Normal (21 page)

CHAPTER
THIRTY-FIVE

A Volvo full of guns took off across the driveway in a shower of wet shrapnel, thunking onto the field with an animal snarl-hiss-bark.

I knelt, startled, before the empty vessel that had carried Rachel so unerringly from one wretched fate to the next as Green huddled beside me, wide umbrella propped awkwardly between her knees, and took my hand to hold it in her lap. “Come on,” she said. “We need to get you inside.”

I pulled away; couldn’t breathe; didn’t know what to do. Was I supposed to kiss Rachel goodbye where she fell, ice-cold in the driving rain? Or save it for the chapel, leaning into a pine box to caress a hard, shiny layer of sealing wax? The question was absurd, inconceivable. Goodbye: the one constant in my life, rendered alien, impossible.

“I can’t leave her,” I said.

Green crooked the umbrella and took my elbow in a firm grip and simply stood up. She was tiny but strong, enough to lift me off my haunches at least, and her instruction was firm and compelling. “It’s not safe out here,” she said. “I need to get you inside and get some fluid in you and keep you warm until we get the all-clear. Rachel’s fine, she won’t be on her own for many minutes.” She gave me a hefty tug, a little closer to the hole in my arm this time. “Let’s go,” she demanded. “Come on.”

I glanced around at the Volvo, already offloading its cargo of black-clad gunmen at the edge of the wood. I swallowed the sick in my throat and looked into Rachel’s eyes—nothing behind them, no one there—and then finally I resigned myself to quietly accept a comforting hand from an officer of the law, a hand she slid across my back and rested on my shoulder, pulling me gently from the scene of a crime of which I was considered not the perpetrator but a pitiful, helpless victim.

Green steered me away from Rachel and the garage and the groggy-looking Kevin now sheltering inside, one hand clutching a compress to his scalp and the other bravely giving her the thumbs-up. She guided me in through the front door and pointed me toward the sitting room; shook her umbrella out behind her and propped it under the porch. “Go and sit down,” she said. “Get that wet shirt off. I’ll find you a towel and make some tea.”

I did as I was told. I sat on the sofa, shirtless, dazed and all but oblivious to the pain in my arm, but keenly aware of a greater agony deep inside some other part of me, a real, physical pain that buzzed my ears and blurred my eyes whenever I tried to think of anything but the way Rachel looked at me.

I could hear Green in the kitchen, on the phone, voice raised to compete with the boiling kettle, but I didn’t care enough to hear what she said, even long after the kettle had boiled and she was shouting over sirens and engines and the sudden, rattling buzz of the helicopter that passed low over the house and bounced the dishes off the draining board.

When she finally returned with tea, though, and slipped my mug into my hand and draped a bath towel across my shoulders and sat down beside me on the sofa and flicked on the TV presumably for a bit of comforting background noise and sympathetically cleared her throat, she fixed me with a look that made damn sure I had her attention. “I’m going to want to know what happened yesterday,” she began.

I wasn’t ready for this, but I couldn’t think of the words to tell her so. My brain was frozen in entirely the wrong moment. “What do you mean?” I whispered.

“You know what I mean. John Fairey was here, and nobody’s heard from him since.”

I shook my head. “I wasn’t here yesterday. I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Yes, you do,” she said. “I’m hoping he’s got himself locked in a pub somewhere, but...” She dropped her gaze to my reddening field dressing. She didn’t need to finish her sentence.

“I only know what Erica just said,” I assured her. “I was with Rach—” The words caught in my throat, the obscenity of Rachel’s unanswerable complicity far from lost on me.

I locked my eyes onto Green’s, mind spinning pitifully. Was it too late? Had she heard it? Could I delete those last few words—change the names to protect the innocent? And then what? Dare I deploy Annie again? I was sure she’d step up, and certain she’d never ask what I’d done. Like Rachel, she’d seen me for what I was, more or less, and she’d taken a step toward me, not away. Annie far-from-average, my only friend in the world. The only person ever to
give
me their door key.

“Listen,” I muttered. My voice sounded thin, defeated. “If Erica was out here, then she could have been up to anything. I don’t even lock the door half the time.”

Green nodded slowly, considering my blatant and somewhat amateurish signposting.

