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Chapters (62)
  1. Title
  2. Copyright
  3. Contents
  4. About the Author
  5. About the Book
  6. Dedication
  7. Your Worst Nightmare
  8. ONE
  9. TWO
  10. THREE
  11. FOUR
  12. FIVE
  13. SIX
  14. SEVEN
  15. EIGHT
  16. NINE
  17. The Answer to All Your Prayers
  18. TEN
  19. ELEVEN
  20. TWELVE
  21. THIRTEEN
  22. FOURTEEN
  23. FIFTEEN
  24. SIXTEEN
  25. SEVENTEEN
  26. EIGHTEEN
  27. NINETEEN
  28. TWENTY
  29. TWENTY-ONE
  30. TWENTY-TWO
  31. TWENTY-THREE
  32. TWENTY-FOUR
  33. TWENTY-FIVE
  34. TWENTY-SIX
  35. TWENTY-SEVEN
  36. TWENTY-EIGHT
  37. TWENTY-NINE
  38. THIRTY
  39. THIRTY-ONE
  40. Somebody Else’s Child
  41. THIRTY-TWO
  42. THIRTY-THREE
  43. THIRTY-FOUR
  44. THIRTY-FIVE
  45. THIRTY-SIX
  46. THIRTY-SEVEN
  47. THIRTY-EIGHT
  48. THIRTY-NINE
  49. FORTY
  50. FORTY-ONE
  51. FORTY-TWO
  52. FORTY-THREE
  53. FORTY-FOUR
  54. FORTY-FIVE
  55. FORTY-SIX
  56. FORTY-SEVEN
  57. FORTY-EIGHT
  58. FORTY-NINE
  59. Sunlight on Water
  60. July
  61. September
  62. Acknowledgements

Rain. Evan’s watching the storm from his bedroom window, counting the seconds between the flashes of forked lightning over Blackmire Ridge and the crashes of thunder which follow. Count slowly, Grandpa said. One thousand, two thousand . . . Each second is a mile in distance from the heart of the storm, which makes the storm very close indeed, right over the house, right over his bedroom. Grandma’s roses are taking a battering, and the oak trees in the copse on the opposite hillside, even they are bending in the wind.

The hills are becoming familiar. He likes to look out at them. At home, he doesn’t like looking out; there are too many people about, and he doesn’t want to be seen. But here, there’s nothing between him and the oak trees except the home field and the stream, and then just open, empty space. If he wanted to, he could take the chair away from his door, walk out of the house and into the landscape, and he could walk as far as those trees. No one would bother him. No one would stop him.

Evan feels something shifting in his shoulders and his back. The muscles are looser, more relaxed.

It’s true. No one would stop him. He can come and go as he pleases.

He’s free.

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-FIVE

18 August

‘How are you doing, Ron?’

Naylor hands Ron Perdue his pint and, sitting down next to him, takes a sip of her orange-and-soda. The beer garden is all lawns and picnic tables, with an overhanging willow tree which almost manages to create a sense of country riverside. The only thing spoiling the illusion is the stink of diesel and the sound of heavy traffic from the road on the other side of the high wooden fence.

Ron is looking good, in Italian-style twill shorts and a polo shirt, deck shoes on his feet.

‘I’m doing all right. Just wondering to what I owe this honour.’

‘You’re looking very brown. You been away?’

‘Only as far as the bottom of the garden. She’s got me re-landscaping. So much for retirement, eh?’ He raises his pint to her. ‘Cheers. Whereas you, I have to say, have all the unhealthy colour of a copper doing too much overtime. You need to get out more, and I mean that literally. Get more sunshine and vitamin D, or you’ll be getting rickets.’

‘I take my daily vitamins,’ says Naylor, defensively. ‘I don’t look that bad, do I?’

She’s made all the effort she’s had time for: shower and shampoo, tracksuit bottoms, a vest top and canvas slip-ons. The other women in the beer garden are in summer cottons, pretty dresses and golden tans, real or fake. Most are wearing make-up, and Naylor wishes she’d spent ten minutes more getting ready, but that would have made her later than she already was, and Ron gets very snippy about people being late.