Page 90 of The Man Made of Smoke

The toilets were still at the far end of the concourse.

“I guess I’ll wait here,” Sarah said when we reached them.

“That’s probably for the best.”

“Are you going to be okay?”

I looked at her and did my best to smile.

“I really don’t know.”

But there was no point in hesitating.

I turned around and pushed open the door.

The corridor had been renovated. The tiles on the floor and the walls were clean and new, and the air smelled of fresh lemon disinfectant. The lights above didn’t flicker or hum. There was none of the sense of threat I remembered. No feeling that this was an adult space in which I didn’tyet belong. The corridor ahead seemed much shorter than it had when I was a child.

I walked down and turned the corner at the end.

The layout was the same. The toilets were long and narrow, with the cubicles on the right-hand side and a urinal along the opposite wall. The sink and mirror were at the far end, just as they had been back then. My reflection stared back from the mirror. It seemed to approach me as I walked forward.

I stopped halfway across the room and closed my eyes.

I’m here, I thought.

Then I waited.

After a few seconds, the temperature dropped, and I sensed the lights begin to dim and flicker. From somewhere in the back of my mind, the faint sound of whistling drifted free. A shiver ran down my spine at the noise. It was the same deliberate and careful melody I’d heard back then, somehow both familiar and impossible to place. My heart started beating faster. On a rational level I knew that all of this was just my imagination. That I was alone in here. But it no longer felt like I was.

Okay then, I thought.

Let’s take a look at you.

I opened my eyes.

The little boy in front of me was exactly as I remembered him. Skinny frame all but lost in the baggy old clothes; a streak of dirt across his cheek; eyes wide and desperate. He did look a little like Robbie Garforth, but it was clear to me now that it was not him, and I wondered how I had ever allowed myself to be convinced otherwise.

The whistling was coming from the closed cubicle beside him. The boy looked at it for a second, and that reminded me of the moment when I had ducked into a cubicle of my own to hide. But this time, I remained where I was. As awful as it felt to be back here, I knew deep down that nothing was going to hurt me right now.

A moment later, the boy’s terrified gaze returned to my own.

Help me.

And I wanted to. So desperately. If I had been an adult back then, Iwould have walked across, picked him up in my arms, and carried him out of here to safety. But it was too late for that now.

I can’t, I thought.

Please.

I can’t. That’s not why I’m here.

I hate you.His face contorted in rage.I hate you all so much!

I know.

Then I glanced at the closed door to the cubicle.

Why didn’t you run? I thought. When he was locked away in there?

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