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Back The Night of the Flood
Chapters (51)
  1. Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright
  4. Dedication
  5. Contents
  6. 1954
  7. PART 1
  8. 1.
  9. 2.
  10. 3.
  11. 4.
  12. 5.
  13. 6.
  14. 7.
  15. 8.
  16. 9.
  17. PART 2
  18. 1.
  19. 2.
  20. 3.
  21. 4.
  22. 5.
  23. 6.
  24. 7.
  25. 8.
  26. 9.
  27. 10.
  28. PART 3
  29. 1.
  30. 2.
  31. 3.
  32. 4.
  33. 5.
  34. 6.
  35. 7.
  36. PART 4
  37. 1.
  38. 2.
  39. 3.
  40. 4.
  41. 5.
  42. 6.
  43. 7.
  44. 8.
  45. 9.
  46. 10.
  47. 11.
  48. 1954
  49. Acknowledgements
  50. About the author
  51. An Invitation from the Publisher

She tried to move towards the sound, using the barbed wire fence as a guide, gingerly holding onto it with her left, unhurt hand and her right arm held out for balance. The torchlight jumped and trembled in her outstretched hand. The bone-cold floodwater came up to her waist and the bottom half of her body was numb. When the fence came to an end, ahead was what looked like a copse of trees on a small rise. In the dark it was hard to tell the distance. If she could make it to those trees, she would be with Gyps. And she could climb up and see where they were. She might be able to see Peter. Anyone.

She let go of the fence, then tried to put her feet out to wade but there was nothing there. The ground fell away. Her legs thrashed and whirled on nothing. She tried to swim back to the fence, but the water took her in the other direction, away from the wire, away from safe ground. She tried to swim, but her swimming had never been as strong as Peter’s. Flailing, the movement of the water was tugging her towards the sea, but she was too heavy. She could feel herself being dragged down. Above her, a black shadow, the branch of a tree. She was afraid to reach up in case she missed and the effort sent her under. But she flung her arm up and felt the hardness of the bark against her cut. Her scream resounded. Her fingers clung on. The branch bent into the water. It was thin, it could snap. But it was holding her back from the tidal sweep to the sea. She took a deep lungful of cold air and lurched with her left, unhurt hand to the thicker base of the branch and this time she got a firm hold. For long seconds she was suspended, arms hanging onto the branch, her body in the water. She imagined letting go and floating away to the sea. She saw her mother, sinking down, down to the seabed, her blonde hair flying out behind her. But her face in the picture was a twisted scream. A surge of horror propelled Verity back to the tree. She flexed her fingers. Inch by inch, she moved her hands along the branch to the trunk. Stopped, breathed. And finally, she pulled herself up, out of the water, and clambered up to a branch she hoped was strong enough to sit on. A cradle in the centre of the tree.

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