MICHAEL THOMPSON

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 First published in Australia and New Zealand in 2023 by Allen & Unwin
First published in the United States in 2023 by Sourcebooks

Copyright © Michael Thompson 2023

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in

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 To Mum and Dad, for encouraging me to write,
and to Sian, for making it possible.

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 PROLOGUE

Tommy had never intended to spend his last night at the old
house sweating through three shirts and four pairs of underwear.
But that was because he’d never really had a plan before. At least,
not like this one.
He wished it included a way to keep cool. The sweat pooled in
the small of his back, and he could feel the money already sticking
to his skin. The rest of the notes bulged in wads stuffed in socks
and pockets and between the layers of underpants. He laughed at
the thought of how he must look: a wry, noiseless chuckle. He
was alone in the small bedroom but the walls were thin, and the
thick, soupy heat just seemed to make everything louder. He didn’t
need anybody knocking on his door because they’d heard him
laughing in the dead of night. How would he explain that one?
So Tommy stayed silent and waited for sleep. If it worked, maybe
he could keep what he’d earned, payment for his aching shoulders
and callused hands. And maybe—and this was the big one—he

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 MICHAEL THOMPSON

could find her. Tommy knew he hadn’t entered her thoughts once
since she’d left. That was hardly her fault, but it would make it
infinitely harder to convince her that she used to love him.
Tommy peered around the darkened room, picking out the
features of his home for almost seventeen years. He wouldn’t miss
it, he decided. Not if this worked. He’d be gone before the sun rose,
leaving nothing behind. The others would eventually drag them-
selves out of bed and go about their day, not even remembering
he’d been there.
Why would they?
They never had before.

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 ONE

Leo Palmer had a party trick, although even he knew it wasn’t

much  of a showstopper. He could calculate on any given day
exactly how long it would take the 457 bus to get from the city
centre to his stop at Ingleby, adjusting for traffic, weather and an
array of other complications. He could do it for other routes too,
but that was barely of interest to him, let alone other people.
He’d demonstrated it once at his office Christmas party. He
figured a bunch of accountants would appreciate something like
that. His colleagues had been unenthusiastic, but that was a fairly
natural state for accountants. Leo didn’t mind. It was the numbers
that he found fascinating. The people were a distant second.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. There were two people he cared
about more than any numbers—more than a balance sheet, more
than the timetable of the 457. His wife and his young son belonged
at the top of this particular ledger, and as far as Leo Palmer was
concerned, that’s where they’d stay.

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 MICHAEL THOMPSON

All of this was somewhat standard fare, to be honest. An

accountant with a fondness for numbers was pretty normal. So too
a family man who loved his wife and son. In fact, Leo’s life was
actually quite ordinary, which is, really, the point: Leo and Elise
Palmer were average. They didn’t do anything to be singled out for
what was to come. They just were.
Of course, like any normal couple, they had their fights.
They had one on the very day they signed the lease for their one-­
bedroom flat: ground floor, weathered bricks and a cracked
concrete path with dandelions that came up to their knees.
‘Jesus Christ, you’re a tight-arse, Leo,’ Elise had exclaimed as
she gazed at their new home. She was only half-joking, and her
husband rolled his eyes.
‘You knew that when you married me,’ he retorted, tugging
at one of the weeds with both hands. At last it came free, and he
threw it to the side with a satisfied grin. ‘It’s not forever. Just stick
with The Plan, and we’ll be fine.’
‘The Plan,’ Elise repeated, and smiled despite herself. The Plan
(it was always rendered with capital letters in Elise’s mind, such
was its importance to Leo) had been debated at length. Stage one
of The Plan was five years in Ingleby, two promotions for Leo,
three pay rises and then they’d move on. Stage two was some-
where else entirely: a backyard, two bathrooms, two cars in the
garage, three bedrooms and a couple of kids to fill them.
The baby boy who arrived just over a year into their lease had never
heard of The Plan, and had no regard for the fact that he’d disrupted
stage one. But—and this was the biggest surprise of all to Elise, even
greater than the pregnancy itself—Leonard Palmer welcomed the
alteration. It turns out some people are just born to be dads, and Leo

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 HOW TO BE REMEMBERED

was one of those. He gladly revised The Plan to include a round-

cheeked, fair-haired boy in that one-bedroom flat in Ingleby. He also
slashed two years off stage one—determined that the cot would soon
move out of the living room, and the occupant would have his own
bedroom. And the backyard, and all those other things that came
with being a normal family. Because that’s what they were: normal.

