When did it change? Did it change the day he lost his job? Or was it always like this?
It’s impossible to know if we were a good thing that we broke somehow or a bad thing that eventually became exposed. But either way, if I could just go back now to the way we were, I would. I would, without a moment’s hesitation. If I could just lie in his arms one last time, I could live with an illusion the rest of my life. If I could, I would.
I don’t know why I reach for the phone. It’s not part of the plan. I just want to speak to him. One last time. And it can’t possibly hurt. I dial Mark’s mobile number and for an instant when it connects, my breath catches in my throat and I think he’s answered, that he’s alive after all, and everything that happened before was just some kind of trick. He’ll explain everything and he’ll be on his way home to me and I’ll get to hold him in my arms again. But of course it’s not him, he’s not alive, it wasn’t a trick, and he’s not coming home to me—it’s just his voicemail message. His deep assured voice, my favorite sound in all the world. And when the tone sounds at the end of it I can hardly speak.
“Mark?” My voice comes out cracked and thick. “I miss you so much. I wish you would just come home. Please come home, Mark. Please, please, please. I don’t know why this happened, why you went away from me. But I’m sorry. I’m sorry if I wasn’t good to you, if I didn’t do the right things…say the right things. I’m sorry. But I love you more than you will ever, ever know. And I always will.” I put down the phone and cry in my empty house.
I made a lot of bargains with a God I don’t believe in last night in bed. I would give back all of the money for how it was before. Everything back the way it was.
Before the police arrive I pore through our photo albums. We put them together last Christmas after the engagement. For our future kids: Mum and Dad when they were young.
So many memories. His face in the firelight, blurred Christmas lights behind him. The smell of smoke. Mulled wine. Pine. My fingers running across his thick sweater. His hair on my cheek. The scent of him, close. His weight. His kisses. His love.
Wasn’t it real? Any of it? It felt real. It felt so real.
They were the best days of my life. Each day with him.
In my heart I believe it was real. He was scared of failing. He was flawed. I know. I’m flawed too. I wish I could have saved him. I wish I could have saved us. He lost his job. That’s all that happened, really. But I know what that means to some men. People died after the financial crash. Some jumped and some took pills or alcohol. Mark survived. He survived eight years longer than some of his friends.
He knew he couldn’t go back to what he did before and he didn’t want to start over. He didn’t want to be less than he had been. He was terrified, I see that now, of going backward, going back home to East Riding, back to the bottom, back to where he started. And fear is corrosive.
I wish I had seen it. I wish I could have fixed it.
But it’s done. He’s gone. And I am alone. I don’t think I’ll try again. I don’t think I could. I’ll love Mark until my dying day. Whether we were real or not, I loved him.
Fuck, I miss him.
* * *
—
When the police arrive I’m a mess.
I made that missing-person call over two months ago now. The missing-persons team wanted everything. His friends’ phone numbers, addresses, family, work contacts. I gave them his computer, his bank information, told them all the places he frequented. I told them about the bank letting him go. The arguments we’d had about it and how I believed we’d come through it. I told them about his new business plans. I told them about Hector. What Hector said to me on the phone that day. I told them everything they wanted to know. They even took his old toothbrush, for DNA.
Three days after that, DCI Foster turned up on my doorstep too. My connection with another investigation had been flagged by his office. Mark’s disappearance wasn’t being investigated by SO15, of course, but it had piqued their interest. Andy wasn’t there on official business, he told me, but he did have a few questions for me. I answered them, remembering the calls from him I hadn’t returned, guilt flushing my cheeks. I suppose it is hard to believe that one person can be connected to two missing persons and not be involved in both disappearances. But then, if I’ve learned anything recently, it’s that life sometimes is weirdly random.
Convincing Andy that there was nothing to see was difficult. But in the end, I’m a lot of things but I’m not part of a terrorist organization. I never had anything to do with Holli and her flight to Syria. And Mark was a lot of things too, but he certainly didn’t flee to Syria like Holli. It took me a while to convince Andy of that fact, though, and if the police weren’t bugging me before that day, they definitely started bugging me after.
I keep my eyes peeled in the news for anything about a missing plane but nothing has surfaced in the past two months. The plane people seem to have vanished without a trace. I often think about those people deep underwater; I wonder if they’re still down there in the darkness, still safely strapped in their seats. I try not to, but I do.
I can’t help but wonder what was on that USB, why it meant so much to the man in the woods and, I’m assuming, to whoever he worked for? I’ve thought about it a lot. Those endless files full of encrypted text: were they accounts, details of companies, individuals’ names, addresses? I remember those emails I found in the Russian account back in Bora Bora. Shell companies. Arms. Hacked data. I don’t know. Maybe. But I’m glad I didn’t get a chance to decrypt it; I’m thankful for Eddie’s advice—I’m pretty sure they would have come looking for me if we’d actually read or copied whatever was on that USB. And what would I have done with that information anyway?
I steered clear of calling Eddie after the police came. Luckily, my follow-up interview with him was booked for the beginning of this month. Phil and I went to his house. Eddie Bishop’s actual house. Simon was there too. Lottie was there. I guess Eddie and his daughter made up, God knows how. Simon had been right—Lottie’s crying must have been a good start. I suppose Eddie is a pretty persuasive guy, and Lottie seemed happy enough.
After filming, Phil left us alone for a couple of minutes while he nipped to the loo. Lottie was with her kids watching cartoons in the TV room. Eddie thanked me again for the favor, for talking to his daughter. He pulled me into a hug.
And as he pulled me close he whispered in my ear. “All sorted now, sweetheart?”
“All sorted, Eddie, all sorted,” I whispered back.
“Glad to hear it. Listen, I’m going to need you to do me another favor, sweetheart. At some point. Nothing too big. Nothing you can’t handle,” he said, and released me from the hug with a sly smile.
Simon grinned at us. “You better watch yourself, Erin. He’s a wrong’un, you know.”
So am I, I thought. It was nice there. I felt welcome. I felt accepted. I suppose I’m part of the group now. Another favor. I should have seen that one coming. He’s got my back, though. I know that. And I owe him, don’t I?
* * *
—
I’m staying at Alexa’s house at the moment. For this week anyway. A fugitive from my own life, I suppose. I just don’t want to be alone in our house on Christmas morning. Not for all the money in the world.
Alexa and her father invited me. I can hear them pottering around in the kitchen downstairs. We’re having ham tonight. Apparently it’s a Christmas Eve tradition. New traditions. New beginnings. They’ve both been really supportive since it’s all happened. Since Mark disappeared.
I know what you’re thinking. I’m starting to believe my own lies. And, yeah, you’re right. But I’d rather believe my lies than the truth in Mark’s eyes in that clearing.