'I was giving in to all kinds of fantasies on the way here,' Chantelle said when he had finished. 'My father turning out to be a nice guy despite everything. Taking me to meet my mother and my stepsister and making everything all right again. Giving me back my family. I saw my mother on the flight from Jersey, would you believe? Of all the ironies. I saw her, but I couldn't speak to her. I could still speak to her today, though, couldn't I? At the church. Or the cemetery. She'll be there, in just a few hours, to say goodbye to Jem. And I could be there too. But if I am…' She thumbed the tears away from her eyes and gazed imploringly at Umber. 'What my father planned for us, will it work? Will it really work?'
'I think so, yes.'
'And nothing else can?'
'I don't see how.'
'But Tamsin has to stay dead?'
'Yes.'
'And they have to bury Jem without me?'
'Yes.'
'We'll be on a plane to Zurich, while they're shovelling the earth in on top of his coffin?'
'Chantelle -'
'It's OK.' She held his hand. 'What will they say about you, Shadow Man?'
'I don't know. Nothing good, I suspect.'
'I kept the Juniuses safe for you.' She nodded to her rucksack on the bench beside her. 'Never thought you'd get the fly-leaves, though.'
'Neither did I.'
'How long before we have to go?'
Umber glanced at his watch. 'Half an hour. Till the London train gets in. It stops at Reading. We can take the coach from there to Heathrow.'
'And fly away from everything?'
'That's the idea.'
'When there was no answer from that number you gave me – the psychotherapist's – I thought you must have…' She shook her head. 'It was weird to hear his voice on the phone. My father's, I mean. I couldn't think of anything else to try. I just… hoped I could shame him into telling me the truth.'
'You did. But he told it to me instead. I don't think…'
'He could have faced me with it?'
'He's done his best for you, Chantelle. Strangely enough, he always has done.'
'The two of us together. That was his idea?'
'Yes.'
'You sure you want to go with me?'
'Would you rather go alone?'
She frowned. "Course not.'
'There you are, then.'
'But -'
'I'm sure, Chantelle. OK?'
'OK.' She took a long, slow breath. 'Half an hour, you said?'
'About that.'
'I think I'll take a stroll. Stretch my legs. I… need some space. Y'know?'
'I know.'
'Don't worry. I won't go far.'
She rose and walked away, head alternately bowed and thrown back. She passed the steps leading up to the footbridge and pressed on along the platform, her arms folded pensively across her chest. Umber wondered what she was thinking. They were, in many ways, strangers to each other. That would change, though. It was bound to, in the days and weeks – and months and years – that lay ahead of them.
'What will they say about you?' she had asked. And there had come no ready answer. Claire, Alice, George Sharp, the Questreds: they would not understand. It was, ironically, essential they should not. It was vital his conduct should be a mystery to them, vital he should never explain himself, especially to those he most owed an explanation.
'I guess that makes us even, Sal,' he murmured. 'Now we're both destined to be misjudged.'
The zip on Chantelle's rucksack was not fully closed. Through the gap Umber could see the pale vellum spines of the Juniuses, kept safe for him, just as she had said. The sudden need for certainty came over him. He tugged the zip another few inches open and lifted the volumes out. They were tied together with pink ribbon. Chantelle must have bought it specially. He smiled at the thought as he released the knot.
Placing the two volumes on the bench beside him, he leant forward, opened his holdall and pulled out the envelope Oliver Hall had given him. He tipped it up and a smaller envelope slid out into his lap. He raised its torn flap and delicately removed one of two flimsy pieces of paper – the missing fly-leaves. He opened the first volume of the Junius and matched the jagged left-hand edge of the fly-leaf he had chosen to the dog-tooth fragments held by the book's binding. The last scintilla of doubt vanished. The match was perfect. He gazed in wonderment at the inscription, still unable to imagine how different his life would have been if he had seen this twenty-three years ago. Both fly-leaves were inscribed Frederick L. Griffin, Strand-under-Green, March 1773, but only the one Marilyn had torn from the first volume bore the additional inscription, in the same hand, at which Umber stared fixedly as he closed the book and held the fly-leaf before him. Junius's 'gentleman who transacts the conveyancing part of our correspondence' had been identified at last. Umber chuckled at the surpassing irony and glanced along the platform, hoping to catch Chantelle's eye, eager to show her this final confirmation of what he could still scarcely believe.
She was looking in his direction, but did not seem to notice his signal. Then he realized she was looking past him, squinting into the distance, focusing on something she could see down the line. He turned to see for himself.
It was an approaching train, speeding towards them. The rails had just begun to sing. It could not be the London train. It was far too early. And it was travelling too fast to stop anyway. It was probably a goods train. One had sped through earlier on the other line while they had been talking.
He looked back at Chantelle. In that instant, fear gripped him. She was standing at the very edge of the platform, well beyond the yellow danger line. She was holding her arms stiffly at her sides. Her face was a mask of concentration, her mouth half-open, her eyes staring, her brain judging distance and speed and time in precise ratios.
Umber sprang up from the bench and started running towards her. The train's horn blared. Chantelle did not move. The noise of the train grew. The note of the rails' reverberation deepened. Umber's feet pounded the concrete as he ran, his lungs straining, his limbs stretching, his injured knee jarring. He had never run faster in his life.
But he was still too slow. The distance he had to cover was too great. 'Don't!' he shouted. But Chantelle could not have heard him above the roar of the train even if she had wanted to. There was a second blast of the horn. The dark blur of the locomotive swept past Umber. In the shrinking instant before Chantelle jumped into its path, he closed his eyes.
Umber had stopped running, his final strides carrying him blindly to within a few yards of where Chantelle had been standing. The deafening clatter of the train filled his ears as the long line of trucks surged past him. He leaned forward with his hands on his knees, gulping air, his heart thumping, his mind in chaos.
The train was gone. Noise and motion were spent. The present was a frozen moment. Umber opened his eyes and looked up.
Chantelle was crouching on the platform, her hands held over her mouth, looking straight at him. She had not moved from the spot where she had been standing. She had not jumped.
Umber stared disbelievingly at her. Then he felt his lips curling into a broad, spontaneous grin. 'Chantelle,' he said, shaking his head in relief. 'Chantelle.'
'I'm sorry,' she said, lowering her hands. 'Christ, I'm sorry.'
'I thought you were going to jump.'
'I know.' Something between a sob and a gasp came over her. She squeezed her eyes shut. 'So did I.'
Umber stood upright and moved across to her. Clasping her beneath the arms, he pulled her gently to her feet, then led her back towards the bench.
'Are you OK?' he asked banally, when they were sitting down again.
'Reckon so.' Chantelle pulled a tissue out of her pocket and dabbed her eyes. 'Now I know I can't do it.'