Fear, perhaps.
Maybe grief, guilt.
Or maybe it’s sympathy.
I don’t know, but whatever it is, it’s keeping me perfectly still.
A few moments like this pass. Of silence, of nothing but the wind rustling through the trees.
There are no cars, no birds now.
Just Nathan and me.
And then he says to me, ‘I’m sorry for killing your brother, Tomek. I regret it every day of my life.’
‘It’s fine,’ I respond, ‘I understand.’
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
The letter, just like all the others, continued to play on his mind. The following day, Tomek arranged an early Sunday morning run with an old school friend, Warren Thomas. The two didn’t say much to one another as they jogged along the Southend seafront, battling headfirst into the winds, skipping past the early-morning families and dog walkers. There wasn’t much to say. Instead, Tomek used the time to clear his head, process his thoughts, process the dream.
It’s fine… I understand.
What the fuck was that all about?
What was wrong with him? Why wasn’t he admonishing his brother’s killer? Why was he basically forgiving him and excusing everything he’d done to Michał and everything he’d done to his family ever since? It didn’t make sense, and in truth, it disconcerted him a little. He either needed to make contact or he needed to cut ties immediately. The former was his preferred choice, but his concern was that the more he stuck with it and the more he entertained Nathan, the more the man would stick in his head and continue to haunt his dreams. If he let it fall to the wayside and he blocked the man out of his life (how exactly, he wasn’t sure yet), then he would never get the answers to his questions, never get the closure he needed.
It was Catch-22, and he didn’t know what to do.
Like with most things (case in point, Abigail) he pushed it to the back of his mind and let it stay there until the time was right. It was Sunday. The day of rest. It could wait for another day.
After he’d said goodbye to Warren, he’d driven back through Leigh Broadway and spotted an empty parking space along the high street – a rarity on any day of the week, no less a Sunday – and quickly pulled into it. Shutting off the engine, he climbed out of the car and made his way to Whitaker’s.
The shop was empty, a slow day, by any standard, and Rose was sitting at the back of the building, crocheting on her lap.
‘Not interrupting, am I?’ he said sarcastically. ‘You look busy. I can come back at a quieter time.’
As soon as she realised it was him, the incipient expression of anger caused by his comments, immediately fell.
‘And you look like you’ve just been for a swim in the sea,’ she retorted. ‘I hope you’re not bringing any sand onto my floor.’
Tomek pointed to the large display cabinet that contained the model yacht her husband had bought for her. ‘Just add it to your beach scenery,’ he replied.
‘Do you want it?’ she asked, taking him by surprise.
‘Pardon?’
‘The boat. Do you want it?’
‘Why would I?’
And then he realised.
‘I reckon you could get a decent amount for it,’ he said.
‘I don’t want a decent amount. I don’t care if it burns or if a seagull shits all over it. I want it gone.’
‘Just the one seagull or a flock of them? Because that’s a lot of shit just for one seagull.’
‘I don’t think there’s any shortage of them,’ she said. ‘All I’ve got to do is leave it outside for an hour or two and it’ll either get nicked or shat on by the wildlife out there.’
Tomek shook his head as he made his way over. ‘You don’t wanna use those seagulls, they’re way too sensitive. I know a guy.’
‘You know a guy?’
‘Yeah.’
‘A seagull guy?’
‘Yeah. I got a seagull connect.’
Rose dropped her crochet into her lap and burst into a fit of laughter until the point where Tomek thought he saw tears forming in her eyes.
‘Who the fuck has a “seagull connect”?’
‘Definitely not me.’ Tomek shot her a finger gun. ‘But I bet that’s the first time you’ve laughed in what felt like a long time, am I right?’
‘Maybe,’ she said, suddenly turning coy.
