Chapters (67)
- Cover
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Sixty-Two
- Sixty-Three
- Sixty-Four
- Sixty-Five
- Sixty-Six
‘Rosie?’ A male voice. ‘Everything all right? Want me to come down?’
Sam did not know whether what ran through him was heat or chill, he only knew he felt something change inside him as the truth hit him, which it should have done from the moment she opened the door, as it should have done weeks ago when he had seen her in a clinch with . . . but somehow, it hadn’t.
‘I’m sorry but you can see . . .’
‘OK, it’s OK, I get it. I’m sorry, I should be the one, I’m the idiot here.’
He was backing away, still trying to keep hold of the box and the bag, trying not to drop his car keys, managing to grip them enough to open the door.
He drove back attentively, but a mile from home, he pulled into a gateway, switched off the engine and sat very still, letting himself cry for as long as he needed to, here on his own in the darkness. After this, he was never going to allow himself to cry about it again.
Fifty-Eight
Need to know what’s happened.
No reply.
Ten minutes later. Pick up.
Another ten.
Have you got him yet?
He knew he couldn’t just not answer or he’d be the next.
Not yet.
Why?
He’s not around.
Fuck sake. Pubs. Cafes. Get on with it.
Done all that. No sign.
Then get to the bloody caravan.
Can’t. Flooded.
What?
Field’s under water.
Shit. But the clock’s still ticking.
I’m not Jesus Christ.
What?
Can’t walk on bloody water.
He wanted to call the text back, that sort of clever-dick reply got you into trouble.
He drove past the gate to the waste ground again, but the flood was seeping out from there now, trickling steadily over the road. He could see the caravan on the other side, near the warehouse, its wheels under water, but the rest was clear, and the flood was spreading away from not towards it.
Still, it was a question of getting over there, the water looked deep for over half the distance, you’d need more than rubber boots, you’d want a wetsuit. Meanwhile, they sat up in some lush house hundreds of miles north and gave him orders.
Gloves went back into town – nobody ever went by their real name, nobody even knew real names – and, by a miracle, a van pulled out of a parking space opposite the Black Cat Cafe as he turned down the street. He slipped deftly into it.
It hadn’t rained for a night, but the small space was like a sauna and stank of damp gear, wet boots, mud. Steam blotted the windows. You breathed in air full of moisture, straight from other people’s mouths and lungs. That’d be a cold then. Flu. Pneumonia.