She set the table and went out to help put Scrumpy and Seashell away, and then the girls came back into the cottage to eat and Marnie took Alice’s tin into the living room.

It had been in the cave for twenty-four years. A line of rust had formed at the seams and the rim of the lid, but the paintwork was intact.

Marnie picked it up – it wasn’t heavy – and tried to prise the lid open with her fingers, but it was rusted shut. Next she tried the tin opener, but the tin was too large and the teeth of the opener could not gain purchase.

What Marnie needed was the help of someone who had access to some sort of cutting tool.

She picked up her phone.

She messaged Gabriel.

57

Will turned his back to the rain and crouched down over the thing he’d tripped over. He reached out and his fingers touched fur but it was so matted it had taken on a new texture. The light was fading, but he could see the thing was a dog, and it was stuck, half buried. Its ears were flat back to its head, its eyes clagged with dirt. As Will leaned towards it, it tried to move away but couldn’t. It was half-dead, exhausted, freezing cold. It must have been there when he walked down the other way but he hadn’t seen it because it was so melded with the estuary mud. It was pitiful, but also disgusting. Will was torn between compassion and revulsion. As he watched, the dog made a feeble attempt to free itself, extending its neck, grunting, but it was too weak. It laid its chin down again, closed its eyes. It had the air of something resigned to death.

It must be the dog that Marnie had lost.

Shit.

Will looked about him, looking for someone who might help, but it was February, it was a cold afternoon and night was falling. Nobody was around.

There’d be people at the holiday park, competent people, police and builders who’d have rope and spades and other tools that might be useful in this situation, but the park was too far away. Behind him, the sea was coming in, racing up the shallow banks. It would certainly reach the dog before Will reached the caravan park. If he went for help, the dog would drown.

Will took his phone out of his pocket to text Marnie, thinking she’d know what to do. But the phone’s face was black. Its battery was dead.

Shit shit shit shit shit.

He was on his own. What should he do? What if the dog was terminally injured? It was already half dead. What if it couldn’t walk? And what would Will do with it if he did manage to free it?

What if moving it would only hurt it more, prolong its evident suffering?