“Look,” I said, “I’m a mess. My head’s all over the place. Can we do this later?”

“Sure.” She studied my face, scouring my features quite openly for the slightest twitch, the merest glance in any direction she didn’t like. “Although hopefully we won’t have to. Because like you said, most of my questions can only be answered by Erica. Isn’t that right?”

I nodded, but, “You know you’ll never take her alive, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “She’s not going back in a cage, is she?” My neck bristled at the words, my tired brain hunting for an answer. “What do you think she meant by that?”

“I dread to think,” I said. “Maybe when you find out where she’s been all this time...”

“Yeah, about that—” she began, but her phone interrupted. She fished it from her pocket, checked the display and silenced it.

I glanced through the window at the horde of vehicles now spreading across the driveway; the dog van and the gunships, the patrol cars and the big green Ford with the whip antenna and the cable-tied wheel trims. A string of fluorescent yellow coats stretched out over the field, scouring the path of Erica’s flight to the forest and the river and the road beyond. I looked to the hunters melting into the tree line, and the helicopter hovering in the murky middle distance; the medics hoisting equipment packs from the back of a Jeep and the uniforms bustling around Rachel’s prone body.

Green saw me looking, and whatever she found on my face changed her in an instant. The warmth drained from her, and her eyes turned to steel, and she said, “I’d expect you to want us to find her, under the circumstances. But you don’t, do you? You’d rather she shot herself, or we did it for her. That’s why you sent her away with a gun with one bullet in it—so she wouldn’t be around to contradict whatever yarn you’re going to try and spin to convince everyone that none of this is your fault. Which it is, isn’t it? Because I know you know where she’s been, and whatever else has gone on and whatever crackpot theories anyone might have, I
fucking
warned you that you were playing with fire.” Her phone rang again, and she prodded it with a grimace and barked, “Eli, I’ll call you back,” and threw it on the coffee table and said, “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” because my head had fallen onto my knees, and my eyes had overflowed and frankly I’d just about given up. She softened again then, or at least put her compassionate face back on. “Come on,” she cooed, shuffling closer to me and setting her stroking hand back to work across the towel stuck to my clammy back. “You’re right, we’ll talk about all of this later. I’m sorry, I can be insensitive sometimes.” She smiled thinly and patted my ungrazed shoulder and craned to peer out the window and said, “The ambulance is here. Don’t tell them I did that bandage unless they say it’s good.”

I feebly agreed, and then, as her phone began to vibrate and dance around the table, she sighed and ran out of things to say, and so we just sat and stared at the television while we waited for the paramedics.

There wasn’t much on. Just some show about that nice fellow Diaz, standing in a cage with his phone pressed to his ear, waiting for someone to answer.

It was a strange feeling. I’d only ever feared one thing in my life, and for the past few weeks the very real prospect of my game being up had made me a wet-eyed, clumsy disaster. But when I saw the hairs stand up on the back of Green’s neck, all of that scurried away. The instrument of my undoing was right there beside me on the sofa, close enough to bite—close enough to put my hands together and just snap her clean in half—but the only thought in my head was
Oh, well, that’s that, then
.

She was silent for a long moment, watching her colleague bounce his phone off the rubber floor in frustration. Then, finally, she turned again to look at me, her brow lined with perplexity, lips pursed in hurried calculation.

She opened her mouth, and took a breath to speak.

I closed my eyes.

* * * * *

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I’d like you to think this book is all my own work, but the truth is, writing is rarely a solitary endeavor. You wouldn’t be reading
Normal
if it weren’t for:

The patience and understanding of my wife, Tracie, who allowed me the time, space, and peace and quiet I needed to sit and write it.

The dedication and repeated forgiveness of my long-suffering partner-in-crime and both the angel and the devil on my shoulder, Jamie Mason, for more reasons than I can begin to list. It’s been a ride, hasn’t it?

The Terminator-like tenacity of my agent, Amy Moore-Benson, who absolutely would not stop until she’d found a home for it. You’re a wizard, Amy.

The hard work, skill and impeccable taste of my editor, Emily Ohanjanians, who, along with Tara Parsons and the whole amazing team at MIRA Books, believed enough to take a chance on me.

