Page 98 of The Man Made of Smoke

So why had he never come forward?

He had been unable to run from the man when he had the opportunity, which suggested that he had been indoctrinated. As I’d said to Sarah, perhaps he had been involved in the man’s murders. An apprentice. In which case, it was possible that he had even been upset when the Pied Piper died and made a conscious decision to stay wherever it was that he was being held, assuming thatheldwas even the right word by then.

I hit the bag harder.

That idea suggested a degree of self-sufficiency. If the boy had made it to adulthood without being detected, there had clearly been little need for interaction with the outside world. He had been able to grow into the man he was now in private, presumably living most of his life off-grid, at least when he was younger. Which also fit with the fact that nobody had ever identified the Pied Piper.

I remembered the muddy boots and filthy van.

A working farm of some kind?

Perhaps. I was well aware that I might be overreaching here, and that it was dangerous to make assumptions without evidence. And yet the thoughts were beginning to come as fast as the punches.

Thud, thud, thud.

Thud, thud, THUD.

I held the bag for a second, catching my breath. Then pushed it away and started again.

Thud, thud, THUD.

Why hadn’t he reconnected with his real family?

Perhaps they were dead, or there was nobody hewantedto return to. It was possible that after everything he’d been through, he no longer felt any connection to the real world. After all, his photograph had been widely circulated and nobody had come forward. No child matching his description had ever been reported missing. And if nobody had cared about him before he was taken, why would he have assumed anyone would do so afterward?

Especially if he had done something terrible.

I stopped again. The bag creaked back and forth on its chain for a second before I stilled it. My arms were shaky, my breath coming hard and fast.

I tried to conjure up a presence behind me.

Who are you?I thought.

No answer.

Where are you?

No answer.

I pushed the bag away again. As I started hitting it now, the punches began to come quicker and harder.

Thud, thud, thud, THUD.

Thud, thud, thud, THUD.

The Zen-like state of a few minutes earlier had deserted me. My subconscious had gone silent, which meant that there must be some detail I wasn’t seeing, and that angered me. All the other emotions that had been building up over the last few days were close to the surface too. I could feel them brimming over. And then I lost any sense of technique. I just gritted my teeth and punched the bag with all my force, the blows reverberating through my arms and shoulders. Harder and harder—

THUD THUD THUD THUD THUD THUD.

—until I couldn’t hit the bag anymore.

I rested my forearm against the leather, and then my head on my arm,my heart pounding and my whole body trembling. After taking a minute to get my breath back, I opened my eyes. It had been stupid to lose control like that, and I was lucky not to have hurt myself.

I had not been detached. I had not been calm.

Even so, I felt exhilarated.

Feels good, doesn’t it, my son?

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