‘Don’t you dare try and take her away too!’ Christian snaps. ‘We were the same. The same thoughts. The same desires. It was all written down. The whole fucking world saw it!’
‘Just words,’ says Nathan again, staring at Katie, making sure she is still conscious, taking comfort in the increasing distance between the knife and her. ‘Just her imagination. She would never have done the things you’ve done. You’d have to be a monster. Jesus, look at Steven Fish: I stood on the edge of that insanity.’
‘I think you’ll be standing on the edge of it again,’ says Christian, with a sneer. ‘Long after this is over. There’s plenty still to reveal about that particular case.’ He pushes out a breath and then starts to smile. ‘But believe what you like for now, big bro. I know the truth about Mum and me. Twenty years ago today. The symmetry is impossible to resist.’ Suddenly his face transforms. ‘So sorry to leave you alone,’ he says, lifting the knife.
Nathan reaches out desperately, realising what’s about to happen. But it’s too late. An arching spray of blood covers him, and he can feel the warmth of a few specks striking his face. Then the darkness rises and takes him, both brothers crumpling to the floor in perfect synchronicity.
Thirty-Six
Darkness. Endless darkness. At least it had seemed that way. But now there’s a sound, the faintest whisper, which is growing louder. It cuts through everything, all the doubt, all the fear, all the emptiness. It cuts through everything like a razor-sharp blade, even though the sound is anything but sharp; it is soft and warm and without any edges at all. She wants to reach for it, to pull it closer still so that it envelops her, embraces her and lifts her out of the darkness, but she knows there is no need. It’s coming anyway. It cannot be stopped. All she needs to do is wait a few seconds more.
She opens her eyes then closes them again. It’s too much, too bright, too real. She follows this routine several times, each time managing to hold her eyes open for a little bit longer, until eventually she’s drawing in shapes as well. They’re moving over her and they’re saying things, kind things. She wants to talk back to them, whoever they are, to tell them she’s okay, but there’s something in her mouth, something of which she’s becoming increasingly aware. She’s also becoming aware, despite the light, that she might not be okay. She’s remembering what happened. Something is blocking the physical pain, and when she moves her arm she can feel the tubes, but nothing can stop the images flashing up in her mind, several of which are telling her that she shouldn’t try and touch her stomach or her face.
As she lies there, oblivious to time, it’s like she’s trying to rediscover who she is. She tries to imagine who she might be now it’s over. There had been occasions when her looks had been a curse, preventing others from taking her seriously, preventing them from seeing who she wanted to be. Now it will be so much worse. Everyone will see her face and feel horror, or even worse still – pity, perhaps even the one man she most wants to see. She doesn’t allow herself to cry. If she retains nothing else from her previous existence she can at least be strong. And if she isn’t strong, if she doesn’t survive, if she doesn’t get over what has gone before, then the unforgiveable will have happened: the evil that did this to her will have won.
Not that this case has ever been about winning. From the very start she’s known it was about degrees of losing. There are other differences from previous cases, too, priorities that seem to have been realigned. It’s always been about catching the culprit, but right now her primary concern is for the victims: for the sons, the daughters, the mothers, the fathers and for one person in particular.
‘Nathan?’ The tape and narrow tube in her mouth stop the name from emerging, but she continues to try until it is finally removed. It leaves her throat burning. Perhaps they see the focus in her eyes or the tightness of her grip on the white sheets, but they soon stop asking.
* * *
The answer does not come till later that evening. He stands in the doorway with a bunch of flowers, and a smile on his face that is wonderful to see and yet far from convincing. Nathan places the flowers at the end of the bed and moves around and close to her. He looks hesitant about getting too close, as if she might be scared of him, but from somewhere she suddenly finds the strength to reach out and grab his sleeve and drag him in. The pain is extraordinary, right across her stomach, in her core. But it’s worth it. He leans over and kisses her lightly on the crown of her head, then looks at her, just as he had back in the disused factory. She returns that look, strengthening it, strengthening them.
‘Always,’ he says.
But the word offers no comfort, not when she thinks about where they might be heading from here. She wishes she could turn to her judgement, to her instinct, to find the answer there, but that can’t be relied on now, not since she discovered the truth about her dad. She’s not confident of anything anymore. It’s possible they won’t be together. It’s possible they only have a few days left. It’s possible this is it right now; the final word that will come back to haunt her.
Always.
She grips his sleeve again, even tighter, not daring to find the scars on his wrist. Instead she says what she says to victims when she’s lost and confused and running out of hope.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’m not,’ says Nathan, moving his foot to touch a narrow shaft of sunlight slipping through the curtains she’d insisted are kept drawn. ‘It’s the only way it could end.’
She thinks of that end. She hadn’t been able to see the final cut, but her view of Nathan’s face had been clear. She’d seen the horror. She’d felt it too. And then, almost at the same time as the two brothers had fallen to the floor, she’d slipped into darkness. She knows she’s heading that way soon – the medication is dragging her under once more – but before she goes there are a few more things she needs to ask.
‘Markham?’
‘Called the ambulance and the police himself. Probably kept you alive.’
‘And my dad’s crime?’
‘He’s keeping silent about that at the moment. As are Barclay and Tracy. But we have a decision to make in the future.’
This brings her directly to her final question, to her greatest concern. ‘The future?’
He leans over, the trace of a smile as he brushes a hair from in front of her face, revealing the damage and not flinching in the slightest. ‘We have work to do.’
It takes a moment for the words to translate, and to make sure that she’s not already dreaming the impossible. ‘So you’re not…?’
‘No,’ he says softly, as her eyelids fall and she slips into the warm embrace of sleep and certainty, ‘not the same.’
* * *
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