And more years than I’d care to count filled with support, encouragement and the answers to all those random niggling questions that pop up in the small, dark hours of the morning from Carole Oldroyd and Sara Carlson, who’ve stuck with me on this journey through thick and thin from the very beginning, and from other terrific folks who’ve joined in along the way, like Hayley Webster, Beth Duke, Kim Michele Richardson, Claire Bryans, Caroline Mole, Jessica Macdonald and, as I’ve just been informed by my mother, my mother.

Finally, and most important, thanks to you for taking the time to read this far. If it weren’t for you, there would be no books at all.

A CONVERSATION WITH
GRAEME CAMERON

What inspired you to write
Normal
?

It was a radio interview with an FBI profiler that inspired me to write a novel about a serial killer, but I never really felt I had anything new to say on what’s a very well-explored subject. In the end it happened entirely by accident; frustrated with a story I couldn’t seem to get my teeth into, I came home from a walk in the forest one day and sat down with a clean sheet and no plan except to blow away some cobwebs by writing something lurid and unprintable for my own amusement. And as is the wont of things, one led to another.

How did it feel to get inside the mind of a killer?

It’s an author’s job to shine a torch into every dark corner of human nature. We’re all made from the same basic components, so I think if, as a writer, you’re uncomfortable exploring how those pieces fall within minds that are unlike your own, then you’re in the wrong job.

You never name your main character or really describe him in any physical detail. Tell us about your thinking behind that.

I grew up watching films like
Jaws
and
Alien
, in which part of the monster’s power was that you couldn’t see it. Your imagination filled in the blanks with its own worst-case scenario, which was inevitably far scarier than the hokey rubber puppet they wheeled out in the third act.

With
Normal
, I wanted to invite you, the reader, to similarly fill those blanks with a monster that’s exactly that: normal and familiar and individual to you. Everyman. Because that’s who this killer is: he’s someone you served a coffee this morning, or who sat behind you on the train, or brushed up against you in the supermarket while you were choosing a flavor of ice cream. He wouldn’t be able to hide in plain sight like that if I told you what he looked like!

Is there a character in the story that you identify with? Or a favorite character among the varied cast?

All of them! Unfortunately (for my chances of dropping them back there), I didn’t find the cast in a dark alley behind the bus station. Each character is a product of my imagination, so naturally they all share a little something of me, be it a simple memory or a catastrophic personality flaw. However, I’d say the one I’d most want to set about drinkin’ with is Annie. I like her dry sense of humor, and she has a say-yes, crack-on attitude that I’d love to explore further.

What kind of research, if any, went into writing
Normal
?

I learned to make a delicious stew. Don’t print that.

What was the most challenging part of writing this book? What was the most enjoyable?

Making a serial killer sympathetic enough to keep you reading was both of those things. The most challenging by far for obvious reasons, but also the most enjoyable because (for me at least) the only way really to achieve that is through humor, and by playfully exploring the boundaries of what is acceptable to laugh at.

Normal
is the first full-length novel you’ve published, but you’ve been writing for quite some time. How is this book different from anything else you’ve written?

I finished it! I’ve been writing stories since I could hold a pencil, but I’m all beginnings and ends. The patience to craft a middle bloomed late in me.

Actually,
Normal
is technically my second novel. Shortly after leaving school I wrote an action-packed thriller about an ex-cop private detective with a tragic past, an awkward family secret and a long-suffering ex-wife who took him back in the end. It was as good as it sounds and all known copies are buried under concrete in a landfill in New Mexico.

Is the anti-hero a theme that particularly interests you, and does it feature in your other writing?

Yes. I find a wrong’un altogether more relatable.

Can you describe your writing process? Do you tend to outline first or dive right in and figure out the details as you go along?

I gave
Normal
a rough outline once I was well into the story, but writing a novel is a long process and during that time I’m out in the world living my life and learning new things, having new experiences and new ideas, which inevitably are brought to bear on my writing. At the same time, I’m becoming more intimately familiar with the ways my characters work and think, and inevitably that makes them less inclined to stick to a tight plan I cooked up for them six months ago. So it’s a very fluid process; I set out knowing where I want to go, but the route is often plagued with diversions!

Can you tell us anything about what you’re working on right now?

I may or may not have given you a clue already.