What doesnt break us, p.32
What Doesn't Break Us, page 32
‘And it was not your fault you weren’t able to save him.’
Georgie takes a breath.
‘That’s what my mom always says.’
But it hasn’t stopped Georgie spending her whole life trying to make sure that the next time, when it happens again, to someone else, she’ll have the power to stop it. And does she?
‘How is your mam?’ Pamali asks, lighter, and Georgie looks down at the little girl.
‘She’s…’ Georgie begins. ‘I phoned her.’
‘You don’t speak often, do you?’
‘It was the first time this year.’
Pami nods and the year passes between them, everything that has happened, still carried in the air, in the salt from the sea.
‘I think I should…’ Georgie begins.
‘What, Georgie?’
‘I think I’m going to invite her over here,’ she says and the words, the absurdity of her mother here, the wonder of it, is almost enough to make her cry. ‘I think she’d like it here.’ She doesn’t cry though; she starts to laugh. ‘I think it might do her some good.’
‘Well,’ Pamali says. ‘It is very beautiful here.’
Beside Georgie, the little girl isn’t saying anything any more. She’s just waiting.
‘A bit of company in the house might be alright too…’
‘And what about Fergus?’
Pamali is smiling, and it almost looks like she’s about to grab her for a hug. Georgie wouldn’t say no to a hug. The last time she spoke to Fergus, he’d asked her if she could love him again. As if she had ever stopped.
FOR CHOICE
Trish texted Frazer to meet her at the broken fountain because, well, because once they shared a sandwich there and also she likes the way it’s collapsed, the edge of the basin crumbling down, the central statue fallen on its side and propped up against a street lamp by some helpful passer-by. They’ll have to remove it or replace it or something. People are talking already about what to do. People in the village, that is, but the council will have to get involved too – not the community council, the real one. The roads will need fixing and the remnants of the fountain removed and the village square could become some other kind of village square. Maybe they could have some plants. A cafe. Some tables. She can imagine it, though she’s no idea if they’ll do it.
Frazer arrives without a word and sits down beside her, on a low stone that was once part of the fountain’s bowl.
‘How are you, Trish?’ he says, and the concern in his voice is a jolting reminder of how she was when he last saw her; drenched, bloody, screaming, kicking. Terrified and furious and she thinks she might have really hurt Cal if Frazer hadn’t been there to hold her back.
‘I’m going to save the village,’ she says.
He looks at her, his deep eyes glancing at the bruises still on her face. She finds her hand rising up to her hair, spiking it a bit.
‘You still plan on saving the village?’
‘Yes, I still plan on saving the village.’
Why is he smiling at her?
‘How?’
He is oh-so-clever isn’t he, DS Bloody Frazer.
‘I have no fucking idea.’
He starts to laugh and she’s glaring at him, stony-faced Trish, and she was perfectly fucking serious.
‘It’s not a joke.’
‘Oh, I know.’ His laugh quietens but he keeps some of it to himself, like he’s going to be saving it up for the next time he needs something to smile about. Well, fine.
‘Look, actually I do have some ideas, I just—’
He’s grinning now.
‘Would you fucking stop!’
‘I’m sorry, I—’
‘What?’
‘It’s just so good to see you like this. Back to your old self.’
‘What is that supposed to mean?’
‘I was worried everything might have…’
His voice trails off though and she doesn’t finish the sentence for him. She was out for a drink with Si last night, but she’s still not spoken to Georgie. Not for what feels like a very long time.
‘Look, I want to set up like a community centre or something. Maybe a social enterprise so people have got a place to go. Is that so ridiculous?’
‘Not ridiculous in the slightest.’
‘And it’ll give other people a reason to visit too, right? From wherever. We need to bring more people into the village. Open up. And we’ll need information.’
‘We?’
‘Education, I mean. But in a good way. I’m no teacher, and it can’t be too preachy. We’ve got to take people with us. These people.’ She looks around as she says it, as if the full implications are sinking in. ‘We’ve got to take these people with us.’
‘Right.’
