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Back The Dead Line
Chapters (87)
  1. Cover
  2. By the Same Author
  3. Dedication Page
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. 44
  48. 45
  49. 46
  50. 47
  51. 48
  52. 49
  53. 50
  54. 51
  55. 52
  56. 53
  57. 54
  58. 55
  59. 56
  60. 57
  61. 58
  62. 59
  63. 60
  64. 61
  65. 62
  66. 63
  67. 64
  68. 65
  69. 66
  70. 67
  71. 68
  72. 69
  73. 70
  74. 71
  75. 72
  76. 73
  77. 74
  78. 75
  79. 76
  80. 77
  81. 78
  82. 79
  83. 80
  84. 81
  85. Acknowledgements
  86. Also Available by Holly Watt
  87. The Hunt and the Kill

‘I just want to get on with my life,’ he said. ‘You have to promise me, Casey. You have to choose. I’ll come to Dhaka, but this is the end of it.’

Casey ducked her face away.

You have to choose.

‘Casey?’

She looked up, London blurring.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘All right.’

As soon as the words were spoken, she felt the shock of regret. But his shoulders relaxed.

‘You think I’m a coward.’

‘No. Never.’

He was staring past her. ‘I will never forget, you know. I will never forget those screams out beyond the light.’

31

31

Just a few days later, they flew into Dhaka.

The day was slowing into evening as Ed and Casey walked down the long corridors of the old airport. A golden light sloped through the windows, and men clustered in glass smoking-rooms, clogged like lungs of soot.

The airport was sweltering, the Bangladesh spring burning into summer. There would be a few more months of searing heat, and then the crackling flood of the monsoon.

Casey was wearing a long loose dress over baggy trousers. Bangladesh was a Muslim country, and believed strictly in modest dress for women. The gold wedding ring was tight on her finger. She smoothed down the pale blue cotton, trying to breathe easily.

She straightened her shoulders, the surge of excitement coming from nowhere: I’m here, really here, all on red.

She glanced across at Ed, unfamiliar with his darkened hair.

‘It’ll be all right.’ He touched her arm, just once, because they could never be sure. And Casey grinned up at him as they approached passport control, carefree, happy, easy.

Never talk to strangers, that old chant. Never get into their car.

But she did it time and again. And every time could be her last. A roll of the dice too far.

Casey glanced around the airport, looking for spies. The Bangladeshi faces stared back, indifferent.

‘You’re playing on their turf,’ Dash had said, just before they left. ‘Are you sure about this, Casey? Really?’

‘We have to,’ she’d said. ‘We have to take the chance.’

‘We don’t.’

‘I do.’

And she stepped forward through the airport.

Dominic and Emily had met them at the airport back in London, to hand over their passports. Casey could see that Emily had been crying.

‘I have to be there,’ Emily had tried one last time. ‘I have to be with Poppy as soon as she is born. Please don’t make me wait here, Casey. Please.’

But she handed over her passport all the same, Casey staring down at it. Pretty Emily, seven years ago, smiling in an elegant shirt and jaunty earrings. A photograph taken before the smile was blurred by sadness. Casey felt that pang of sympathy again.

‘Dominic’s passport is quite old,’ said Emily. ‘It’s nearly full, actually.’