Elise knocked loudly on her neighbour’s door—louder than

would have been considered polite, but Mrs Morrison was
north of seventy and could barely hear her own TV. Elise could
hear it, though, every night. She didn’t mind; it reminded her
of her grandma.
The door opened a crack, and a watery grey eye framed by
wrinkles peered through the gap.
‘Hi, Mrs Morrison,’ Elise said cheerily, and the door opened
the rest of the way.
‘I’m sorry, love,’ Mrs Morrison replied. ‘I didn’t know it was you.
Come in.’ She bolted the door behind them and shifted her gaze
down to the boy nestled comfortably on Elise’s hip.
‘And you, you precious thing. You’re getting so big!’
Elise grimaced. The dull ache in her lower back was proof
of that.
Mrs Morrison noticed. ‘Put him down, love. Still not walking?’
Elise lowered her son to the clean linoleum floor. ‘Not yet. Soon,
I hope. He’ll be the last in his playgroup to do it.’
The old woman bent over in front of the little boy, and held out
her hand like she was sprinkling invisible birdseed, trying to coax

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 MICHAEL THOMPSON

him to her. Unsurprisingly, he didn’t move. If he hadn’t got up on

those stubby legs for his mummy and daddy, he was hardly going
to do it for the old lady next door.
Mrs Morrison straightened, shaking her head. ‘Give him time.
My Mark didn’t walk till he was two. He’s not even one yet, is he?’
‘Nearly! It’s tomorrow,’ Elise said. ‘That’s why I’m here. If you’re
not busy, would you like to come over for cake in the afternoon?
Maybe around three? Only if you’re free, of course.’
Mrs Morrison smiled. She loved having a family next door,
especially one that made an effort to include her. Until they
moved in, she’d felt like the last of her kind—a stubborn reminder
of the way things used to be. The smile faded as she remem-
bered her own son. Mark had been a sweet boy too, and a lovely
man, and it wasn’t his fault how things ended up. It was those
friends. And this neighbourhood. Now, every time there was a
knock on the door she was sure it was the police, delivering more
bad news.
‘You’re still locking your doors at night, love?’ she asked.
‘Of course, Mrs Morrison.’
‘I wish you could’ve seen it forty years ago,’ the old lady
murmured, almost apologetically, and Elise needed no further
explanation. Her neighbour had said this every time they’d spoken,
and she knew what came next. She needed to change the subject
before those faded grey eyes started to tear up.
‘So three o’clock tomorrow. It’ll just be you and the three of us.
Leo’s even calling in sick to work.’ This was a big deal, and certainly
wasn’t in the original version of The Plan.
Mrs Morrison came back to the present. ‘The cake,’ she said.
‘Is your oven still on the fritz? You can use mine if you want.’

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 HOW TO BE REMEMBERED

‘It’s alright, I’ve already made it,’ Elise told her. ‘It’s just the ther-
mostat that’s busted. The edges are a bit burnt, but there’ll be plenty
of icing. He won’t notice.’
The boy at her feet was playing with a doorstop as though it
were a rocket ship. Elise scooped him up and he waved a fat little
hand at the kindly lady next door. Mrs Morrison waved back as
they left, heart swelling with the pride of an adopted grandmother.
She looked around the room, wondering what she could wrap
up and give him for his birthday. She needn’t have bothered; Mrs
Morrison wouldn’t be attending any afternoon tea. Nor would Leo
or Elise Palmer, for that matter. Not that any of them knew it.