‘And you’re going to help me,’ she says to Frazer. ‘That’s why you’re here.’
‘What?’
‘You heard. I think you should—’
‘Help you?’
‘Be a part of it.’
Fuck, she can feel the red spreading up her neck at that. Her body is such a disappointment sometimes.
‘Are you asking me to resign from the police force and set up a…a community arts centre to promote diversity with you in Burrowhead?’
‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘Yeah, something like that. With me.’
‘I’ve got to go back to work.’
‘You want to stay with the police?’
He hesitates.
‘Seriously, you want to stay with the police, after all this?’
‘Look, I’m not saying the force is perfect—’
‘But?’
‘It’s easier to effect change from the inside than the outside.’
‘Is it though?’
‘I need a job, Trish.’
Trish is disappointed. But only for a second.
‘Well then.’ She straightens up, fires a piercing glance at him. ‘You’ll just have to help out at weekends for now. And we’ll see.’
‘Okay.’
‘Okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘Good. Come on then.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘To look at the Wyndham Manor Community Centre.’
‘I’ve seen that hotel, Trish—’
‘No, I don’t mean we’re going to see it as it is now. We’re going to imagine its potential.’
‘You think Gail Dover is going to donate it?’
‘I think she just might, yes.’
‘Trish, the money that would take—’
‘Come on.’
‘It’s been closed fifty years.’
‘Because no one could possibly want to visit Burrowhead.’
‘I didn’t say that—’
‘Come on.’
He keeps looking at her and so she stands up and rolls her eyes impatiently and hears him sigh a little and feels a surge of irritation that makes her want to grab and maybe kiss him and it might not be irritation she’s feeling but she’s not got the patience to stand around here all day. There will be a day when she hears his escape of breath and knows it for what it is, though, that almost sigh of grief and hope that he makes when she takes off his shirt and she’ll know how soft his touch is – she always knew he’d be a soft touch right enough – and she’ll know, afterwards, how he holds her like she’s the answer to everything and she’ll not feel the need to remind him that she’s not the answer to anything; she’s just Trish, that’s all. It’s who she is and that’s good, seeing as how they have work to do.
She turns from him then and strides off – it looks like she fully intends to walk all the way to Wyndham Manor – and Frazer waits, and she doesn’t turn, and he smiles as he watches her and he’s not sure where Fergus Strachan appears from but he’s standing there looking awkward until Frazer stands up too and holds out his hand.
Fergus doesn’t shake it though, not like he had once before. Instead, he offers him a set of keys and the words, ‘It’s a place to start, for you and Trish. I can help if you need me. I’ll be doing some research there too, so…’
Frazer’s not even sure what he’s talking about, but then the Spar bell jangles and they both turn to see Georgie and Pamali looking at them. Georgie raises her hand in a wave and Fergus does the same, and Frazer could swear he sees something in him lighten.
‘Fergus!’ Georgie calls out, her voice amused. ‘Come on!’
Then Georgie and Pamali are walking away, heading out to the field where Pamali has her vegetable garden, and Frazer turns back to Fergus, whose arm is still raised from the wave.
‘Are you two—’
‘You’d better run,’ Fergus says with a smile. ‘If you want to catch her.’
And that’s what Frazer does: he runs to catch up with Trish before she reaches the end of High Street and from then on he matches her pace, stride for stride.
AND, PERHAPS, FOR THE FUTURE
Georgie can see Trish down on the wide stretch of pebble beach that starts beneath the village of Burrowhead and leads to the cave that used to be hidden in the jagged cliffs beyond. She’s standing where the tide just reaches her feet, while Georgie is watching her from where the rusted playground once was, with its creaking roundabout and unreadable, faded tourist-information sign. Today the clifftop is scattered with rocks and wild sea lavender, the occasional pink flower of restharrow peeking up from where the ground has split. The zigzagged path that used to lead steeply down is gone. It’s an opportunity, Georgie thinks, to replace it; they could put in some steps, maybe a gentler path for those who need it. For now though, she’s taking the longer route. It’s a day for taking some time, and Trish knows she’s coming to find her. The little girl who’s been holding her hand lets go as they approach the beach and skips across the stones towards the water, unafraid of falling. It’s the happiest Georgie has seen her since she first appeared, on the day Fergus left her. The day Frazer found the dedication to Abigail Moss. The day Walt Mackie died.
