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Chapters (61)
  1. COVER
  2. About the Author
  3. Books by Emily Barr
  4. DEDICATION
  5. Prologue
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. 43
  49. 44
  50. 45
  51. 46
  52. 47
  53. 48
  54. 49
  55. 50
  56. 51
  57. Epilogue
  58. Acknowledgements
  59. Read on for an extract from …
  60. 12 December
  61. THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING

‘I haven’t,’ I admit. ‘And I do apologise – clearly this is the wrong house. I’m really sorry to have bothered you. Thank you. Hey there, Sasha,’ I add as the baby is smiling at me. I just can’t help myself.

Ariel’s mum stares. ‘How did you know her name?’ she says, but with a smile. She’s one of those lovely people who is always sunny, always positive, no matter what. No matter, in her case, that she’s married to a wanker.

All the same, I need to answer. I cast my eyes around and am saved by a splodgy painting on the wall that consists of a load of red and blue handprints and the name SASHA written in the corner by a grown-up. ‘It says it there,’ I say, pointing. ‘I’m guessing it’s her artwork.’ I smile at the baby. ‘It’s very good.’

‘How observant. Say thank you to the nice boy, Sasha.’

I reach out and touch Sasha’s curly hair. It is unbearably soft under my fingers. Sasha is real to me in a way that Ariel can never be. I say goodbye and wave to them both.

As I walk away, I take out my phone. I press the button that will call my mum. Her course begins at nine, and now it’s eight forty-five. She has a mobile phone, but she keeps it switched off unless she’s using it, so when it goes to voicemail I say: ‘Hi, Mum! It’s Joe. I’m just calling to say … I love you. That’s all.’ Then I ring her hotel, and ask to be put through to room 237, but she doesn’t answer. She must have already left.

I walk faster and faster, down on to the beach and then along it, away from town, to the stony bit at the very far end where no one goes. And there is Ariel, sitting on a rock like a mermaid.

‘Hey!’ she says. ‘There you are. We did it!’

‘We did,’ I say, and I sit on the rock beside her and we both look out at the sea.

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35

That day was, oddly, one of the best of my life. We didn’t talk about who killed Joe and how and why and what I was going to do next about it. We didn’t talk about Troy cracking up and leaving the country. We didn’t talk about the man at the mall, even though I really wanted Joe to take a photo of him. Instead we sat on a rock at the end of the beach and gave names to the seagulls in each of our realities, and threw stones into the sea. We didn’t talk about the past or the future, or compare notes or technologies or music, or anything. Joe didn’t do mad things just because he could. We talked. That was all.