Page 13 of The Man Made of Smoke

“Thank you.”

“He was a good man. He was always very kind to me.”

I nodded. I remembered the way he had made a point of including her. And also all the good times we’d had together as kids. She had been my best friend back then. Looking at her now, there was a little gray in her hair, and some crow’s-feet emerging at the corners of her eyes, but she hadn’t changed all that much. She was still beautiful, and it was easy to see the excited girl she had been back then.

Want to go on an adventure?

Before everything went to shit.

“He was,” I said quickly. “He was a good man.”

Which made me frown to myself. It was odd to be talking about my father in the past tense. But those were probably not words I would ever have spoken out loud in the present. I wasn’t sure if the alcohol was hitting me more quickly than usual, but that air of calm and detachment I prided myself on felt a little looser around me right now.

“Maybe I should have told him that,” I said.

“I’m sure he knew what you felt.”

“I didn’t see him enough. I didn’t call as often as I should have done.”

Sarah smiled sadly at me.

“Oh, Dan. You can’t think like that.”

“I can,” I said. “I’m doing it right now.”

“Yeah, okay. It really doesn’t help, though. Believe me.”

I nodded again. I’d repeated that same sentiment—it doesn’t help to blame yourself—to clients outside the prison system countless times, or even just attempted to steer them toward recognizing the truth of it for themselves. But it was easy to offer advice from the outside. Right now, I found it difficult to take any comfort in the tentative relationship my father and I had built up in recent years. My mind kept returning to times when we were both younger and angrier, and letting each other down every day. When every disagreement between us had to be someone’s fault.

I took another sip of my drink.

“Anyway,” I said quietly. “What about you. Your mother?”

“She passed away last year. Cancer.”

“I’m—”

“Sorry?” Sarah smiled sadly again. “You know what? Maybe we should both stop saying that and just take it for granted?”

“That might be an idea.”

“And honestly, there’s no need for you to be sorry.” She looked down at her bottle, a thoughtful expression on her face. “She was sick for a long time. That’s why I came back to the island: to look after her. Maybe I didn’t come back soon enough, which is what I meant about blaming yourself. But I didn’t know how sick she was. And obviously, who wants to come back here, right?”

“Right.”

Sarah told me that she’d worked her way through various jobs after finishing university, but for the last few years had been settled at a charity for animals. I wanted to smile at that, remembering how she’d been able to identify tracks in the woods as a kid. She’d always had a passion for wildlife. It felt right.

“But when Mum got sick, I took compassionate leave,” she said. “And they were good people there, honestly. There was an expectation that myposition would be waiting for me, as and when I could go back. But then some things went south for them, financially, and they had to make a few difficult decisions, and one of them was me. Things were tight for me by then too. My mother had a lot of debt. And so here I am.”

She took a mouthful of her own drink. The expression on her face suggested it tasted bitter.

“Here I am,” she said again quietly. “Back where I fucking started.”

I was about to reply, but a memory hit me: the last time I had seen her in person before now. Here on the island, the night before we both left for different universities. The gathering was a traditional one that happened every year: kids heading to a spot on the beach far away from the tourist areas, the police turning a blind eye as we all drank, played music, and danced around a bonfire so bright that it made everything around it seem pitch black and invisible, a small spot of light in the infinite dark.

Most people brought something to put on that fire. Notes they’d taken in hated classes; old school uniforms too worn to be passed down; report cards and detention slips. The symbolism was clear. We were all about to move forward into the various futures that awaited us, and so that night we would leave some of our past behind in ash on one of the island’s beaches.

I had brought a book with me. It was calledThe Man Made of Smoke, the definitive account of the Pied Piper murders, and I had read it so many times that the pages were worn and feathery. I remembered sitting on the rocks, away from the others, turning it around in my hands. And at one point, I looked up and saw Sarah.

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