‘Here we are at last.’ Georgie smiles, walking up to stand beside Trish. ‘I’ve been wanting to check that you’re okay.’
‘I’m okay,’ Trish says, eyes on the sea, then a moment later turning to face her. ‘It’s good to see you, Georgie.’
‘You too, Trish.’
The sun’s heat is still warm on her face but there’s a cooler breeze now and Georgie is grateful for it. It’s been a long time since they were alone together, Trish and Georgie, but in a way it feels like they’ve been standing here all along.
‘I take it the station’s closed?’ Trish asks, and Georgie is glad she’s suggested a way in.
‘No job for either of us there any more.’
Trish cringes slightly, as though remembering the anger of her resignation, but it’s the anger Georgie herself has been carrying for months that she feels loosening, softening in the air between them.
‘Thanks for the pay cheque,’ Trish says. ‘I mean, for not processing my whole…resignation thing.’
‘I figured we were being made redundant anyway, so all I did was strategically take my time.’
Trish smiles. ‘Well, I appreciate it.’
A swooping motion catches Georgie’s eye and she glances up to see a bird, a harrier maybe, wheeling high above the cliffs.
‘What are you going to do next, Trish?’
‘I’ll not be going back to work for the police.’
‘Me neither.’
Trish looks up in surprise before holding her hand over her eyes – the sun’s getting lower but it’s still bright. Behind Trish, further up the beach, Georgie can see the cave’s entrance, its rocks glinting in the light. It does look peaceful in there. The whole beach feels peaceful today. The little girl has come back to hold her hand and she’s pointing at a stone by Georgie’s feet, a smooth oval pebble. Georgie bends to pick it up. Holds it in her palm and shows it to Trish, who frowns slightly.
‘What is it, Trish?’
‘Nothing, I was just thinking. There’s an opening for someone to stand in the council elections next year, did you see that?’
‘You’re thinking of going into politics?’
‘Hell, no! I was thinking you could.’
‘Me?’ Georgie laughs. ‘I think grassroots is more my style.’
Trish takes the stone that Georgie was offering her. ‘Yeah, I can see that.’ She smiles at her again, warmer this time. ‘It’s mine too, you know.’
‘I know.’ The sea is a beautiful colour, over the sand bed out past the rocks, almost emerald in places. ‘You think we can make a difference here, Trish?’
‘Oh, we’re going to make a difference.’ She glances sideways, nudges her shoulder. ‘You and me, Georgie.’
Georgie nods, places a hand on the little girl’s head. Her hair is soft and warm, and Georgie is soothed by it, by her presence.
‘I’m truly sorry about your Uncle Walt,’ Georgie says. ‘I never wanted him hurt.’
‘I know,’ Trish says. ‘And he made his mistakes, I know that too.’
‘He was a kind man, at heart.’
‘Not always, I don’t think,’ Trish says, though Georgie can hear the loss in her voice. ‘I won’t be following in his footsteps.’ She pauses for a second, her thumb rubbing against the sea-smoothed stone. ‘I found a note from my mam.’
‘Oh, Trish.’
She shakes her head impatiently, like she doesn’t want Georgie’s sympathy.
‘I think he did something to her, a long time ago. Uncle Walt, and the rest of the villagers. I don’t know what, but it was still hurting her. She had her reasons for…’
Georgie knows that she still can’t say it – she’s never heard Trish say that her mother is dead.
‘For leaving?’ Georgie suggests.
‘For doing what she did.’ Trish purses her lips. ‘She needed some help, and no one helped her.’
Please help my mammy.
‘It was you, who wrote the message in the cave?’
As Georgie says it she feels the breeze against her hand and looks down to see that the little girl is gone.
