The only thing I have of my brother now is his notebook and I pull it out of its hiding place under the sink. I haven’t shown it to Liam. I knew as soon as I saw the list I didn’t want anyone else to see it. Not even him. This was no one else’s business.
I flip past the names to the pages he kept as a sort of diary. They are scrawled with his milestones—“SIX DAYS!!!! Longest without a drink for years.” “Thirty days since my last drink. Feel like shit.”—and flashes of his fear. “Can’t do this,” he wrote in tiny letters at the bottom of a page as if he was ashamed of even thinking it.
I let myself cry as I read. I can hear his voice as if he’s here with me.
Toward the back, there are a few phone numbers and e-mail addresses. And I wonder if the man who sent a boy to do his dirty work is here. Stuart wouldn’t tell me his name. Didn’t want me getting involved. He said he would deal with it but wouldn’t say what he meant. I’d told him to ring me if he changed his mind but I’ve been trying ever since to remember anything Phil might have said back then about his boss.
The list of names in the notebook is pathetically short. I recognize his sponsor—and Claire and Stuart—but the rest look like street names of friends. Swanky, Doc, Fat Georgie. I go to close the book, and a grimy scrap of paper floats to the floor. An old rent receipt. I pick it up—it’s from December 1999, and my mouth goes dry. But I don’t recognize the address. Phil had so little; why did he keep this? But then I see the company name at the bottom in small print.
Twenty-two
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 21, 2019
Four days earlier
Charlie
Mrs. Lyons smiled at him when he arrived at the Manor. “Ah, Mr. Perry. How nice to see you. Thank you for settling your account.”
Charlie tried to smile back but his top lip stuck to his teeth.
“Er, good afternoon. And thank you for your patience,” he croaked, and cleared his throat.
He went straight through to Birdie and took her into the garden. He had to do it quickly or he’d bottle it.
“Darling girl,” he said, taking her hand.
“What is it, Dad?”
“Look, we need to talk about the future. I’m not getting any younger and I need to make sure you are secure.”
“Why? What’s happened? Are you ill?”
“No, no, nothing like that. It’s just . . . Look, money is a bit tight at the moment. And the thing is, it might mean you moving. Somewhere closer to me so I can pop in and out every day.”
Birdie didn’t say anything. She sat completely still on the edge of the seat. Charlie searched her profile for what she was feeling but there was nothing.
“Darling?”
“I thought you had plenty of money to support me?” she said quietly, turning her face to him. “That’s what you always tell me.”
“Well, I did in the beginning. But this place costs fifteen hundred pounds a week, Birdie.”
“But it’s my home.” And tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes.
“Darling, don’t cry.”
“I’ll have to learn a new place and it’s so hard to keep anything in my head, Dad. Please don’t make me. Please.”
It was breaking his heart and he didn’t trust himself to speak for a minute. He watched the tears running down his daughter’s face and he knew he couldn’t go through with it. He’d have to dig deep and find the money somehow.
“Don’t worry. Daddy will sort it out,” he said before he could change his mind.
* * *
—
Afterward, he sat in his car and pulled his laptop out of the glove box. He’d have to make more calls. Twirl another plate. He still had it, didn’t he?
When the screen lit up, one of the old e-mail accounts that slumbered on his desktop was winking at him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d even looked at the account, let alone opened it, but a number one had appeared beside it. You’ve got mail sounded in his head.
It’ll be spam—an ad for a world cruise or a stair lift. That’s all I seem to get now.
But his finger trembled as he clicked to look.
It wasn’t a cruise. [email protected] was contacting him. Hello, it said.
Delete, he told his finger but it wasn’t listening. It opened the e-mail.
I know what you did. Where are you? It’s time we talked.
No name.
And he slammed down the lid of his laptop as if Addison1999 were staring out of the screen. Who is it from? It can’t be Phil Golding—he’s dead. But who else knows? Sweat prickled Charlie’s top lip.