Page 75 of Don't Let Him In

“He had a face. But I made it up. Like I made up lots of things then—all the time. But, yes, he had a face. A real face.”

“And this face you made up. Did it…” Ash opens her hand to reveal the folded piece of paper she’s brought in with her, and she carefully unfolds it before turning it to face Joe. “Did it look like this?”

It’s Nick Radcliffe’s LinkedIn photo, slightly blurred in the enlarged printout but still recognizably him. She sees Joe’s eyes widen, his jaw fallopen. His fingers reach for the sheet of paper and pull it slowly toward him. Then he stares up at Ash, his eyes full of fear and horror, and says, “Where did you get this?”

“It’s a photo of a man called Nick Radcliffe. But he has lots of other names too. Do you recognize him?”

He looks back at the photo and then up at Ash and nods, just once. “That’s him,” he whispers. “That’s him. I don’t…” He pushes himself back from the table with his hands. “I don’t understand. He’s not real. The Silver Man isn’t real.”

“But is this him? Is this the man who told you to push Paddy?”

Joe nods. His chair is now a foot from the table, and she can see his breathing has sped up, his chest rising and falling. She sees he is scared.

“He gave me money. He told me the man—your father—was evil. He told me your father was going to explode a bomb. Kill lots of people. He told me lots of things. He just talked and talked and talked. He said so many words. And then he went.”

“Where? Where was this?”

“Outside. Leicester Square. I was… asking people for money. Because I was homeless back then. Couldn’t live with my mum and dad because I was too much trouble. My mum was scared of me. I had to live on the streets. Life was very difficult. I had a lot of things going on. So much noise. I was never quiet. And this man, he gave me money. This one.” He points at the photo on the table. “But he wasn’t real. He was never real. I know he wasn’t real.”

“He was real, Joe. He really was. And can you remember, in this conversation you had, which exit you were at? At the station?”

“Where I always was. On Charing Cross Road. Just on the steps where they go down into the station. It was my place. People knew me. Lots of people spoke to me. Brought me things. But this man, this Silver Man… he was new. He was friendly. And he was kind.”

“How did you get down there? Onto the platform? Did he go with you?”

“No. I can’t remember. At least, I couldn’t remember before. But now maybe I do. Because maybe he was real?”

“He was. He is. And do you—would you feel OK? To tell people? To say it was him?”

Joe shakes his head vehemently. “No. Nobody would believe me. They didn’t believe me then. They won’t believe me now.”

“What if I could find some sort of film footage, CCTV, to show this man talking to you. To prove it happened. Would you be prepared to talk about him then? To the police?”

Joe glances up at the guard in the corner as though he might have an opinion on the matter. The guard doesn’t react, and Joe turns back to Ash. “Yes,” he whispers softly. “Yes. I think so. If it was helpful. To you? And your family?”

“It would be helpful,” says Ash. “It would be really helpful to me, and to my mother, and to lots and lots of other women and people that this man has hurt.”

Joe nods, gently at first, then more and more animatedly. “Yes,” he says. “If you can find proof that this man talked to me, then yes. Yes, I will.”

Ash collects her possessions from the small locker she’d been assigned at security, her fingers fumbling over her phone as she takes it out of her bag and switches it on, her heart still racing, nausea rushing through her system, making her dizzy, desperate for air. She stumbles through the last of the many doors she went through to reach Joe Kritner and then, as the chilled January air hits the insides of her lungs, the hot skin of her face, she folds herself in half, clutches hold of her kneecaps, and sobs with a mixture of grief and fury.

Then, and only then, does she call her mother.

“I’m calling the police,” says Nina. “I’m calling them right now.”

SIXTY-NINE

The next morning, I finally reply to Martha:

I’m coming home. Very soon. My mother is in a home, and I have some money. I’m sorry I have put you through so much. Let’s start again. I will see the GP, get referred for meds for my ADHD. I will be a better person for you. I will be everything you need me to be. I love you so much.

And I do, I realize as I press send. I do love her so much. But the thing about my love in the past is that it’s always been conditional. It’s flickered on and off, its trajectory always headed like a dying star toward the dead end of the feeling. But Martha… if there is such a thing as the perfect person for a man like me, then it is her. Neither too submissive nor too aggressive, not too clever or too stupid, too kind or too cold. She has no baggage—even her ex-husband is a decent man with whom I have no issues. And her son—he has a place in my heart, because I know how it feels to not belong to yourself.

A moment later, Martha’s response comes and my heart fills with joy:

We’re all waiting, my love. Let me know when to expect you.

Part Five

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