Jack seemed to nod, then turned back with the flash of a grin. He revved the engine and though the road was even more twisty than along the coast, he sped up, faster and faster, cutting corners, low to the ground, almost skimming the tarmac. As they swung round each bend, with each lurch Arthur questioned what on earth Jack was doing. It was as if he was trying to throw them both off, trying to scare him. Trying to scare him off Verity. He didn’t want to show his fear, but he couldn’t help gripping Jack’s back harder. They passed so close against the hedges, drops of water cascaded onto his knuckles. Birds flapped up from the trees in a rush of alarm. The light at the front of the bike swept out ahead of them, like a lighthouse beam in a rough sea. Back inland, hidden from the coast, darkness began to seep into the domain, fields merging with the sky. Arthur’s hair was pushed back from his forehead by the force of the wind. His face was wet with fine mizzle. His arms ached with the effort of holding on. Each corner and jolt of the bike churned his stomach and made him tense for the impact of a fall.

Jack didn’t slow down. Was he doing it deliberately? Arthur remembered his face in the door of the hall. What was Jack trying to prove? He didn’t want to frighten Arthur. He wanted to damage, to hurt, to maim him.

On an empty lane, heading west, Arthur saw the Hall up ahead, sick with relief. He wanted to get off the bike alive. Jack wanted him dead.

Without warning, Jack swerved violently to the right. In the thin headlight beam a flash of movement and colour. Something orange flew across the road. The bike skidded, out of control, along the lane. There was no time to do anything. He braced himself to hit the ground, still clinging on tightly to Jack as if they would go down together. But at the last moment, he let go and fell alone, spinning, into darkness.

*

The clock said eleven forty-five. Something must have gone wrong. ‘Just a short spin,’ she’d heard Jack say to her brother, but they had been gone longer than that, too long, now. She picked at a pork pie and sipped her ginger beer, gazing at the door, willing them to return. The hip flask was empty and she was thinking how she would very much like another dose of her brother’s whisky, when Peter himself streaked out of the room.

‘Peter, what is it?’ she called, running after him.

‘Fellow told me there’s been an accident.’