The farm and Angel’s stayed Malcolm’s. The deeds were in his name. No one could touch them. The last time Mary ever visited him in prison, he told her he’d use the money to start again on his own when he got out. She never went to see him after that.
Michael wasn’t so lucky. He only got two years after striking a deal with the police, but he had no money to come back to and no reason to come out. He was the man people had trusted. The man they confided in. Now he was nothing to anyone, just a topic of discussion on Sunday mornings. Malcolm had gone down, and taken Michael with him, and while Michael would be getting out of prison first, he’d return to nothing. No job. No house. No life.
About two months later, something good happened. As the first spring sunlight broke through the trees, Mary got a phone call at the hospital. She was on the ward at the time. The caller was told he could phone back or he could wait. He decided to wait. When Mary finished her rounds, she took the call. It was Alex. He wanted her to come and meet him in France.
Sometimes the good things were worth fighting for.
I drove back to Carcondrock about a month after Malcolm and Michael had tried to kill me. I buried the box full of photographs, because it seemed like the right thing to do. I called Kathy to tell her Alex was alive, and then Cary, but couldn’t tell either of them more than that, for all the reasons I couldn’t tell Mary. Every day, Alex nudged a little closer to the light, carrying the weight of what his father had done, and what he himself had done to Al. When he got there, he could tell all his friends himself — and he could finally explain to Kathy face to face why he left, and why she was never a mistake.
When I filled in the hole, after burying the box, there wasn’t enough sand. The top of the hole sank in, making it look disturbed. I didn’t want to leave it like that, but there was a kind of resonance to it. Because each of those memories — every photograph in that box — had been disturbed a little as well.
Finally, on my way home, I stopped at the cemetery.
But this time there were no birds in the trees. No birds flying to freedom. I like to think it was because they had already flown. Everything in that cemetery, all the sorrow it contained, had escaped to the skies.
And Derryn had gone with it.
When I got home that night, the house felt different. I couldn’t explain it, wasn’t even sure I was meant to. But it felt more welcoming, as if something had changed. I didn’t put the TV on, like I always did when I got home. I forgot about it. And by the time I became conscious of the fact that I hadn’t, I was in the shower in the bathroom wiping soap from my eyes. Afterwards, I felt a strange compulsion to be close to Derryn’s things, and sat on the edge of the bed, running my fingers down the spines of her books.
The next time I really became lucid, clear about what I was doing, it was three o’clock in the morning, and I was staring up at the ceiling. For the first time in a long time, I’d gone back to the bedroom and fallen asleep in our bed. And the sound I was hearing, on the boundaries of sleep, wasn’t the sound of the television as it always was.
It was the sound of something else.
My thoughts were of Derryn, looking across at me from her rocking chair the first time I ever considered helping someone. Everything about her was so clear to me. I had a feeling wash over me, the feeling that this was the end of one stage of my life and the beginning of another. And then I heard that same sound again.
I don’t know how much time went by, but what started out as an abstract noise quickly consumed me, then pulled me away with it. And as I fell away into the darkness of sleep, the darkness I wasn’t scared of, the darkness that took me down below the surface, all I could hear was the sea.
Acknowledgements
There are a great many people who have helped with the writing of this book.
My agent Camilla Bolton has been a constant source of guidance and encouragement, and is always armed to the teeth with incredible ideas and suggestions. Plus, she pretends to laugh at my jokes, and never fails to answer an email (even the really boring ones, of which there are many). Maddie Buston and everyone else at Darley Anderson also deserve a special mention for all their hard work and support, and for getting behind me from day one.
A big thank you to my editor Stefanie Bierwerth, who took a chance on a book by a first-time author and whose eye for a story helped to massively improve the novel when it arrived on her desk. She was also kind enough to give me a say in other areas of publication when she really didn’t have to. I also want to say a huge thanks to the fantastic team at Penguin, who have worked so tirelessly on my behalf.
The ‘Just Switch It On And Let Him Talk’ award goes to Bruce Bennett, whose fascinating tales of police life provided more hours of Dictaphone tape than I could ever hope to use (or want to transcribe). Any errors are entirely of my own making.
For their faith, support and prayers: my mum and dad, whose belief never wavered and who I have so much to thank for; my little sis Lucy; and my extended family, both in the UK and in South Africa. And lastly, the two girls in my life: Erin, who I love more than anything in the world — even football. And my partner-in-crime, Sharlé, who had to put her evenings and weekends on hold for two years, but who has been there since before the book was even an idea, and who is, quite simply, the best.
About the Author
Tim Weaver was born in 1977. He left school at eighteen and started working in magazine journalism, and has since gone on to develop a successful career writing about films, TV, sport, games and technology. He is married with a young daughter, and lives near Bath. Chasing the Dead is his first novel.