Page 62 of The Man Made of Smoke

It rings for a while.

When someone eventually picks up, they say nothing.

John waits. There’s an obvious presence in the silence on the other end of the line, and he can tell that they sense him here too. The two of them are stuck at an impasse right now, and, for their own very different reasons, neither of them is prepared to break it. This is the third day in a row that he has dialed this number, the first being immediately after returning from that visit to the barge.

Darren Field’s wife had spoken to him that time.

No, I’m sorry, she said.

Darren’s not here right now.

That’s fine, he told her.I’ll try again tomorrow. Not a problem.

After hanging up, he’d done his best to convince himself that what he’d just said to her was true. That there was not necessarily any kind ofproblemat all. When he’d spoken to Gill, he’d taken the initiative a little: second-guessing what Rose’s account of events might have been. The fact that he had been right, and that it echoed what Darren Field had told him so closely, could hardly be a coincidence. However outlandish the stories might have been individually, they corroborated each other.

But that didn’t mean anything had happened to Field since. Even accepting the stories at face value—even if every word of them was true—Field had done what the killer told him, hadn’t he? There was no way in which Rose deserved what had happened to her, but she had broken the rules and gone to the police. Whereas the only person Field had spoken to about what had happened was John.

And he isn’t police anymore.

But he had begun to wonder about that. Whoever was responsible for this had not only taken a photograph of John in the woods with the woman’s body, but had hand-delivered it to the house afterward. The killer knew that much about John. And even if he was aware that John was no longer police, perhaps to him that was a distinction without a difference.

John had tried the number again yesterday, and Field’s wife had answered the call again. This time, she had sounded more frightened, and he had heard the desperation in thehelloshe’d offered, followed immediately by the frustration when John had asked her if Darren was home. Itwas obvious she had been hoping the call would have been from someone else.

No, he isn’t, she’d said.I don’t know where Darren is.

Who is—?

John had hung up.

He waits now, the silence heavy in his ear. There’s no point in asking the question. Darren Field isn’t there. He can sense the same feeling of desperation as yesterday, and realizes he doesn’t want to take the hope away from her by speaking and revealing himself once again. Because deep down, whatever he tries to tell himself, he is certain that he has already done enough damage to this family.

The silence stretches out for a few more seconds.

“Darren?” Field’s wife whispers.

John says nothing.

“Is that you, baby?”

She starts crying.

“Please come home. I’m sorry. I’ll do anything, I—”

John hangs up.

What have you done?

His vision stars over suddenly, and he places a hand against the dirty plastic of the phone box to steady himself. Then lowers his head and takes a series of deep breaths.

Minutes pass.

And then, finally, he looks up and nods to himself.

What have you done?

That question stays with him all the way home. It feels like some variation of it has been with him his whole life. The self-hatred and worthlessness have been inside him since childhood, like a well of lava that erupts occasionally, shattering the crust. The last few years might have been peaceful on the surface, but the feelings have always been there, only ever hidden slightly underneath. And they emerge with ferocity now.

You’re worthless.

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