Page 24 of The Man Made of Smoke

You brought the body of a woman out here to the woods, I thought. You took a photograph of the moment she was found. And then you sent it to the person who did so, knowing full well that it would lead them to the scene you left behind.

Why would you do that?

Once again, the figure behind me said nothing. But then I heard a man’s voice, raised finally from my subconscious, but still so quiet for the moment that it was barely louder than a whisper.

Isn’t it obvious?he said.

And then a sigh, almost lost to the wind.

I did it because I wanted to be seen.

James

February 1998

“Look at this!” his mother says. “We made it.”

James glances up expectantly. He is eleven years old and has never been to the seaside before. He’s seen it on television and in brochures, though, and for the last few weeks the images have been locked in his head, waiting to become real. Warm yellow sunshine; blue skies and seas; everyone smiling and happy. He’s been so giddy that he’s found it hard to sleep.

But as his mother takes the turnoff for the campsite now, it’s nothing like how he imagined. He leans down to peer out, and his heart sinks a little. It’s not very different at all. The sky through the windscreen ahead is gray and empty—the same one he sees every day out of his little bedroom window in the tower block—and there’s no sign of the sea. There’s just grass shivering in the cold wind on the ridges of moorland around them.

It could be anywhere.

Hey!Barnaby tells him.You’re strong!

You’re brave!

James strokes the head of the soft toy lion in his lap.

Barnaby is his best friend. James has had him for as long as he canremember. He had an argument with his mother last year, because the other children at school were beginning to make fun of him for taking Barnaby into lessons, and his mother wanted him to stop.I’ll look after him at home; he’ll be fine, I promise.She’d been pretty full-on about it. But when he finally managed to get it through to her how much Barnaby helped him, she had eventually sighed and looked sad, and then she hadn’t mentioned it again.

They pull up on an expanse of gravel at the side of the road.

James looks around. The car park is bedraggled and empty. But that makes sense, right? His mother has told him—over and over—that this is an odd time of year to come on holiday, but that it means the place will be cheap and they’ll have it all to themselves. It had sounded like she was trying to convince herself as much as him, and he can tell that she’s still trying to do that now, staring out at this windswept, barren place.

She says something now. He doesn’t quite catch it.

“Mum?” he asks.

A dot of rain lands on the windscreen.

“I saidI’m sorry, James. I know it doesn’t look that good.”

He looks at her for a moment, feeling helpless. It’s bad when she’s angry at him, but that doesn’t happen often and it doesn’t matter because he knows it won’t last. It’s always so much worse when she’s like this: angry at herself. Because she doesn’t deserve to be.

You know what to do, Barnaby tells him.

“It looks great, Mum.” He remembers what she’s told him. “We’ll make the best of it. There are some nice walks around here. And you borrowed a little gas burner, so we can cook dinner together out in the open tonight. And the sleeping bags are warmer than they look. We’ll have fun.”

She stares back at him for a moment.

He waits.

Then she ruffles his hair.

“You and me against the world, James,” she says quietly. “Right?”

“Yes.” He’s so pleased. “Always.”

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