It was long after dark when Leo’s return from work was announced
by a key sliding into one lock, then another. He tiptoed inside and
danced silently over the toys strewn in the entrance. He was sure
kicking one—even the barest nudge with his toe—would mean
waking the boy asleep in his cot against the living room wall. Leo
looked in at his son, thumb tucked firmly in his mouth, a slight rise
and fall of his chest as he dreamt. The metal bars of his cot gleamed
dully in the light from the bedroom door beyond.
Elise lay on her side of the small double bed, propped up on
pillows with a book in front of her. Of course she was reading;
there was a mound of books on her bedside table.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ Leo whispered. ‘Big day. Think I can feel a cold
coming on. Don’t reckon I’ll make it in to work tomorrow.’ He
winked, and his wife smiled. ‘I’ll be back in a sec,’ he said. ‘Just
want to check out the cake.’

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 MICHAEL THOMPSON

He tiptoed to the fridge. A beer bottle rattled as he pulled the

door open, and he held his breath.
No noise came from the cot. A minor miracle.
Leo admired Elise’s handiwork. Two plain butter cakes had been
transformed into an impressive reproduction of Thomas the Tank
Engine, the birthday boy’s favourite TV show. The blue frosting
looked thick and deliciously sweet, although Leo suspected it
might be masking some burnt edges beneath. He grinned. It’d be
the thermostat’s fault. It always was.
Next to a small vase on the living room table he spied the
present he’d picked out. It had been carefully wrapped by Elise and
now sat ready to be torn open by an excited child. He looked down
into the cot, gazing fondly at his son’s sandy-coloured hair and soft,
smooth skin.
‘Night, buddy. See you when you’re a one-year-old,’ he whis-
pered, so quietly he could barely hear it himself.
Then he crept back into the bedroom and Elise switched out
the light.

‘Leo!’
He stirred.
Elise elbowed him in the chest. ‘Leo!’ she hissed again.
‘Mmm?’ he mumbled sleepily.
‘Wake up! There’s someone out there!’ Her voice cracked with
panic.
Leo’s eyes flicked open instantly and he felt a rush of adrenaline.
He listened, barely moving, for whatever had distressed his wife
so much.

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 HOW TO BE REMEMBERED

There.
A small sound, almost like a snuffle.
Then silence.
Again, a noise. Rustling this time.
It was in their living room.
Leo had known this might happen since the day they’d moved
in; an intruder wasn’t part of The Plan but had always been a
footnote, the implied risk of paying a pittance in rent. He’d some-
times wondered if he’d choose fight or flight, or even option
three: cower.
But it wasn’t a conscious choice at all. Without thought Leo
sprang from his bed and stood at the doorway to the living room,
listening hard.
He took a deep breath, reached around the corner for the light
switch and flicked it. Harsh yellow light flooded into the bedroom
and he charged through the doorway, then stopped suddenly,
blinking.
Silence.
‘Leo?’ Elise called shakily. ‘Are they still there?’ Her heart was
hammering so loudly she was sure Leo (and whoever was in the
living room) would hear it.
Then, at last, her husband responded. His voice was strained.
Confused, even.
‘Come out here. Quick.’

A lone police car arrived just eight minutes later, its lights
strobing as the driver parked without haste or care at the front

