Page 95 of The Man Made of Smoke

You fucked up again, didn’t you?

You failed us just like you fail at everything.

There’s no answer to those accusations. John feels the truth of them in his bones. He’d imagined he could draw a line and move on. That it was all history and wasn’t important. But all these people might still be alive if he’d reported what he’d found. He used to think that he and Daniel’s encounter with the Pied Piper had poisoned everything, but the reality seems starker than that right now. It’s not what happened at the rest area. It’s John himself. That afternoon was just another moment in a life spent slipping, falling, and failing.

I’m sorry, he thinks.

But the voices are too angry. There is no possibility of forgiveness there. And how could there be, when the voices are coming from inside him? As they grow in volume and fury, he turns and heads quickly back down the path, moving faster, until, by the time he reaches the car, he is running, his heart pounding hard in his chest. And yet the voices behind him seem to have kept pace, even grown louder with every step.

It’s all your fault.

John leans on the side of the vehicle, breathing slowly and steadily, trying to calm himself down. But just as his pulse begins to settle, he registers a buzzing at his hip.

His mobile ringing.

He leans away from the car and takes his phone out of his pocket. The screen shows an unknown number, and he stares down at it for a few seconds before accepting the call and lifting the phone to his ear.

“Hello?” he says.

No reply.

John shifts his body slightly, looking around him. He has the sensation of being watched, even though the world is serene and silent, and there is nobody in sight.

He turns back, pressing the mobile more tightly against his face.

“Hello?” he says again.

Silence.

And then the man speaks.

Twenty-Seven

It was midafternoon when Sarah and I arrived back at the island.

We didn’t talk much on the drive home. For most of the journey, I was trying to process the thoughts I’d had back at the rest area, and Sarah either sensed that I wanted some space to do so, or else just needed some of her own.

On the ferry, I kept an eye on the other passengers.

Were we being watched? If so, I couldn’t tell.

Nobody sees, I thought.And nobody cares.

When the ferry reached the island, I drove us to her mother’s home and parked. When she got out, I followed her up the path and waited as she unlocked the front door. Then I went into the front room and rattled the latch on the window.

She looked at me. “What are you—?”

“Making sure the house is secure.”

For a second, it seemed like she wanted to argue with me. But then she stared down the dimly lit corridor ahead of us and shrugged.

“Maybe do the kitchen first?” she said. “I need coffee.”

“On it.”

The kitchen window was locked, the back door bolted. Sarah set the kettle boiling as I headed upstairs, and I heard it rumbling away belowme as I did a tour of the other rooms in the house. Everything was locked and safe. The kettle clicked off as I walked back through into the kitchen.

We sat down at the table.

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