Chapter 34 Charlie
CHARLIE
As much as Charlie had wanted Freya to be telling the truth—that her perfectly timed trip back to the capital had absolutely nothing to do with Anita’s announcement of Pete’s return—he’d spent much of the day tracking her blue dot as she moved around the city she vowed never to go back to.
She’s been raving about the consultant she met ever since she got back home, blinding Charlie with the science of enzyme-replacement therapy and the potential miracle it could offer.
She’s certainly made it sound as if she’s spent the day with a world-renowned expert, but Charlie’s faith is such that he doesn’t believe anything she says anymore.
The double standard pricks at his conscience, but not for long.
“I’m going to bed,” says Freya, getting up from the sofa as the News at Ten bongs ring out from the TV.
“Okay, I’m going to do a bit more here,” says Charlie, looking up from the dining table, where he’s drowning in a sea of spreadsheets.
“Is it looking any better?” she asks hopefully.
He wants to say that they’re on the brink of bankruptcy, that if business doesn’t pick up, he’s going to have to close down, that if the debts aren’t cleared, the house will have to be sold. But he doesn’t want her to know how badly he’s failed; moreover, if he says it out loud, he’ll hear it, too.
“We’re getting there,” he says instead, hoping that manifesting it as such will make it happen.
“Marcus Harding, the man who was knocked down while walking his dog, after a car mounted the pavement in Walworth six months ago, has died.…”
There’s an intake of breath as the newsreader’s words reverberate around the room. Charlie and Freya freeze, their eyes the only part of them moving as they dart from each other to the TV.
“Marcus’s wife, Kate, was only on ITV’s This Morning yesterday, speaking optimistically about how her forty-two-year-old husband’s condition was improving. Making this sad turn of events all the more unexpected.
“The assailant of the hit-and-run is still at large, but Metropolitan Police have tonight confirmed that this has now been escalated to a murder inquiry.”
Freya is the first one to move, throwing a hand up to her mouth and letting out an indecipherable whimper. Charlie is powerless to go to her, his ability to move having left him.
“Oh my God,” she cries out.
The wires in Charlie’s brain cross, firing off sparks at random. He can’t think straight.
“How?” she croaks. “How is this possible?”
“I—I don’t know,” says Charlie, trying to figure out what he’s supposed to say, as he’s saying it.
“But they said he was getting better, that he was going to be okay.…”
Charlie gets up and walks around the table with his hands on his head.
Freya falls into a chair, as if all the air has been let out of her. “Okay, we need to think logically,” she says, sounding like she’s having trouble convincing herself. “This might not be as bad as it seems.”
Charlie looks at her, dumbfounded. “How can it not?” he exclaims. “He’s dead.”
Freya splays her palms out on the table and takes a measured breath in. “Right, but we no longer have to worry about what he might remember, or what he might say.”
“Have you lost your mind?” cries Charlie, though he’d be lying if the same thing hadn’t already occurred to him. If only for a second—but that’s sometimes all it takes.
“Think about it,” says Freya. “They’re not going to look into this any more than they already have. And if they were going to find us, they would have by now.”
Charlie laughs hollowly. “You’re being na?ve. Yesterday, his wife went on national television to say his memory’s coming back, and today he’s dead.” He shakes his head. “What if the police think the two things are connected?”
“They won’t, because they aren’t,” says Freya, glaring at him through eyes he doesn’t recognize. “Are they?”