The Whisper Man - Alex North Page 0,124

there had been frequent bangs and clatters against his door, threats hissed and whispered from the walkway outside, and beyond the occasional call to knock it off, the guards had sounded bored and done little to stop it. Francis thought they enjoyed it.

Let them.

He waited. It was warm in the cell, but his skin was singing, his body was trembling slightly. But not with fear.

Because he was a grown man. And he was not afraid.

The first time he had seen his father was a week ago, in the prison canteen. Even at mealtimes Francis was kept separate from the other inmates, and so he had been seated at a table by himself, with a guard watching over him as he ate the slop that had been provided. Francis thought they gave him the most disgusting portions they could, but if that were the case then the joke was on them. He had eaten much worse. And he had survived far harsher treatment than this. Spooning up a mouthful of cold mashed potato, he had told himself for the hundredth time that this was all just a test. Whatever they threw at him, he would endure. He would earn what—

And then he had turned his head and seen his father.

Frank Carter walked through the door to the canteen as if he owned the whole prison, ducking slightly, his presence immediately immense in the hall. A mountain of a man. The guards, most of them shorter than him by a head, kept a respectful distance. A group of other inmates flanked him, all of them wearing orange prison uniforms, but his father stood out among them, clearly the leader of the group. He did not appear to have aged. To Francis, his father seemed almost supernaturally large and powerful, as though, if he wanted, he could walk through the walls of the prison and emerge unscathed, covered with dust.

As though he could do anything.

“Hurry up, Carter.”

The guard prodded him in the back. Francis ate the mash, thinking that the man could soon be made to regret doing that. Because his father was king in here, and that made Francis royalty. As he ate, he stole surreptitious glances over at the table where his father was holding court. The prisoners there were laughing, but it was too far away for Francis to tune out the other noises and hear what they were saying. His father wasn’t laughing, though. And while Francis thought some of the others occasionally looked his way, his father never did. No—Frank Carter just ate quickly, occasionally dabbing at his beard with a napkin but otherwise staring straight ahead of him as he chewed, as though he had serious business on his mind.

“I said hurry up.”

In the intervening days, Francis had seen Carter on a handful of other occasions, and each time it was the same. He was impressed anew by the size of the man—always towering over the figures around him, like a father surrounded by children. And each time he had seemed entirely unaware of Francis. Unlike the coterie of fawning men around him, he never even looked in Francis’s direction. But Francis felt him constantly. Lying alone in his cell at night, his father was a solid presence, throbbing somewhere just out of reach beyond the thick door and the steel walkways.

The anticipation had built steadily until, today, he had known the moment was coming.

I am a grown man, Francis thought now.

And I am not afraid.

The prison had fallen as quiet as it ever did. There were still distant noises, but his own cell was so silent that he could hear himself breathing.

He waited.

And waited.

Until, finally, he heard footsteps approaching in the hallway outside, the sound simultaneously both cautious and excited. Francis stood up, his heart beating with hope, listening more carefully now. It was more than one person. There was soft laughter followed by hushing sounds. The rattling of keys. Which made sense—his father would have access to anything he wanted in here.

But there was also something almost taunting about the noise.

Outside the cell, someone whispered his name.

Fraaaaancis.

A key turned in the lock.

And then the door opened.

Frank Carter stepped into the cell, the solid bulk of the man filling the doorway. There was just enough light for Francis to be able to see his father’s face, to see the expression there, and—

And—

He was a child again.

And he was terrified.

Because Francis remembered the expression on his father’s face only too well. It was the look he had always worn when he would come to Francis’s bedroom at night and order him to get up, to get downstairs, because there was something he needed to see. Back then, the hatred he saw had been constrained by necessity and directed at others in his place. But here and now, finally, there was no longer any need for constraint.

Help me, Francis thought.

But there was nobody to help him here. No more than there had been anyone all those years ago. There was nobody to call to who would come.

There never had been.

The Whisper Man walked slowly toward him. With his hands trembling, Francis reached down and took hold of the bottom of his T-shirt.

And then he pulled it up to cover his face.

Acknowledgments

I owe a huge debt of gratitude to a number of people—firstly to my fabulous agent, Sandra Sawicka, along with Leah Middleton and everyone else at Marjacq. Joel Richardson is my editor at Michael Joseph in the UK, and his patience and advice along the way have been invaluable. I would also like to thank Emma Henderson, Sarah Scarlett, Catherine Wood, Lucy Beresford-Knox, Elizabeth Brandon, and Alex Elam for their hard work and support, and Shan Morley Jones, Elizabeth Catalano, and Dave Cole for catching my mistakes. Huge thanks are due to Will Staehle and Anne Twomey in the U.S. for such a gorgeous cover, Ryan Doherty for his editorial input, and to everyone else at Celadon for their hard work on the book. I have been bowled over by each and every one of you, and I cannot thank you enough.

In addition, the crime fiction community is famous for its warmth and generosity, and I’m constantly grateful to enjoy the support and friendship of so many amazing writers, readers, and bloggers. You’re all ace. I need to raise an extra-large glass—a beaker, even—to the Blankets. You know who you are.

Finally, thanks to Lynn and Zack for absolutely everything—not least, putting up with me. This book is dedicated to both of you, with so much love.