BooksBarbecue
Back The Hollows
Chapters (77)
  1. Front Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright Page
  4. Dedication
  5. PART I
  6. 1.
  7. 2.
  8. 3.
  9. 4.
  10. 5.
  11. 6.
  12. 7.
  13. 8.
  14. PART II
  15. 9.
  16. 10.
  17. 11.
  18. 12.
  19. 13.
  20. 14.
  21. 15.
  22. 16.
  23. 17.
  24. 18.
  25. 19.
  26. 20.
  27. 21.
  28. 22.
  29. 23.
  30. 24.
  31. 25.
  32. 26.
  33. 27.
  34. 28.
  35. 29.
  36. 30.
  37. 31.
  38. 32.
  39. 33.
  40. 34.
  41. 35.
  42. 36.
  43. PART III
  44. 37.
  45. 38.
  46. 39.
  47. 40.
  48. 41.
  49. 42.
  50. 43.
  51. 44.
  52. 45.
  53. 46.
  54. 47.
  55. 48.
  56. 49.
  57. 50.
  58. 51.
  59. 52.
  60. 53.
  61. 54.
  62. 55.
  63. 56.
  64. 57.
  65. 58.
  66. 59.
  67. 60.
  68. 61.
  69. 62.
  70. 63.
  71. 64.
  72. 65.
  73. PART IV
  74. 66.
  75. 67.
  76. 68.
  77. Acknowledgements

Tony had died like a cornered rat. No, not even that: a cornered rat died fighting. Tony hadn’t been a coward, he’d known how to fight. Her beautiful boy; she’d been proud of him. His wilfulness had only made her love him more, even knowing it had to be broken and broken by her.

It never would be, now.

He must have been so scared, dying alone in the cold and the dark.

Liz’s eyes were suddenly full of tears and there was a scream stuck in her throat, but she dragged her sleeve angrily across her face and choked the scream down. There’d be a time to grieve, a time to cry. So much still to do. She’d have to talk to the police again, in order to see him and claim him back for burial. Have to identify him – that was her job and no-one else’s – but that would have to wait.

The lights flickered. Was it Them, or just the storm? Liz told herself it was only the second, and she’d keep doing so till she knew better. She lit another cigarette, laid the shotgun across her knees, then put on a pair of reading glasses and began to go through the family Bible.

They just had to get through to the morning; by then she’d have combed every page of this and, between that and whatever the daylight showed, she’d know what their survival would take. Because survive they would. The Harpers knew how to take care of themselves. Against the world. Against the night.

8.

8.

Joda Famuyiwa watched his wife sleep, wondering if tonight she’d finally die.

He’d watched the sickness take almost everything from her over the past six years. She’d survived far longer than the doctors had thought, but it was nearly over now. Her chestnut hair was almost white, her oval face gaunt, and her once-smooth skin, now lined, had gone from creamy white to dull waxy grey.

She was horribly thin now too; the hand Joda held was a claw of knuckle and bone. He squeezed gently, and her breath caught. The pain was almost constant, despite the drugs; she tried to hide it, but he could always tell.

Barbara had grown up not far from here, and it had never let go of her; she loved the landscape and had always hoped to return. After her diagnosis – once they’d known it was not if but when the cancer won – Joda had wanted to give her that at least. Perhaps he had, but what had he taken away from Charlotte in doing so?

Joda released Barbara’s hand and stroked her forehead, biting his lips: his eyes were stinging, his throat constricted. He might cry, and mustn’t; she depended on him.