice on air accident investigation. The fabulous Zoe Miller, CSI extraordinaire, who kept me from making the most heinous errors in the handling of forensic evidence. I hope that I have done your advice justice, but, should any mistakes have wormed their way in, they are mine and mine alone.
And now, to those who have kept me from completely losing my mind throughout this long and terrifying process. Donna Llewellyn, my best friend and my rock. It is no exaggeration that your unswerving belief in me over the years has allowed me to believe in myself. Had no-one else ever read this book, the joy it gave you in being one of my first readers would have made all of my work worthwhile. Thank you to the lovely Sarah Miles, whose job it has always been and will always be to drag me out of myself and make me giggle hysterically over the most ridiculous of things.
To my family, all of whom have believed even when it seemed a most unlikely thing to believe in. Arlene & Clive Jones (Ma and Popsi) who have frequently rescued me from a squirming toddler, thus enabling me to actually write the thing. Deborah, David, Ffion and Bethan, reassuring me when I had my doubts and celebrating with me when those doubts were proven wrong. Deb McLay, for being one of my earliest readers, and for telling me that writing is in my blood. Cam McLay, for reminding me that the McLay spirit demands that one should never give up. Jess and James, for teaching me that there are others like me.
But the greatest thanks of all belong to those people who have most earned them. Mum and Dad, there is no way that I can ever put into words all that you have done for me. It is truly down to your quiet faith that I ever had the nerve to venture out onto such a rocky path. Thank you. My husband, Matthew, for hugging me when I needed it, for telling me to just get on with it when I needed that too. You have made it possible for me to chase my dreams. I love you more than I can possibly express.
And finally, Daniel. I won’t say that you actually assisted with the writing. But when I was done and I was tired, you laughed and made me realise what truly mattered. Being your mother is, and always will be, the greatest of my jobs.