Page 85 of Famous Last Words

39

Cam

Cam has not told the police about Madison. She’s too scared to. A woman has died because of her. What if going to the authorities makes it worse? Instead, Cam buries herself in Adam’s manuscript. She’s now a quarter of the way through it, and it is really, really good.

Twenty-five per cent in, he kills the narrator:And that’s me, gone. Pissed off an enemy of the family. One shot. Bang. And then, that’s me dead.

Cam draws a red exclamation mark in the margin, eager to carry on, but Charlie is coming over.Wait, she adds.So who’s narrating? A ghost?

I knew this might happen to me one day. This is the way, when you grow up in crime. And, afterwards, as I sat high up above, watching my body give up, I started to make a plan for those left behind.

Say someone in my family wanted out. Say my death drew a line for them: enough.

In that case, I hoped those dear to me would find my instructions, hidden deep within the words I’d left them. That, if anything … if anyone ever wanted to escape the family business, the weapon I always used was buried in the garden. That important items were in a lock-up under my name.

She lays the manuscript down softly on the sofa and thinks of the narrator, dead, making provision for those left behind. Something about it makes Cam shiver, makes her think of Madison, also gone. And Madison’s husband, and the other hostage … and she can’t help but wonder who will be next.

‘“Where is my car quiche?”’ Charlie remarks to Cam, fifteen minutes later, holding up a mug with this emblazoned on its sides. He’d texted her earlier, saying he was passing, asked to come in. Cam is glad for the company with Polly in bed, tired of checking her windows and doors are locked. And she was especially pleased he made the suggestion given that she’d left him by himself in Côte. So far, he doesn’t yet seem to have seen the article online about her.

She prickles now, though, as he brandishes the cup. It was a gift, from Luke, of course. One of the few things she just couldn’t bear to throw away in her so-called moving-on session.

‘Long story,’ she says weakly, not wanting to explain, not wanting to discuss that shared lexicon with him yet.

Her stomach aches slightly as Charlie picks it up and starts making drinks. A new man’s hands where his predecessor’s used to be.

It’s early evening, sun slanting on to grass, rain temporarily stopped, smell of barbecues in the air.

Charlie spots the hot water tap hanging over the sink and begins to try to make it work himself. He does this sort of thing sometimes in her house, confident things, proprietorial things, but she doesn’t dislike them. It’s nice to have someone to take the lead when you are lost.

‘Jesus, this seems to be beyond me,’ he says. ‘Help a man out, CF?’

‘Press down twice then turn,’ she says, and she reaches, too. Their hands brush for the briefest of seconds, and she remembers what Libby said about moving on. She could throw this mug out, the memories too, and move forward, with him. Stop trying to solve the mystery which, as much as anything, has become habitual. Something she simply unconsciously wonders about daily, like how some people think about their hobbies or their job.

Still the tap does nothing. ‘A reluctant boiling water tap!’ Charlie says. ‘All technology hates me. You ever just feel like a proper old bloke?’

‘Not really,’ Cam says drily.

‘Ha. Well, I do. Useless,’ he says, and there it is again: that slice of sharp vulnerability, an open wound that Cam could almost reach out and touch. She recognizes it in him because it lives within her, too.

Just as she’s thinking this, across the kitchen island, her phone lights up, she initially thinks with a text but then sees that it’s a call. She crosses the room to get it.

No Caller ID.

Slide to answer.

She reaches for it, telling herself that it’ll be nothing. It’ll be yet more spam. A wrong number. Nothing.

And yet. She can’t help it. She is a helium balloon of hope.It’s me, he will say.And I can explain everything.

But what if it’s to do with Madison? What if it’s the police?

‘Like, there’s this bastard key-card system at the office,’ Charlie continues, oblivious to her silently ringing phone, then looks at her, sees her expression. ‘OK?’

‘Yeah,’ Cam says, mechanically, gesturing to the phone. ‘Hello?’ she says, taking the call. Charlie looks interested, then pretends not to.

‘Camilla Deschamps?’

‘Yes.’

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