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Back The Night of the Flood Save as PDF
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

Muriel still didn’t go home. There was work to be done, her mother to check on. But there was also Arthur cycling off into the early dark, his bike light a tiny dot now. She wanted to warn him, to help him somehow, but she didn’t know how.

8.

By the time Arthur reached the driveway to the farm, light flakes were falling and the sky had darkened to a sickly yellow-grey. Already it was hard to see far ahead on the bike. He pedalled without thinking, stopping only when he came in sight of the farmhouse.

He didn’t really know why he was here. He had only felt the urgent need to get away from Blowers. He looked up at the house, which was half obscured by the snow falling, heavier now. It was soaking into the driveway but had started to settle on the ornamental trees. The house stared down at him. He had been happy here, but it felt like long ago now. The windows were blank. He wanted Verity to open the door, to tell him he was forgiven.

While he stood holding onto his bike, someone came crunching around the side of the house. Instinctively, Arthur shrank back against the trees. It was Peter, hunched against the cold, in his flat cap and tweeds. In his right hand, he was carrying a rifle. Arthur silently watched as Peter opened the door to the gun store, returned the rifle and shut it again. Arthur’s breath curled up and vanished into the freezing, whitening air. He could call out to his old friend, ask him for help. But in what words, he couldn’t think. And he imagined Peter’s and Verity’s faces when they found out the truth – the horror, the disgust, the revulsion. He wanted to cry, then, to know that this was no longer a place of safety for him. He felt a sense of vertigo – as if the earth had cracked open and he was teetering on the edge of a void. He swayed against his bike, his hands clenched white around the handlebars and his body tensed as if for a fight. Peter disappeared around the dark side of the house.

The car. He could take Mr Frost’s car: the old Jag in the garage. He could drive along the Holkham Road and see what was out there, what Jack had hidden.

In the house, lights flickered on in the upstairs rooms. Peter would be in there. If he found out what he’d done he would hate him. But at this moment, Peter was all he had. He leaned the bike against a tree and crossed the drive quickly to ring the bell.

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