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 MICHAEL THOMPSON

of the rundown block. Constable James Elliott had only been

two streets over, but was more than happy to let them think he’d
rushed here. Good for the image, he thought, and looked up at the
low-rise building.
He laughed humourlessly as he realised he’d been here before.
Only once, though, about ten years ago, on his third day into
what he was sure was going to be a stellar career of medals and
honours and promotions (he’d been wrong, so far). His super-
vising officer had parked in pretty much the same spot, and sat
in the car watching the young probationary constable shuffle
nervously to the door of one of the ground-floor flats. Blooding
the new recruit with his first death knock. Elliott grimaced,
remembering the old lady’s eyes filling with tears as he told her
that her son had died in his sleep in a house nearby. He didn’t
tell her he’d choked on his own vomit, or that Elliott thought
forty-four was too old to still be living in a shithole with three
other deadbeats.
He wondered for a moment if the old duck was still alive, and
a moment later had his answer. Mrs Morrison’s door opened a few
inches as he walked up the cracked, weedy path. She’d seen the
flashing lights while making her way slowly to the toilet (it was
nearly two o’clock after all, and a woman of her vintage couldn’t be
expected to hold on all night).
‘What do you want?’ she called defiantly through the gap,
almost daring the officer to bring her bad news.
‘Fuck me,’ Constable Elliott muttered. ‘It’s her.’
‘Did you call about the kid?’ he asked her, voice echoing in the
still night.
She looked at him blankly.

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 HOW TO BE REMEMBERED

‘Was there a kid here?’ he asked.

The same confused stare.
‘Go back inside,’ he ordered.
Mrs Morrison did as she was told. She really needed the loo.
‘Fucking geriatric,’ Elliott said to himself, and checked his
notepad. He knocked on the door next to Mrs Morrison’s, still
shaking his head.
It was opened by a tall man with thick fair hair, who introduced
himself as Leonard Palmer.
‘You’re the guy who called about a missing kid?’ the constable
asked.
‘Well, yeah,’ Leo replied. ‘In a way.’
‘What’s that mean?’ Elliott snapped, his patience already gone.
Ten seconds, he thought. Might be a new record.
‘We haven’t lost a kid,’ Leo said slowly. ‘We’ve  .  .  . well, we’ve
kind of found one.’

Three times Leo and Elise told their story to the officer—once next
to the cot, then twice more seated across from him at the dining
table. Elliott pulled an assortment of faces and scribbled furiously
on all three occasions.
‘Right,’ Elliott said. ‘And whoever it was who left the baby . . .
they set up the cot too?’
They nodded.
‘While you were both asleep.’
Nodded again.
‘And what woke you up?’

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 MICHAEL THOMPSON

‘We heard him,’ Elise said, her face pale and drawn, still process-
ing why they were being interviewed at the table where she usually
ate breakfast.
‘The person who left the cot?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Him.’ And she pointed to the small boy sitting
up, sheet tangled around his legs. His eyes were darting curiously
between the three people gathered near his bed, as if fascinated by
the commotion.
‘And then you called the police. Because your baby woke you up.’
Constable Elliott sighed. ‘Fuck me,’ he said, not quite under his breath.
Leo opened his mouth to respond, and Elise put a hand on his
arm. Leo paused, composing himself.
‘We’ve told you. It’s not our baby. We . . . we don’t have any kids.
Yet.’ He wanted to add that it wasn’t in this stage of The Plan, that
babies were in stage two, but didn’t think the cop would care.
He was right.
Elliott stared at them both again, then made an exaggerated
display of looking around the room, as though inspecting for
hidden cameras. Something didn’t feel right here.
‘This is a joke, right?’ They shook their heads. ‘Okay. What have
you taken?’
Elise and Leo looked at each other, confused.
‘What are you on?’ the officer asked. He sighed, not even trying
to hide his frustration. ‘Look, people don’t break into apartments
and leave behind a baby. So let me tell you what I think actually
happened. You two had a big day on God knows what. Then
you thought you’d waste my time with a call at two o’clock in the
morning because you forgot you had a kid you’re supposed to be
looking after. Am I right?’

