pictures of the bags so she could compare then and now. Really, it was nothing but a feeling. A notion. That was all, wasn’t it?
‘What’s the matter?’ Lennon asked.
Rea shook her head, felt her certainty dissolve. ‘Nothing,’ she said, and turned towards the staircase. ‘Come on. It’s up here.’
‘What is?’ he asked.
She stopped on the third step. ‘You’ll see. Just come with me. Please.’
He hesitated, nodded, and followed.
‘Whose house is this?’ he asked as they climbed.
‘My uncle’s,’ she said. ‘He died last week. Me and my parents have been clearing it out.’
They reached the landing, and the door to the back bedroom.
‘This was locked,’ Rea said. ‘I had to force it.’
She indicated the crowbar, still lying on the landing floor where it had fallen a few days before. Lennon grunted as he stooped to pick it up, tested its weight in his hand.
Rea pressed the door with her fingertips, let it swing back, and reached in to flick on the light. Lennon returned the crowbar to where he’d found it.
The room remained as she had left it the night before. The map on the wall. The desk.
The empty space where the book had been.
Cold, cold, cold. All she felt was cold.
Lennon said something, maybe her name, but she didn’t hear.
‘It’s gone,’ she said.
A hand on her back. She stepped away from it, into the room, towards the desk. The bare top seemed so big, like a sea of scarred wood.
‘I left it here,’ she said. ‘But it’s gone.’
Lennon spoke again, questioning, dull noises in the air between them.
Rea reached for the drawer, opened it. Empty as the hollow place inside her chest.
‘Bastard,’ she whispered. ‘The bastard took it.’
She went to the window and pulled hard on the cord to open the blind. Daylight broke through the dust that coated the glass. She rubbed a patch clear with her sleeve and peered through, looking for a burnt scar where a fire had been lit, and saw nothing but the poorly tended lawn.
‘Fucking bastard,’ she said, anger choking in her throat, sending heat to her eyes. She grabbed for her pocket, dragged her mobile phone from it and fumbled at the touchscreen, looking for his number. The dial tone burred in her ear as Lennon waited across the room, his face blank.
‘This is Graham Carlisle’s voicemail. Please leave your name, number, along with a brief message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.’
‘You fucking bastard,’ Rea said, unable to hold the furious tears back any longer. ‘I can’t believe you did that. After you promised me. You piece of shit.’
She thumbed the end-call button and threw the phone to the floor. It bounced across the room, clattered off the skirting board. Lennon let out a grumph of discomfort as he bent to pick it up.
‘Maybe you’d better tell me what’s going on,’ he said.
Rea covered her eyes with her shaking hands and said, ‘Give me a minute.’
She turned away, sniffed hard, wiped at her wet cheeks, breathing as deeply and steadily as she could manage with the rage sparking and crackling inside her. When it finally settled to a dim smoulder, she turned back to Lennon.
‘So what is it you want me to see?’ he asked.
‘Maybe you should sit down,’ Rea said.
Lennon gave her back her phone then put his hands in his pockets. ‘No, I’m all right.’
Rea took another quivery breath. Swallowed. ‘When I first opened this room, there was a book in the drawer of that desk. Like a big photo album, or a scrapbook.’
Lennon went to the desk, reached down and opened the drawer, looked inside, and slid it closed again.
‘It had newspaper cuttings, handwritten notes, and . . . other things inside.’
Lennon stared back at her. He already thinks I’m crazy, Rea thought. Just say it.
‘It was a book about all the people my uncle had killed.’
Lennon’s expression did not change. He lowered himself into the chair and said, ‘Go on.’
15
THEY TALKED
‘What’s the matter?’ Lennon asked.
Rea shook her head, felt her certainty dissolve. ‘Nothing,’ she said, and turned towards the staircase. ‘Come on. It’s up here.’
‘What is?’ he asked.
She stopped on the third step. ‘You’ll see. Just come with me. Please.’
He hesitated, nodded, and followed.
‘Whose house is this?’ he asked as they climbed.
‘My uncle’s,’ she said. ‘He died last week. Me and my parents have been clearing it out.’
They reached the landing, and the door to the back bedroom.
‘This was locked,’ Rea said. ‘I had to force it.’
She indicated the crowbar, still lying on the landing floor where it had fallen a few days before. Lennon grunted as he stooped to pick it up, tested its weight in his hand.
Rea pressed the door with her fingertips, let it swing back, and reached in to flick on the light. Lennon returned the crowbar to where he’d found it.
The room remained as she had left it the night before. The map on the wall. The desk.
The empty space where the book had been.
Cold, cold, cold. All she felt was cold.
Lennon said something, maybe her name, but she didn’t hear.
‘It’s gone,’ she said.
A hand on her back. She stepped away from it, into the room, towards the desk. The bare top seemed so big, like a sea of scarred wood.
‘I left it here,’ she said. ‘But it’s gone.’
Lennon spoke again, questioning, dull noises in the air between them.
Rea reached for the drawer, opened it. Empty as the hollow place inside her chest.
‘Bastard,’ she whispered. ‘The bastard took it.’
She went to the window and pulled hard on the cord to open the blind. Daylight broke through the dust that coated the glass. She rubbed a patch clear with her sleeve and peered through, looking for a burnt scar where a fire had been lit, and saw nothing but the poorly tended lawn.
‘Fucking bastard,’ she said, anger choking in her throat, sending heat to her eyes. She grabbed for her pocket, dragged her mobile phone from it and fumbled at the touchscreen, looking for his number. The dial tone burred in her ear as Lennon waited across the room, his face blank.
‘This is Graham Carlisle’s voicemail. Please leave your name, number, along with a brief message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.’
‘You fucking bastard,’ Rea said, unable to hold the furious tears back any longer. ‘I can’t believe you did that. After you promised me. You piece of shit.’
She thumbed the end-call button and threw the phone to the floor. It bounced across the room, clattered off the skirting board. Lennon let out a grumph of discomfort as he bent to pick it up.
‘Maybe you’d better tell me what’s going on,’ he said.
Rea covered her eyes with her shaking hands and said, ‘Give me a minute.’
She turned away, sniffed hard, wiped at her wet cheeks, breathing as deeply and steadily as she could manage with the rage sparking and crackling inside her. When it finally settled to a dim smoulder, she turned back to Lennon.
‘So what is it you want me to see?’ he asked.
‘Maybe you should sit down,’ Rea said.
Lennon gave her back her phone then put his hands in his pockets. ‘No, I’m all right.’
Rea took another quivery breath. Swallowed. ‘When I first opened this room, there was a book in the drawer of that desk. Like a big photo album, or a scrapbook.’
Lennon went to the desk, reached down and opened the drawer, looked inside, and slid it closed again.
‘It had newspaper cuttings, handwritten notes, and . . . other things inside.’
Lennon stared back at her. He already thinks I’m crazy, Rea thought. Just say it.
‘It was a book about all the people my uncle had killed.’
Lennon’s expression did not change. He lowered himself into the chair and said, ‘Go on.’
15
THEY TALKED
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