‘Trish?’ Georgie whispers.
‘I always thought she’d come back,’ Trish says. ‘I mean, I wouldn’t have said it out loud, but somehow I thought it. She’s not coming back, though, is she.’
Georgie shakes her head.
‘But don’t you worry about me. I’ll not be following in her footsteps either.’
Trish is staring up the beach, to the cave. Now it’s open to the elements the scratches will be eroded away, the messages freed by the salt and wind; their edges are being softened already. Georgie resists the urge to put an arm around Trish’s shoulders, for now at least.
‘I was thinking,’ Georgie says. ‘We could put up a monument or something, in the village square, to remember the people who’ve been killed.’
‘Like Sonny Riley?’ Trish says. ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about him, with Uncle Walt dying right where he was buried. People should remember that little boy.’
Georgie always will; they may never know who his parents were, or where he came from, but she’ll always remember him.
‘And Alexis too,’ Georgie says. ‘And Rachel and Pauly and…and your mother, if you’d like that?’
Trish nods, staring down at the stone still nestled in her palm.
‘I think it should be for all of them,’ she says, and she throws the stone so it makes a gentle arc into the water and disappears.
‘You don’t want to leave the village then, Trish?’
‘No, I’m not leaving. No way. This is my home.’ She pauses. ‘Have you thought about it?’
Georgie smiles; she’s thought about it a lot. ‘I’m staying right here,’ she says. ‘This is my home too.’
‘Good.’ Trish is staring at her now, serious as can be, and determined too. ‘I mean it. There’s work to do here, isn’t there?’
‘There is a lot of work to do.’
‘And I’ve got ideas, Georgie. Like I was telling Frazer, I’ve got plans, and I’m going to need some help because this’ – she waves her arm from the sea to the clifftop and the village beyond – ‘this is not over. Nothing here is over.’
Georgie feels a welcome restlessness in her legs as Trish says that. There is work to do here; and there’s the autumn to look forward to. Georgie loves the colours here in the fall, the rich golden reds of the leaves, the exquisite layers of the sunrise. As she looks out, the sea turns from that deep turquoise over the sand bed to a shimmering silver green haze at the horizon. There are clouds, too, satin lenticular clouds, her favourite, and above them a layer of feathered cirrus travels high through the atmosphere.
Looking down again she sees a group of kittiwakes gliding over the water.
‘Si was right about them,’ Georgie says.
‘What?’
She points at the birds. ‘They’re beautiful gulls.’
Trish just snorts at that and stuffs her hands into her pockets.
A little further along the beach, unnoticed by either of them, the year’s first sanderlings dart in and out of the waves building on the tideline.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The creation of a trilogy involves a huge amount of work from a huge number of people. The knowledge that you have all worked so hard to bring these stories into the world is humbling. My editor Jenny Parrott and copy-editor Sarah Terry take such care of my words, and work with such insight and thoughtfulness, that they’ve not only made these books better but have made me a better writer. Thank you both. The whole team at Point Blank and Oneworld is full of talent and skill, and I am deeply grateful: Julian Ball, Thanhmai Bui-Van, Lucy Cooper, Francesca Dawes, Jennifer Jahn, Juliet Mabey, Laura McFarlane, Anna Murphy, Paul Nash, Aimee Oliver-Powell, Mark Rusher, Tom Sanderson, Molly Scull, Ben Summers, Harriet Wade, Matilda Warner, Hayley Warnham and Margot Weale – it is an honour to work with you all.
My agent, Cathryn Summerhayes, is an inspiration. Thank you, Cath, for your support and advice, for always listening, and for being the kindest most genuine badass super-agent I could wish for. The whole team at Curtis Brown work tirelessly for books and for authors; thank you, Jess Molloy, Luke Speed and Anna Weguelin. And I want to say a particular thank you to Alice Lutyens and Sophia MacAskill for looking after my audio rights brilliantly, and to everyone at Bolinda for their flair in producing and promoting the audiobooks, read beautifully by Julie Maisey.
