No Other Darkness Read Online Free PDF Page A

and number, handed it to Terry.
    He folded the slip of paper once, and then again. ‘When you find out who they are . . . will you tell me their names?’ He folded the paper a third time, scoring the fold with his thumbnail. ‘Please. I’d like to know their names.’
    Marnie nodded. ‘Yes.’
    Beth came back into the kitchen with a scowling three-year-old in a pink duffle coat, yellow hair in fraying plaits, small mouth shut above an obstinate chin.
    ‘Carmen’s home,’ Beth said. ‘Here’s Daddy, see. Say hello to Daddy.’
    Carmen marched across the kitchen to her father, buried her face in his shins and started to howl. Terry didn’t pick her up, squatting instead on his heels. ‘Did you have a hard day, honey-bee?’ He put an arm around her shoulders and stroked her hair in a steady rhythm.
    Carmen wept into his chest. Tears of outrage, Marnie guessed, from the angry noise she was making. Terry lookeda question across at Beth, who shook her head defeatedly. He kept stroking the child’s hair. ‘Honey-bee, it’s all fine now. You’re home now.’
    Beth said, ‘Let’s you and me go for a walk, yes? Let’s put our wellies on and find some puddles to jump in . . .’ She reached for the boots that Terry had taken off.
    ‘Sorry,’ Marnie reminded her. ‘I have to take those.’
    ‘Oh. Yes.’ Beth looked around for another pair of wellingtons.
    When she tried to take the child from Terry, Carmen stiffened and started to scream, the kind of noise that made car alarms sound sweet.
    She was still screaming five minutes later, when Marnie left the house.

5
    In Blackthorn Road, Noah was making small talk with a PCSO, who was describing in forensic detail how much better crime-scene tape used to be, back in the day. ‘Wouldn’t wipe my arse on this new stuff . . . ’
    When Marnie came out of number 14, Noah headed in her direction.
    ‘How’re they doing? How’s Terry?’
    ‘In shock, trying to cope . . .’ She turned to look at the Doyles’ house. ‘I left him Ed’s number. What did Fran say?’
    ‘That she’ll call as soon as she has something. They’re too young for her to tell if they’re boys or girls.’ He paused. ‘I think from the clothes, they’re boys. What’d you think?’
    ‘Boys,’ Marnie said, ‘but I may be wrong.’ She was studying the house.
    Noah had done the same. The back of a house was only half the story; they needed to see the face it showed to the street. Houses are among the biggest lies we tell ourselves, hadn’t he read that somewhere? Most weren’t about the necessity of living; they reflected money or taste or aspiration. Mortgages meant you didn’t have to have , you just had to want .
    Number 14 Blackthorn Road was bland and unsmiling, its broad shoulders shrugged up against the house to its left. It was an end-of-terrace, where the weight of the other houses rested. The front door had been painted white, ruined by the weather. Fingerprints stained the area around the lock. A trio of wheelie bins was parked to the left of the door. As lies went, number 14’s was a modest one. The terrace was aggressively uniform, in the manner of most new-builds. Seven houses on each side. Number 14 was a little larger, but not by much. Every house had three floors, the third being a faux attic conversion. They didn’t look like they’d been standing more than a couple of years.
    ‘What was here, before the houses?’ Noah asked.
    ‘Fields,’ Marnie said. ‘And beech trees.’
    The beech trees had survived, flanked at the foot of the Doyles’ garden. The houses weren’t built when the children were buried in the bunker.
    Noah said, ‘You were here, eighteen months ago . . .’
    ‘When the houses were brand new, yes.’
    ‘Did you meet whoever was living in number 14?’
    ‘No one was living here. It was the last house to be sold.’
    ‘The last?’ Noah looked at her in surprise. ‘It’s a good size. End terraces usually go first. Was it a