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Back The Family Next Door Save as PDF
Chapters (117)
  1. Also by
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright Page
  4. Epigraph
  5. PROLOGUE
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
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  115. 110
  116. Teaser chapter
  117. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

The tree house loomed at the distant end of the garden. For a boy of nine, it seemed a long way away. The copse behind it was a smudge on the horizon, a portal into the dark world of his imagination. Through the gloom, Evan was certain he saw shapes with stick arms marching through, an army of tree-men. Evan almost turned back then. But he pressed on, his stubborn heart set on finding the answers to the mystery of the cassette.

82

82

Now

You did not believe me.

The children in the shop on the day of the Grand Reopening—that date—Saturday 20th July 1985—is scored into me, even now—had allowed themselves to be fooled, but you were different. You pulled away from me when I reached for your hand, shrank into yourself as we walked home. Took yourself off to bed as soon as the door closed behind us.

You had taken one look at the watch on her wrist and known exactly who was in that forgotten chest in the storeroom. You refused to speak to me. You could read the guilt on my face.

Now, when I look back on that last day, I wish I might have told you the things I tell you now.

That I love you. That regrets are a waste of energy. That the past may not be undone. It simply is. That life is a series of complex events, shaping us into the selves we are. For all its glorious colors, we are shades of gray. That we are driven to act the way we do by instincts we do not understand. That as some are drawn to the light, some of us are compelled by darkness, our strength coming from the hidden places within. That we can never truly know what lies beneath the flash of a smile, a kindly word. We all wear masks.

But what happened that night was because of my careless tongue.

“We need to get rid of it,” I said, my mouth pressed to the telephone receiver. Seven words that set the wheels in motion.

You must have been listening. You flew down the stairs.

“No,” you said. “You have to call the police.”

You snatched up the handset from me, pressed down and cut the call. It was one of those old-style rotary telephones. I caught the dial tone, the rotation of the finger wheel, the sound of the spring as the dial returned to its resting position.

Why did you do that? I wonder, even now. Why did you not accept my half-truths and go to bed, and in the morning it would have been an uncertain memory and in a year’s time, a forgotten one? I loved you so much. But not as much as I loved my own life.