‘The ship sailed at dusk. Some travelled alone, others with any family or friends who could fund the passage. Tears were shed for those left behind. There were some who had already made peace with the land they once called home. They busied themselves folding blankets into beds and preparing what needed preparing for the journey ahead. The priest’s wife and son – my family – gazed back toward the shrinking shoreline, hoping perhaps that Brendan had raced after them, that the man who cared for them above and beyond all other things had come to take them home.

‘Alas, by the bank – his long, cadaverous limbs shrouded in black – stood the creeper, watching them.’

‘It followed his family?’ Chloe whispered.

‘My ancestors learned to avoid the night. The rules for survival have been passed down for generations. You’re allowed two mistakes, that’s all. It’s a wonder my bloodline has gotten this far.’

‘But we’ve already seen him twice,’ Chloe said.

Sparling sighed and leaned forward, resting both elbows on his desk.

‘Then I’m afraid you must live as I have done if you want to live at all, Ms Coogan.’

‘Why did you send us there?’ she asked him.

‘Like I told you, I needed you to discover if they still feared him,’ he said. ‘It’s the only way I can know if the creeper still exists and if I, too, am still his prisoner.’

‘And what do you expect us to do?’ Chloe asked, her voice faltering.

‘There’s only one thing you can do, Ms Coogan.’

‘And what’s that?’ Ben interjected, glowering at the man.

‘Fear him,’ Sparling replied with the deadest eyes. ‘It’s the only way to stay alive, I assure you. Take it from one who knows. Live cautiously and live alone. Forsake any hope of having a family. Children born from either of you will suffer the same.’

Children? The word closed its teeth around Ben’s heart. Sparling couldn’t have known about Aoife. So why would he say that? Ben tried to suppress any reaction that might please the bastard.

‘Ben,’ Chloe said, ‘what about Aoife?’

‘And who, may I ask, is Aoife?’ Sparling asked, sitting back.

‘She’s my daughter.’

‘I see,’ the doctor sighed, rubbing his fingers into his eyelids as if suddenly stricken with a wave of exhaustion. ‘I do wish that you had told me the truth when we spoke on Tuesday, Mr French.’

‘And why’s that?’

‘I’m terribly sorry for your daughter. I truly am.’

18

Ben milled around the room, phone held to his ear, waiting for Jess to interrupt its dial tone. She was always slow to answer his calls. Most of the time she didn’t and most of the time he didn’t care. It was like waiting for a bus that – if it came – was never on time. And the journey that followed was not something that Ben ever enjoyed.