The Shadows: A Novel by Alex North Page B

accomplice had helped to spirit him away, and that he was still alive somewhere.
    The thought of that made me shiver.
    But even worse were the posts from people who appeared to believe the impossible. Charlie had thought a sacrifice would allow him to vanish into the dream world forever, and there were people online who genuinely believed he had managed it.
    Which was ridiculous, of course. But at the same time, I remembered all too well the appeal that lucid dreams had had for me as ateenager, and how even though I hadn’t bought into the outer reaches of Charlie’s bullshit, that central idea of escape had still pulled at me. If I hadn’t believed him, perhaps a part of me had wanted to. So yes, it was ridiculous. But I had seen it happen myself, hadn’t I? I’d watched a belief take hold, and then the awful repercussions of that unfolding slowly and inexorably in real time.
    The killers of Andrew Brook and Ben Halsall had believed.
    It sickened me. What Charlie and Billy did that day had become a story, one that had grown and twisted over the years, and now at least two other children were dead because of him. It might have been absurd to believe Charlie had disappeared into a fantasy world, but in some ways he had achieved his wish. The murder had leaked out into the lives of so many others, and Charlie lived on in their dreams and nightmares, just as he’d wanted.
    And because I had played my own role in what had happened, it was impossible to shake the feeling that I was partly responsible for the murders that followed in its wake. That, whether I had known about them or not, in some way they were my fault.
    After a time, my mother began stirring in her sleep. Her breathing changed, and while it was probably my imagination, the soft beep of her heart monitor beside me seemed a little louder.
    She opened her eyes.
    I waited as she stared at the ceiling for a few seconds. She turned her head and looked at me blankly. And then she looked as sad as I’d ever seen her. It was as though she wanted to reach out to someone—to touch them—but a window was keeping the two of them apart.
    “You can do so much better, you know,” she said.
    I remembered the photographs I’d seen back at the house. My mother as a young woman full of hopes and dreams, laughing with such joy that it looked as though the whole world delighted her. The contrast right now was stark.
    “Mom,” I said. “It’s me. Paul.”
    She stared at me. I was worried she might react the way she had on my first visit, but instead, after a moment, her expression changed, the sadness softening into something slightly happier, yet still tinged with melancholy and loss.
    “You look so grown up,” she said.
    “I am.”
    “Oh, I know. Or at least you think you are. Everybody does at your age. But that doesn’t stop me from worrying about you. My son, going out by himself into the big, wide world.”
    I swallowed.
    She wasn’t here with me right now, but I knew where her mind was and what it was seeing. I didn’t need to close my eyes to picture that final day at the railway station as we waited for the train together. Me heading off to college, with my bags resting on the platform beside me. I remembered what she had said to me.
    It will be Christmas before you know it.
    My mother smiled sadly now.
    “And I know you’re not coming back,” she said.
    For a few seconds, I said nothing. Just as I had at the time.
    Then I leaned forward.
    “No, I’m not,” I said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
    “You don’t need to be.”
    “Are you sad about it?”
    She shook her head gently, then looked up at the ceiling and smiled again, this time more to herself.
    “I’ll miss you so much,” she said. “But I’m happy for you. I want you to go out and do great things. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. For you to get away from this place, and everything that happened here. I want to throw you as far as possible, so you can grow big and strong somewhere better.