Mo Hayder: Gone

‘So, Mr Caffery, my friendly policeman,’ the Walking Man looked up at the branches, lit in the reds and the oranges of the fire, ‘what does this truth give you?’ He turned and smiled at him. ‘A place to stand? Or a place to start?’

Caffery was silent for a long, long time. He thought about what it meant. Flea’s fucking brother all along. He thought about his anger. He thought about all the things he wanted to say to her. He got up, went to the edge of the covert and stood facing the sky. In the distance, near the long-forgotten Wor Well where the ancient river Avon rose, the plateau dipped slightly. The flanks of the hollow were dotted with distant buildings on the edge of Tetbury. Houses and garages and industrial buildings. A hospital. The place Flea Marley had been taken by the helicopter. Most of the buildings had their lights on, illuminating the dark plateau like fireflies in trees. One of them was the room she lay in.

‘Well? Is it a place to stand, or a place to start?’

‘You know the answer to that.’ Caffery felt his foot inch forward. Felt a long, powerful force come through his body. As if he was ready to start running. ‘It’s a place to start.’

The smoke from the Walking Man’s fire rose straight and calm into the night sky. It climbed high above the dark trees, unruffled by winds or breeze, just a straight grey finger in the freezing night sky. It was visible for miles around, from the streets of Tetbury, from the farmhouses that lined the sides of the valley, from the agricultural buildings in Long Newnton and the lanes near Wor Well. In a private room in Tetbury hospital, Flea Marley slept. She’d come in with severe concussion, blood loss, creeping hypothermia, dehydration. But the CAT scans were clear. She was going to recover. When they’d got her out of A and E, Wellard had visited, holding a bunch of lilies wrapped in cellophane and purple ribbons. ‘I ordered funeral flowers. Because when your real funeral comes around after you’ve killed yourself being an arse , I won’t be in the church.’ He’d sat grumpily on the plastic chair and filled her in about what had happened. He’d told her about Prody dying. He’d told her it hadn’t just been Martha down there but Emily Costello too, that both of them were fine and were somewhere in this very hospital, their families bringing in treats and toys and cards. And the unit – well, that was a great song to sing, because Flea was smelling of roses, positively bathed in admiration, and she’d better get clean pyjamas from somewhere because the chief constable intended coming over in the morning to see her before she was discharged.

In her dreams now she was at home. The storm clouds had disappeared. Thom had gone and she was younger. Maybe only three or four. She was sitting in the gravel outside the garage, playing with the caving lamp, trying with her pudgy child’s fingers to make it ignite. The family cat was still a kitten, and standing next to her, both front paws close to Flea’s hands, its tail pushed up in the air, all its energy focused on what she was doing. A few feet away, on the lawn, Dad was digging and raking, scattering grass seed. ‘There.’ He watered the seeds with an old-fashioned watering-can. ‘There you are. It’s finished.’

Flea put down the lamp. She got up, came to where he was standing and looked down at the ground. Already some of the seeds had started to grow. Small, emerald shoots. ‘Dad? What is it? What am I looking at?’

‘At your place. Your place in the world.’ He lifted a hand to invite her to take in the view: the tall clouds in the west, the lines of trees that bordered the gardens. An arrow of birds flying overhead. ‘This is your place and if you wait here for long enough, if you’re patient, something good will come to you. Who knows? Maybe it’s on its way. Even now.’

Flea could feel the ground vibrating under her feet. She lifted her chubby toddler’s arms and opened them to the horizon, thrilled excitement bubbling up inside. She took a step forward to welcome what was coming, eager for it. She opened her mouth to speak – and woke suddenly in the hospital bed, gulping for air.

The room was silent. The TV was off and the lights in the room were dim. The curtains were open and she could see her own vague outline reflected in the glass. A face, white and imprecise. The blur of a hospital gown. And beyond it the cloudless sky. The stars, the moon – and a thin, almost biblically straight column of smoke.

She stared at the smoke, her head racing, feeling the power of it come across the sky, push through the glass, enter the room and feed itself into her chest. She could almost smell it. Here – as if something was smouldering in the room. Awed, she propped herself on her elbows, eyes wide, the pressure in her chest deep enough to make her open her mouth to breathe. Maybe it was seeing Dad so clearly in the dream, maybe it was the concussion, or the drugs they’d given her, but that smoke seemed to be sending her a message

Something’s coming , it said. Something is on its way to you .

‘Dad?’ she whispered. ‘What’s coming?’

Relax , came the reply. It won’t be long before it’s here .

Thank you to everyone who has helped me complete this book: my agent, Jane Gregory, and her wonderful team in Hammersmith, also Selina Walker and everyone else at Transworld publishers, who have been publishing me for ten years now (mad fools). Frank Wood of Elizabeth Francis (Medicall) helped me make the paramedics in the closing chapters approximate reality, and there was a whole army of professionals from the Avon and Somerset force who guided me with the details of police procedures (any mistakes are all mine, and no one is going to claim them for their own): including DI Steven Lawrence, CID trainer, PC Kerry Marsh of the Child Abuse Protection and Investigation Team, PC Andy Hennys of the Dog Section, and PC Steve Marsh of the Underwater Search Unit. Above all, a special thank you to Sergeant Bob Randall, who was as invaluable, insightful and helpful on this book as he has been on the entire series.