never really the point: it had always been more about filling the silence, warding off the darkness, for a while.
So why did Wiseman’s book keep cropping up in my mind?
I put my hand behind my head and stared at the blue-grey ceiling. Maybe it was natural to keep thinking about it: I’d looked at the book just before speaking to the police, after all, so it made sense that the two things were linked in my head. Not to mention that creepy fucking flower. But it felt like there was something more to it than that.
I lay there for a few minutes, half-heartedly trying to get back to sleep, but it wasn’t happening. For whatever stupid reason, I was wide awake.
Quietly, so as not to disturb Ally, I slipped out from under the covers and went through to the kitchen, my bare feet
tacking
on the plastic tiles. The timer on the oven read 4:58. Absurdly early, but I put the kettle on anyway, then sat down at the circular wooden table. Rested my elbows on it and rubbed my temples.
It was more than just the timing of finding the book and the flower inside. It was also the fact that it was right there on my father’s desk, as though he’d been looking at it, consulting it even, while he was working. It was also the thing I’d said to Marsha about my father’s writing. Regardless of my own naïvety, he
had
been distracted by a project of some kind – and there were things scheduled on his calendar, for Christ’s sake.Haggerty. Ellis. Did it make sense to arrange appointments, to go on what looked like a research trip, if he was planning to do what he had?
No. It didn’t really make sense to me.
And if he was going to kill himself, why go to Whitkirk to do it? Maybe it held some meaning or resonance for him, but I’d never heard of the place before. And while I could understand him not wanting me to be the one who found him – wanting to spare me that horror, if nothing else – it didn’t require driving across the fucking country.
Which meant he’d been there looking for something.
Why, Dad?
I thought.
What’s there?
What were you working on?
The kettle burbled louder and louder, until it seemed like it would boil over, the plastic rattling in its stand, and then it clicked off. I didn’t stand up yet though. I sat there, still thinking, still slowly rubbing my temples, as the kitchen fell silent.
Except …
Not quite silent.
There was some kind of noise from outside: a gentle
puttering
sound. The kitchen window looked out over the alley behind the building. I stood up, raised one of the slats in the blind and peered down.
There was a van there. The puttering sound was its engine idling.
It was an old one too. The metal looked rusted. I couldn’t quite make out the colour, but guessed it was red or brown. The lights were all off, but the engine was running. A streetlight from the end of the alleyway just reached it, so that a dagger of amber rested across the windscreen, revealing the driver was inside, but not much more. The figure was broad enough to guess it was male, and he had what looked like a large moon printed on the front of his chest: a pale, distorted circle.
The circle ducked suddenly backwards out of view.
Shit
.
I let the slat go with a sharp click. That had been his
face
. He’d been leaning forward, staring right back up at me through the windscreen.
Outside, the tone of the engine changed. I looked out again, and only just caught the back end of the van as it rolled out of view, slow and steady. There was no chance to see the license plate from this angle, and a moment later I was left with the purr of the vehicle turning onto the main road and the roar as it accelerated away.
My heart had started up again.
That couldn’t have been his face
.
Whatever – what the fuck was someone doing out back at this time of night? A burglar, scoping the place? Maybe. If so, then I’d seen them, they’d seen me, and now they’d gone and wouldn’t be back any time soon. Burglars were
So why did Wiseman’s book keep cropping up in my mind?
I put my hand behind my head and stared at the blue-grey ceiling. Maybe it was natural to keep thinking about it: I’d looked at the book just before speaking to the police, after all, so it made sense that the two things were linked in my head. Not to mention that creepy fucking flower. But it felt like there was something more to it than that.
I lay there for a few minutes, half-heartedly trying to get back to sleep, but it wasn’t happening. For whatever stupid reason, I was wide awake.
Quietly, so as not to disturb Ally, I slipped out from under the covers and went through to the kitchen, my bare feet
tacking
on the plastic tiles. The timer on the oven read 4:58. Absurdly early, but I put the kettle on anyway, then sat down at the circular wooden table. Rested my elbows on it and rubbed my temples.
It was more than just the timing of finding the book and the flower inside. It was also the fact that it was right there on my father’s desk, as though he’d been looking at it, consulting it even, while he was working. It was also the thing I’d said to Marsha about my father’s writing. Regardless of my own naïvety, he
had
been distracted by a project of some kind – and there were things scheduled on his calendar, for Christ’s sake.Haggerty. Ellis. Did it make sense to arrange appointments, to go on what looked like a research trip, if he was planning to do what he had?
No. It didn’t really make sense to me.
And if he was going to kill himself, why go to Whitkirk to do it? Maybe it held some meaning or resonance for him, but I’d never heard of the place before. And while I could understand him not wanting me to be the one who found him – wanting to spare me that horror, if nothing else – it didn’t require driving across the fucking country.
Which meant he’d been there looking for something.
Why, Dad?
I thought.
What’s there?
What were you working on?
The kettle burbled louder and louder, until it seemed like it would boil over, the plastic rattling in its stand, and then it clicked off. I didn’t stand up yet though. I sat there, still thinking, still slowly rubbing my temples, as the kitchen fell silent.
Except …
Not quite silent.
There was some kind of noise from outside: a gentle
puttering
sound. The kitchen window looked out over the alley behind the building. I stood up, raised one of the slats in the blind and peered down.
There was a van there. The puttering sound was its engine idling.
It was an old one too. The metal looked rusted. I couldn’t quite make out the colour, but guessed it was red or brown. The lights were all off, but the engine was running. A streetlight from the end of the alleyway just reached it, so that a dagger of amber rested across the windscreen, revealing the driver was inside, but not much more. The figure was broad enough to guess it was male, and he had what looked like a large moon printed on the front of his chest: a pale, distorted circle.
The circle ducked suddenly backwards out of view.
Shit
.
I let the slat go with a sharp click. That had been his
face
. He’d been leaning forward, staring right back up at me through the windscreen.
Outside, the tone of the engine changed. I looked out again, and only just caught the back end of the van as it rolled out of view, slow and steady. There was no chance to see the license plate from this angle, and a moment later I was left with the purr of the vehicle turning onto the main road and the roar as it accelerated away.
My heart had started up again.
That couldn’t have been his face
.
Whatever – what the fuck was someone doing out back at this time of night? A burglar, scoping the place? Maybe. If so, then I’d seen them, they’d seen me, and now they’d gone and wouldn’t be back any time soon. Burglars were
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