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But even as he said it, he wasn’t sure—not that he’d admit it to

them. They didn’t look like addicts. They looked more like teachers
on a school camp, dragged out of bed in the middle of the night to
tell the kids to go back to sleep. And the air in the living room didn’t
smell like stale pot. It smelt—well, it smelt like a baby. Like nappies
and talcum powder. And milk.
A tiny hammer of a headache started to beat above his left eye.
The flat looked rough from the outside, but in here it was neat
as a pin: clean floor, nice furniture, shelves and shelves of books,
pictures hung level on walls. (The presence of pictures in frames
was actually pretty uncommon—in half the places he visited there’d
only be a poster or two; some ratty heavy metal band covering
a hole punched through the wall.) The table next to the cot was
completely bare, save for a small vase with a posy of pink and white
flowers.
‘We’re not on anything,’ Leo insisted. ‘We don’t know what’s
happening. I know it sounds strange—’
‘Oh really?’ the cop interrupted. ‘You think so?’
The little boy started to cry. Leo and Elise looked at each other
again, but didn’t move.
The tiny hammer tapping inside the cop’s skull grew slightly
bigger.
‘Aren’t you gonna pick him up?’ he asked as the child wailed.
Elliott just wanted the noise to stop.
Elise got up and reached into the cot, lifting the boy out. She
stood there, holding him uncomfortably under the arms.
That’s weird, Elliott thought. Even the fucked-up ones hold their
babies on their hip.
‘Wait here,’ he instructed. ‘I need to call this in.’

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 MICHAEL THOMPSON

Fifteen minutes later he returned, looking like he’d received bad

news, or like he wanted to be somewhere else. Possibly both.
The boy had stopped crying and was now sitting on Elise’s knee
on the couch, playing with her hair, twisting it around his pudgy
fingers.
‘You two have jobs?’ Elliott asked, trying to sound casual
but increasingly desperate to confirm his theory that they were
everyday addicts.
‘Of course we do,’ Elise replied. ‘Leo’s an accountant, and I tutor
English. High school. But I can do university level too,’ she added
awkwardly, as though wanting to prove herself.
‘Right,’ Constable Elliott said, waving her answer away.
Something was off, something he couldn’t quite identify, and
he was counting down the minutes until it became somebody
else’s problem. ‘Here’s what’s going to happen,’ he said. ‘Child
Services will be here soon. They’re going to talk to you about
your kid.’
‘He’s not our—’
‘Just stop. You’re going to be drug tested. And they’re gonna ask
you why you never registered his birth.’
‘What do you mean?’ Leo asked.
‘There’s no record of him living here.’ Leo and Elise both started
to protest, but Elliott held up his hands. ‘Hey, it happens. At least,
it does round here.’
Elise jumped to her feet, seemingly forgetting she was holding
a child, and the boy playing in her lap slid to the ground with a

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 HOW TO BE REMEMBERED

painful bump. He screeched, a piercing noise that made Elise and

Leo wince.
Elise picked him up again, and Elliott exclaimed loudly over the
boy’s hoarse cries.
‘Can’t you shut him up? I  dunno, give him some milk or
something?’
Leo opened the fridge. The beer bottle in the door rattled. They
were out of milk; in fact, apart from the beer in the door, a packet of
cheese and three sausages on a plate, the fridge was completely empty.
‘Forget it,’ the cop said. He’d heard a knock at the door. ‘I’m out
of here.’
Two officers from Child Services introduced themselves; the
man and woman were both wearing suits, with rumpled shirts and
no tie—the uniform of night shift workers who hadn’t expected
a call-out.
James Elliott briefed them quickly in the doorway, pointing
back to where the couple sat on the couch. Leo now held the boy,
the same dazed and confused look on his face that his wife had
worn a few minutes earlier.
If I ever have kids, thought Elliott as he strode outside, I hope
I look like I know what I’m doing. He hasn’t got a fucking clue. Give
the kid a toy to play with, something to distract him.
He was halfway back to his car, ache in his head pounding
away, when it hit him. There were no toys. Not a car, not a building
block, not a teddy. Nothing in the living room. Even junkies have
toys, he thought. Dirty ones, but still something for the kids
to chew on while Mum and Dad sleep off a bender under the
watchful eye of Led Zeppelin, hiding those fist-holes ploughed
through the wall.

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 MICHAEL THOMPSON

But there were no posters in that house, just framed pictures

hung neatly.
Pictures of Mum and Dad, together.
No baby.

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