Page 70 of Famous Last Words

‘I don’t need to hear this,’ Cam says, raising a hand in warning. ‘I have always been an introvert. And I’ll get rid of his clothes when I’m ready.’

‘And I was so happy for you,’ Libby continues and – oh. That slices through Cam, cutting her into ribbons. ‘We had a barbecue, in the dream. We texted all the time again.’

‘We do text all the time!’

‘OK then, you initiated it,’ and Cam thinks, Ouch. ‘I was so fucking happy for you,’ Libby repeats, and Cam is shocked to see her eyes have a sheen to them. Perhaps, in all of this,Libby feels she’s lost her sister, rather than her brother-in-law. ‘You know what,’ Libby says, and Cam wonders if she’s drunk already. ‘Don’t you think seven years is so long for this?’

And Cam wants to rant, suddenly, words bursting through her as powerful as the heat of the summer. How, exactly, do you move on? she wants to say. Tell me. Tell me how to stop searching for answers. Tell me how to be fine with abandonment. Tell me how to embrace being a single parent. It isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, not in these circumstances, not when you’re alone and disciplining and cooking and bedtiming and lying to your child every single day about who their father truly is.

But she doesn’t say all of this. She takes a breath, instead.

A scented summer breeze gusts its way down into the cellar. The candles dart and dance but don’t go out, although the rising and falling light lends the bar a confessional feel.

‘What does Polly think about moving?’ Libby says, evidently trying to push Cam into the future and not back into the past.

‘Haven’t told her yet – I’m waiting to see what happens …’

Libby pours more wine for both of them. Cam wonders, if she gets very drunk now, whether she might be able to forget the things that were said before.

‘She will probably google him at some point.’

Cam’s back prickles in anger and something else. She hates the advice single parenthood attracts, even from her sister. ‘Well,’ she says, but then stops, not knowing what to say. ‘I know that,’ she adds lamely.

Cam avoids most confrontation and so she stares at her hands, wondering how much time must pass until she can look up and change the subject. She decides a full minute, sitting there feeling foolish, thinking that even though shedoesn’t have the whole story about Luke, he’s still gone, still left, still stayed far away.

‘You could just try,’ Libby says, her voice soft.

‘To what?’

‘To stop looking. To really, truly, move on.’ She catches Cam’s gaze, and Cam thinks she’s going to crack a joke, to ease the tension, but she doesn’t. Not this time.

‘Do you know, I actually don’t know how to do that, Libby,’ Cam says honestly.

‘It’s a mindset thing.’

‘I know.’

‘You could be happy again. Not in limbo.’ She pauses. ‘If nothing ever changes – do you think you will still want to be where you are in ten years’ time?’

And something about this question and its simplicity actually makes Cam want to change something. This isn’t fiction. This isn’t a story. Luke really may never come back. Can Cam dedicate her whole life to finding somebody who killed two men – maybe more? Maybe was involved in another double murder, two months before the seige.

To consign Luke to the past, and the secrets he holds with him. To leave him behind.

To stop bothering grieving people in Whitechapel. To leave those loose threads loose, and find happiness with someone else. Maybe somewhere else, too.

‘We could value the house tomorrow. For when the form is sorted.’

‘Maybe.’

‘They’ll want to know its value to determine Luke’s share for his estate.’

‘Yeah,’ Cam says.

They lapse into silence.

‘You haven’t even said happy birthday,’ Libby says eventually.

Cam bites her lip. ‘I’m sorry. Happy birthday,’ she says, shame-faced and sad, trying to inject some heartfelt meaning into her tone.

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