Page 43

Thirty-Eight

Despite my best intentions, I was late.

I parked outside the gates of the cemetery, and then walked quickly through its streets, following the directions my father had given to me. In an ideal world, I would have met him at the entrance, and we would have walked in together, but in some ways, it was comforting to arrive after the fact. Because as I reached the grave and saw my father standing there alone, it was possible to imagine that a throng of people had been here a few minutes ago, and had dispersed and drifted away after the short ceremony was over. In reality, it would just have been my father. But it was nice to be able to pretend that there had been a crowd.

As he heard my footsteps, he turned a little awkwardly, holding his arm against his body. He was still recovering from the wounds Aspinall inflicted on him that night—to the extent that he ever would. His arm had been out of the sling for a few months now, but he hadn’t regained anything close to full movement, and the doctors had warned him that he might not.

The past few months had aged him more than it felt like they should have. Part of that was down to an inability to exercise, which I knew had frustrated him beyond words. Certainly, he hadn’t been able to hit anything all this time. But it was also difficult to escape the feeling that his whole life had been spent fighting, enduring, carrying on , and that now—finally—he was allowing himself to relax a little.

While he appeared older, he also looked happier.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” I said.

“That’s okay.” He smiled. “You got here in the end.”

I looked down at the grave in front of us.

Most of the plots in this part of the cemetery were old, the grass bedraggled and barely tended, the headstones simple and cheap. For many years, this grave had been identical to its neighbors. But today, it was a rectangle of freshly turned brown earth. The plain headstone that marked the plot previously had been replaced by a new one, commissioned and paid for by my father and me, made of white marble that glinted in the winter sun.

I read the inscription there now.

ABIGAIL PALMER

6 MARCH 1970–AUGUST 1998

JAMES PALMER 9 JUNE 1986–AUGUST 2001

WE SEE. WE CARE.

“Was the ceremony suitably delightful?” I said.

“No. The priest said far too many words.”

I detected a familiar grumble of disapproval in his voice. My father had never had much time for the trappings of organized religion.

But his tone mellowed slightly when he spoke again.

“But yes, it was nice,” he said. “Have you brought it?”

“Of course I have.”

I walked around the side of the grave and put the stuffed toy lion down in front of the headstone. It wasn’t the same one that was found at the beach after James Palmer went missing, but there was a photograph of that in the coroner’s file, and I’d done my best to source the closest possible substitute I could find.

After a moment, my father looked at me.

“Are you still coming back to the island tonight?”

“Yes.” I frowned slightly. “I mean—as long as that’s okay?”

He turned away again.

“Of course it is. I was just checking.”

“Then yes,” I said. “Of course I am.”

We stood there in silence for a time, both of us absorbed by our own memories and feelings. But the breeze was cold, and after a while my father began shivering. I was about to suggest that we leave when I realized that he was waiting me out without wanting to say so. That he wanted a moment here by himself for reasons of his own.

“See you back at the car?” I suggested.

“You will.”

I headed off. But I turned back as I reached the corner, and I saw that my father was still standing there, lost in thought. But rather than looking at the grave like I expected, he was staring at a small copse of trees in the distance. And because it was still so unpredictable what he could do with his arm, what happened next might have been my imagination.

But I thought he raised his hand slightly.

When we get back home, my father makes us dinner, and we share a bottle of red wine while we eat. Then I go up to the attic to get changed. As I’m putting on a jumper, I hear his footsteps on the stairs, and then he knocks on the door.

“It’s open,” I say.

He pokes his head round.

“Want to sit out back for a bit?” he says. “I can put the heater on.”

I brush the front of my jumper down.

“Normally I would say yes,” I tell him. “But I think I might actually head out for a few hours, if that’s okay?”

“Of course. Just don’t wake me up if you get back late. ”

“I won’t.”

“And say hello for me.”

I resist the instinct to look at him.

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” I say. “Old man.”

It’s a cold, clear night, with no clouds to hide the prickling of stars in the sky. My breath steams in front of me beneath the amber streetlights as I walk. The seafront by the ferry terminal is brightly lit and busy for out of season, but the world grows quieter and darker as I follow the coastal road around. I see the bar up ahead and hear her voice at the same time.

The place is almost empty—just the same handful of elderly regulars as the first time I came in. I grab a beer, and then sit quietly at the back, watching as Sarah finishes up the song. She’s lost in the moment, pitch-perfect, the disco ball turning slowly above her.

She looks like a star.

There’s a little applause at the end, which I join in with as she gives an ostentatious bow. A moment later, she looks down the bar and notices me sitting there. We hold each other’s gaze for a couple of seconds, and then she walks over.

In the time it takes her to reach my table, a number of things go through my head. The most immediate is that I can’t remember the last time I was as nervous as I am right now. When I’ve ever felt this vulnerable and exposed, or when my heart was beating quite so hard.

“Hey there, stranger,” she says.

“Hey there.”

And then I release a breath I’ve been holding for so very long.

“I was thinking about that duet,” I say.