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Chapter 1

George looked across the lake. It was a beauty. Like all of them, it sat serene and calm, like a feline at rest, waiting to pounce; driven by cloud and pressure from above. He peered skywards but was satisfied that he had time to catch one more fish. His permit had always been sorted by his dear friend Alan, but that was no longer possible. The old man had enjoyed a good innings, as they say. The cricketing reference would have pleased him; that was how they’d met, after all.

The boat rocked gently and he heard the screams of children kayaking in the distance. Derwent Water was fairly quiet out of season, and large enough to cater for all tastes. The big house had its own private beach, but no one owned the lake; that belonged to everyone, and rightly so. He smiled, thinking of his daughter’s laugh. He still hadn’t forgotten.

His line tugged and his concentration was taken to the crystal-clear depths, and a fuss under the gentle ebb and flow of the water lapping at the side of his boat. He allowed some line to be yanked away and then reeled it in a little: whatever it was wasn’t large. The poor thing also didn’t give him much of a scrap, coming to the surface straight away and practically rolling over exhausted after a minor scuffle: snowflake generation, thought George.

His mouth fell open.

He’d only gone and caught a bloody vendace! The freshwater herring was supposed to be extinct, but he’d heard rumours of a revival. He reached gently into the water and cupped the wriggling silver body: she was beautiful. He admired the colours shining off her skin, and was almost tempted to keep her. He’d been using a hook for fish much bigger than this little mite, but it had only caught the side of her mouth, and he removed it with ease, lowering her back into the water for her to revive and dart away.

His day couldn’t have gone better, but then he remembered that he’d forgotten to take a photograph; now no one would believe him. He had no idea if he’d even brought his damn phone with him.