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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

Arthur’s boots were filled with icy water and it reminded him of the night of the flood, but he had to block that out. He had to keep going. He had to find the place where Jack had hidden his secrets. Negatives, details of contacts – there had to be something. Ahead of him was a small ball of light, burning yellow-white against the pale flakes of snow. He tried to speed up but he stumbled into mud, silt and sand, tripping on tufts of grass. His boots were wet and his trouser cuffs soaked through. The light was still flickering. Perhaps he was imagining it. The closer he got to it the brighter it seemed to burn. Then to the left of the eerie light, another appeared, a tiny moving prick of fire. Unsure which to follow, he stopped and watched. The warm, flickering light hovered in the air. He thought it must be a will-o’-the-wisp, come to guide him and he must resist it. He moved towards the other light but as he did, it extinguished like a candle flame and he was suddenly disoriented, snow in his mouth and hair. He could not get lost out here. He waited. The light came on again. He hurried towards it, the bitter wind from the sea pushing him on. The tiny yellow dot was coming from a building of some sort, a rickety old barn or something. And though he couldn’t know it, he felt that the box he was looking for must be here. There was nowhere else. Someone had beaten him to it. But he still had the key. And the gun.

*

With cold, stiff fingers, Verity gathered up all the photographs and stuffed them back inside the briefcase. She couldn’t let anyone find them – the shame of it. There was one in which she was asleep on the bed, the blanket across her thighs, the curve of her spine like the skeleton of a fish, her hair black against white skin, and under her left arm, the shadow of her breast. He must have taken it while she was asleep and the thought of him watching her sent a wave of goosebumps over her skin.

The sounds of the night were muffled in the snow. Through the bedroom window there was a peculiar silvery glow. No vision and no sound. There could be anything out there and she wouldn’t know. She wanted to be home, warm and safe; she shouldn’t have come here. She switched off the torch and stumbled back down the passage with the torn-open briefcase and was outside, running now, the snow against her face. She found her way along the path, tripping, almost going down but righting herself again. A bramble scratched her face but she pushed it away.