wasn’t listed in the electoral roll, so I hatched a plan. Equipped with a clipboard, I went door to door in the town, posing as a market researcher to find her. Fairley was a small place, so it didn’t take me long.
Anne McIntyre lived in a nice cottage on a quiet street. She was trimming her rose bushes when I arrived. A short woman, she looked much younger than 62. She could have passed for 40. Like Tommy, she had black curly hair and a quick smile.
“You look tired, dear,” she said after I gave her my market research pitch and she invited me into her home.
When she went into the kitchen to make some tea, my eyes were drawn to two pictures on the mantelpiece. Once I saw them, all my doubts disappeared. There were two little boys in one of the pictures, standing in front of a caravan. They were both grinning away. One of the boys had a shock of red hair and the other’s hair was curly and black. Apart from the hair, they could have been twins. Next to that photograph was one of themas grown men. The redhead was wearing a police uniform and a goofy grin and standing next to him proudly wearing an army uniform was Tommy. Seeing the pictures, there was no doubt: the Tommy I knew was the one in the picture.
When Tommy’s mum came back into the room she had a tray with her and I was forced to go through with the charade of pretending to be a market researcher, asking her pointless questions about her shopping habits. All the time, I was asking her such mundane questions as what detergent she used, my head was pounding away. Why the hell was Tommy pretending to be dead?
Once I’d finished my questions, I nodded over at the photographs. “You must be so proud of your sons,” I said.
Her smile dimmed and I hated myself for having to do this, but I wanted to hear her say it so I’d know that there was no mistake: that Tommy was meant to be dead.
“Yes, I am dear. But sometimes I wish they had chosen different paths.” I tried to look surprised. “Both my sons are dead.”
She leant over to the coffee table and removed a hanky from a box and dabbed her eyes. “I miss them dreadfully and with my husband in a care home – he has Alzheimer’s – I’m all alone now. I have friends and I help out at my local church, but it’s not the same.”
Fighting the panic crushing my chest, I gulped down the rest of my tea and told her I had to go.
As I walked towards the gate, I fought the urge to turn back and tell her the truth. To tell her that I didn’t know what he was playing at, but her son was very much alive and that if she came back with me she could see him. But, as selfish as it sounds, I was more concerned with how this all affected me.
Without Tommy, what did I have? My family was all dead. My auntie was M.I.A. If I couldn’t trust Tommy, I was more alone than I thought.
I had to speak to him. He’d help me make sense of all of this.
Chapter 19
Tommy was tossing corn on the cob into a stir fry when I came into the kitchen.
“Tommy we need to talk.”
He gazed over at me, brown eyes filled with mischief. “We do? That sound ominous.”
He went over to the chopping board and started chopping up bits of broccoli and cauliflower. He did a good job of it and tossed that in the wok too. Normally the delicious aroma would have had me salivating, but not tonight. I didn’t know the man in the kitchen any more: that’s if I’d ever known him at all.
On the drive over, I’d even debated whether to come back here at all. Whether to just sever all contact with him. Even if he came up with a plausible explanation, how could I ever trust him again?
It was reminding myself that he’d put his life on the line for me that had made me come back. Liar or not, I owed him the chance to explain.
He caught me watching him.
“Dinner will be ten minutes,” he said. “Now, what is it you want to talk about? There was a glint in his eyes; he’d no idea what was coming.
“Tommy,” I paused to swallow.
Anne McIntyre lived in a nice cottage on a quiet street. She was trimming her rose bushes when I arrived. A short woman, she looked much younger than 62. She could have passed for 40. Like Tommy, she had black curly hair and a quick smile.
“You look tired, dear,” she said after I gave her my market research pitch and she invited me into her home.
When she went into the kitchen to make some tea, my eyes were drawn to two pictures on the mantelpiece. Once I saw them, all my doubts disappeared. There were two little boys in one of the pictures, standing in front of a caravan. They were both grinning away. One of the boys had a shock of red hair and the other’s hair was curly and black. Apart from the hair, they could have been twins. Next to that photograph was one of themas grown men. The redhead was wearing a police uniform and a goofy grin and standing next to him proudly wearing an army uniform was Tommy. Seeing the pictures, there was no doubt: the Tommy I knew was the one in the picture.
When Tommy’s mum came back into the room she had a tray with her and I was forced to go through with the charade of pretending to be a market researcher, asking her pointless questions about her shopping habits. All the time, I was asking her such mundane questions as what detergent she used, my head was pounding away. Why the hell was Tommy pretending to be dead?
Once I’d finished my questions, I nodded over at the photographs. “You must be so proud of your sons,” I said.
Her smile dimmed and I hated myself for having to do this, but I wanted to hear her say it so I’d know that there was no mistake: that Tommy was meant to be dead.
“Yes, I am dear. But sometimes I wish they had chosen different paths.” I tried to look surprised. “Both my sons are dead.”
She leant over to the coffee table and removed a hanky from a box and dabbed her eyes. “I miss them dreadfully and with my husband in a care home – he has Alzheimer’s – I’m all alone now. I have friends and I help out at my local church, but it’s not the same.”
Fighting the panic crushing my chest, I gulped down the rest of my tea and told her I had to go.
As I walked towards the gate, I fought the urge to turn back and tell her the truth. To tell her that I didn’t know what he was playing at, but her son was very much alive and that if she came back with me she could see him. But, as selfish as it sounds, I was more concerned with how this all affected me.
Without Tommy, what did I have? My family was all dead. My auntie was M.I.A. If I couldn’t trust Tommy, I was more alone than I thought.
I had to speak to him. He’d help me make sense of all of this.
Chapter 19
Tommy was tossing corn on the cob into a stir fry when I came into the kitchen.
“Tommy we need to talk.”
He gazed over at me, brown eyes filled with mischief. “We do? That sound ominous.”
He went over to the chopping board and started chopping up bits of broccoli and cauliflower. He did a good job of it and tossed that in the wok too. Normally the delicious aroma would have had me salivating, but not tonight. I didn’t know the man in the kitchen any more: that’s if I’d ever known him at all.
On the drive over, I’d even debated whether to come back here at all. Whether to just sever all contact with him. Even if he came up with a plausible explanation, how could I ever trust him again?
It was reminding myself that he’d put his life on the line for me that had made me come back. Liar or not, I owed him the chance to explain.
He caught me watching him.
“Dinner will be ten minutes,” he said. “Now, what is it you want to talk about? There was a glint in his eyes; he’d no idea what was coming.
“Tommy,” I paused to swallow.
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