Page 33 of The Man Made of Smoke

He knocks and waits.

A woman answers the door. She’s in her forties, and pretty, but she also looks tired and maybe even a little apprehensive. He glances down and notes the wedding ring. When he looks up again and smiles, she doesn’t smile back.

“Good afternoon,” he says. “I was hoping to speak to your husband.”

“You and me both.”

“Is Darren in?”

“What do you want with him?”

The question suggests that Field is somewhere in the house. John has most likely just arrived in the middle of an argument, and the woman is more than happy to take her frustration out on a random stranger on the doorstep.

“It’s a private matter,” he says. “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to discuss it with Darren in person.”

She stares at him for a few seconds, looks over his shoulder at the car parked at the bottom of the drive, then shrugs and calls loudly into the house.

“Darren.Someone here for you.”

A muffled reply.

“No fucking idea,” she shouts back. “How would I know?”

There are a few seconds of silence, and then John hears a door opening somewhere behind her in the house. A moment later, a man arrives at the front door. Darren Field is tall and good-looking. John guesses that, with a suit and some hair gel, he’d be the type given to acting the alpha at work and in the wine bars afterward. But right now he’s wearing a dressing gown and his hair is messy. He has the air of a man who’s been drinking too much and sleeping too little, and who maybe hasn’t been into work for a while.

John smiles.

“Darren?”

“Yeah.” Field stares at him. “Do I know you?”

John starts to shake his head—but then, suddenly, he’s not sure that’s true. The sensation is eerie. He’s not convinced the two of them have ever met, but at the same time, there’s something familiar about the man, and he feels an itch at the back of his mind that he can’t put his finger on to scratch.

Field’s wife has retreated a little, but he can see her standing near a doorway inside, still close enough to hear.

“No,” John says. “You don’t know me. But I think there’s something the two of us need to talk about. And I was hoping we could have that conversation in private. It’s about the island.”

Field shakes his head.

“I don’t know anything about an island.”

John hesitates. Maybe that’s true, but he can tell Field isn’t anywhere near as relaxed as he’s trying to come across as being. There’s something wrong here. Field doesn’t know who he is, but he also doesn’t seem remotely surprised to have a stranger knock on his door wanting a private chat.

John decides to take a chance and leans in as close as he can.

“It’s about the woman.”

The change in Field’s demeanor is immediate and obvious. There’s a sharp intake of breath and a stiffening of his body. He tries to hide it a second later, but he’s no actor. And as John leans away again, he thinks that maybe Field doesn’twantto hide it. He has the air of a man with a weight inside him he’s desperate to unload, and the heaviness of whatever he’s holding is right there on his face.

God, John thinks.

He looks like he’s struggling not to cry.

Field looks out past him, as though he’s checking the road at the bottom of the driveway.

Seconds pass.

Then he looks back and nods.

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