Jasper Jones (43 page)

And there’s the shire president, lying flat on the lawn, attended by ambulance officers. It’s clear he’s been saved from the house. He has a ventilator mask strapped over his face. I watch as they carefully sit him up. He rests his arms on his knees. There’s a bandage covering his right leg. His hair is askew, he has no shirt on. His belly is like a ball. His skin is grimy and sweaty. Someone asks him something and he shakes his head weakly.

There’s a loud explosion, and the crowd gasps. I hear the shattering of glass. Everyone flinches except Eliza. The volunteers bark instructions and they move more urgently. More people have turned up to lend a hand or observe. Some are poised like matadors with wet blankets should spot fires erupt, praying the wind doesn’t pick up.

My eyes water and I cough into my armpit. It’s getting harder to breathe. The sky is red and peppered with flakes of ash. The antipodean snow dome.

I wipe my eyes with my shirt and look back to Eliza Wishart, trying to catch her gaze. But she just stares on ahead. I can’t place her face. A lady offers her water and some kind words, but she ignores them, shrugging her hand off her shoulder.

And for some reason I’m reminded of Eric Cooke, haggard and angry, at the moment they finally asked him the question.
I just wanted to hurt somebody
, he replied. But that was never the whole story, was
it? Only he could have known that, and he held his secrets tight in his fist, in his chest. And there’s always more to know. Always. The mystery just gets covered in history. Or is it the other way around? It gets wrested and wrapped in some other riddle. And I think of Jenny Likens, who also watched her sister die, who said nothing until the end, who got brave too late. Who must have seethed and stung every single day afterward, whose heart must have been crippled worse than her legs, who must have wanted to scratch and burn that word into her own skin like a tattoo.
Sorry
. And I don’t doubt she would have wanted to see that horrible house consumed in flames, exorcised and razed, maybe with Gertrude Baniszewski still inside.

The flames are all but tamed in an hour or so. The house is gutted, the roof has collapsed. It’s an empty black shell. The smoke thins and the Corrigan dusk is an otherwordly crimson. It feels as though half the town is here. Eliza hasn’t moved. She stands alone. Her father has been ferried away by the ambulance. Her mother is being consoled by a group of ladies who crowd her tightly and issue tissues and concern.

The people behind me start murmuring about how it might have started. Stove tops, gas leaks, faulty wires, open hearths, cigarettes. Each one skimmed over and considered with a nod. No one casts even a cursory glance at the hardfaced girl standing on her own, staring at the remains of her house without shock or sorrow.

And then somebody says it, like I knew they would. And they talk about the post office, like I knew they would. And of course it’s given more credence than it could possibly deserve. When I hear his name, there’s that lump in my throat again and a tug at my raw chest. It makes me want to break down, it really does.

Because I know the truth. I know the exact moment Jasper Jones left Corrigan behind for good. It was a couple of weeks ago. I was on the street, bowling to Jeffrey, walking back to my mark in the dry heat. And I’m not sure how, but I stopped and looked up and knew at that moment that he’d gone. It was confirmed for me later that night, when
I found a bottle of whiskey, a pack of smokes, and a fountain pen on my windowsill. But at that moment, I
felt
him go. I
knew
. And I surveyed the silent street, the ordered lawns and shut doors and the sun shimmering white off windscreens, where the only sound was the cacophony of insects. No spotter planes. No searches. Nothing stirred. Jasper Jones fell out of the world and nobody noticed. Nobody cared. And I understood. I knew just what he’d meant that night. And I had to shut my eyes fast before Jeffrey could see.

And they’ll notice now, because something has been burned. Now they’ll look for Jasper Jones. But, like Laura Wishart, they’ll never find him. He’s too smart and too fast for them. He’s too clever and canny.

I turn my back and walk away from them. I cross the grass to Eliza, who swivels upon my approach and crimps her lips into a short sad smile as I place my hand on her shoulder. I’ve finally got the right words in me. And I lean in and whisper them in her ear as flakes of ash settle around us.

Team Silvey is blessed with a wonderful, loyal, and largely unrewarded membership. So, as a shabby recompense, here’s an earnest and loving salute to:

My parents, Rocket and Chris, as generous a partnership as you’re ever likely to encounter. This whole enterprise is simply not possible without their readiness to help.

To Dr. Wendy Were, who, for the smartest lady in the world:

a) assured me it would be a fine idea to purchase a 1978 Morris Minor and

b) is yet to discover I’m a complete charlatan.

Thankfully, she continues to exercise her poor judgment by being constantly, judiciously, and wisely supportive.

To Glyn Parry, who has always contorted himself backwardswise to help my scribbling.

To Brooke, who dresses me down and biggens me up the very best of all.

To Jane Palfreyman for her incredible enthusiasm and conviction, and to all the folks at A&U, whose willingness to get behind this book has been sensational.

To Ali Lavau for her very gentle methods of alerting me to when my writing sucked arse.

To Lou and Zoe at Sleepers, thanks for being awesome.

To the booksellers and librarians who support my books, who never seem to get a Guernsey in these things, thank you very much.

To Benytron Goldfield, the patron saint of hardball, whose assurance and belief have been unwavering and fantastic, who can do all the things that I can’t. Much obliged, sir.

To my rock, my beloved Nancy Sikes, and to all who have plugged into her sockets.

To Adam Caporn, the Keiffy to my Migget. Well done.

To Miss Michela Faith Cleary, Minister in charge of Botanical Accuracy, for her steady support and stubborn belief and for the Carnac candles lit for exhausted authors.

To W. H. Arnden, who finally became a man in a Hungarian shower after a hot Turkish bath, whose love of Fact is exceeded only by his affection for nonsense.

To anyone foolish enough to bite when I asked The Batman Question.

And finally, thank heavens for Betsy, my brother, for the winter of Getting It Done, for swiping his credit cards to a thin nub to get Jasper across the line, and for being a constant and steady presence for the whole of this ridiculous ride.