Vanished (48 page)
Reaching across the table, he lit another cigarette and opened the window. Smoke drifted out through the gap, vanishing into the rain. For a moment his thoughts turned to David Raker. Everything Raker had told Liz was right: anger, resentment, bitterness, revenge, these were the rules Healy had built his life around. And maybe when the pressure was turned up he would become that man again. But here, in this place, miles away from the life he’d once known, Healy felt like a different man. She may only have been using him, may only have been calling him because he was a vessel for something else – some sort of connection to Raker – but, in her own way, she needed him. And that was the first time anyone had needed Healy – for whatever reason – for a very long time.
‘Colm?’
‘It’s hard to understand,’ he said.
‘What is?’
‘Why what happened, happened.’
‘Is it hard for
you
to understand?’
He looked out through the window. ‘Yes.’
‘You mean that?’
‘Yes.’
She didn’t sound like she believed him.
‘Listen, Liz, I know this is tough to hear, but –’
‘I know what you’re going to say,’ she cut in, voice quiet. ‘I know what you’re going to tell me to do. Accept it. Try to move on. Try to forget about what happened.’
He didn’t respond. She’d second-guessed him.
‘Right
?’
‘Right.’
‘Well, it’s not so easy for me,’ she said. ‘I’m still here in London with all the memories, living next door to his empty house. I haven’t got myself a new life like you; a nice little cottage in south Devon where I can forget about everything that happened.’
‘I haven’t forgotten about what happened.’
‘Haven’t you?’
‘No.’
Outside, the wind came again – harder and more forceful than before. The house seemed to wheeze, like the foundations had shifted.
‘He was so similar to you,’ she said.
‘Yeah, you said that before.’
‘He was chasing after ghosts, just like you.’
‘Look,’ Healy said, trying to maintain the composure in his voice, ‘I know what it’s like to lose someone. Remember that. I’ve been where you are – I’ve been through
worse
than you – so I know how it is.’
She cleared her throat, but didn’t say anything.
‘You can’t forget about it. I understand that. But you need to try. You need to start processing what happened. Sooner or later, you need to start facing it down.’
Silence on the line.
‘Because Raker’s gone, Liz. And he’s never coming back.’
Once again, at every stage of
Vanished
’s development, I’ve been backed by an amazing team of people. When the going got tough, my editor, Stef Bierwerth, and agent, Camilla Wray, calmed my nerves, providing razor-sharp editorial insight and welcome words of encouragement. A special thank-you to everyone at Penguin HQ as well who have worked so hard on my behalf in the run-up to publication, as have the ladies of Darley Anderson (with an extra shout-out for the crack foreign rights team of Clare Wallace and Mary Darby).
Thanks to Alistair Montgomery for taking the time to answer my (almost certainly tedious) questions about the Tube’s history, its ghosts and his life on the lines; and to Mike Hedges, whose fascinating insight into the police continues to make my life easier.
Vanished
wasn’t always the easiest of writes, but my family offered unconditional love and support. Thanks to Mum and Dad, who never complained (and fed and watered me) when I decamped for days at a time; Lucy, for her support and part-time PR; Rich, for travelling the country with posters in his car; and, finally, to the Adamses, Ryders and Linscotts, for spreading the word, turning up and supporting me, laying on events, and everything in between. And, finally, to my two ladies: Erin, who keeps asking when she can read the
books (and who promises not to repeat any of the swear words); and Sharlé, who never complains, never doubts, and – without whose incredible patience – the book could never have been written.
Not too much to ask, is it? It was in 1935 when Allen Lane, Managing Director of Bodley Head Publishers, stood on a platform at Exeter railway station looking for something good to read on his journey back to London. His choice was limited to popular magazines and poor-quality paperbacks – the same choice faced every day by the vast majority of readers, few of whom could afford hardbacks. Lane’s disappointment and subsequent anger at the range of books generally available led him to found a company – and change the world.
We believed in the existence in this country of a vast reading public for intelligent books at a low price, and staked everything on it’
Sir Allen Lane, 1902–1970, founder of Penguin Books
The quality paperback had arrived – and not just in bookshops. Lane was adamant that his Penguins should appear in chain stores and tobacconists, and should cost no more than a packet of cigarettes.
Reading habits (and cigarette prices) have changed since 1935, but Penguin still believes in publishing the best books for everybody to enjoy.We still believe that good design costs no more than bad design, and we still believe that quality books published passionately and responsibly make the world a better place.
So wherever you see the little bird – whether it’s on a piece of prize-winning literary fiction or a celebrity autobiography, political tour de force or historical masterpiece, a serial-killer thriller, reference book, world classic or a piece of pure escapism – you can bet that it represents the very best that the genre has to offer.
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Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London
WC2R 0RL
, England
First published 2012
Copyright © Tim Weaver, 2012
Cover image © Bildagentur Hamburg/ Alamy. Person © Stephen Mulcahey/ Arcangel Images
All rights reserved
The moral right of the author has been asserted
ISBN: 978-0-14-196964-0
