She looks out across the London skyline again. Is Rob watching her from his desk? She waves, trying to dissipate some of her impish joy. And then she cartwheels across the grass, remembering her pictures on the wall downstairs, and peers over the wall to the street below.

The car that brought her is parked across from the entrance to the apartment block, partially obscured. She leans further over the wall and can just see Putin on the pavement, talking to someone she recognises. Her mouth dries, all joy gone. It’s Cara, the woman on the train, the same person she saw at Paddington.

59

Silas

Silas follows the track through the woods until it opens out into a grassy area, hazy in the evening light and buzzing with the low drone of summer insects. If it were mown, it would make an idyllic cricket pitch, hidden away amongst the trees. On the far side, there’s a gamekeeper’s hut that could easily double up as a rustic pavilion.

It’s here that Conor has asked to meet him, which somehow seems fitting. Conor used to play cricket when he was younger. He was good, but bat and ball were alien to Silas and he didn’t show any interest. His own dad brought him up on a strict diet of football. Given the chance again, Silas would watch every one of Conor’s cricket matches, offer to do the scoring, make the teas. Be a father.

No one else is around as he approaches the hut. There’s an open barn area, for large machinery, presumably, and a shed to one side. Conor didn’t say much on the phone, just that he wanted to meet here. He could see Silas down by the train track, had been watching him for a few minutes from the woods above.

‘Conor?’ he calls out. ‘You there?’

Silence. A red kite enters the far end of the clearing and sweeps over the grass, twisting and turning in search of carrion. Silas moves forward, pushing open the hut door. Inside, some logs, a row of pheasant feeders, neatly stacked, a collection of white plastic scarecrows piled up in the corner. The familiar smell of weed.

It takes a few seconds for Silas’s eyes to adjust to the darkness. And then he sees Conor on the floor, propped up against the far wall. The relief knocks him sideways. For the past six weeks, Silas has had to consider the possibility that Conor might be dead. And here he is, arms wrapped around his knees, rocking gently like a child.

Silas has seen him in better shape, but at least he’s alive.

60

Kate