An antique from the nineteenth century, the flask was the only thing Derek had asked for when his siblings were sorting through their father’s belongings. It had been on a bookcase in his father’s study for as long as he could remember. His father had inherited the flask from an uncle, but never used it. Derek liked the image of himself as a gentleman bootlegger with expensive taste in style and alcohol. Now though, he didn’t care about the flask; he was simply grateful for the tingle and burn of the whiskey on his tongue and the warmth of it in his stomach. He lay back, eased his aching vertebrae against the cool surface of the bench, and waited for the alcohol and drugs to take the sharp edges off his pain and thoughts.

The incident in the river had shaken him. He’d put his life and those of his friends at risk by not taking the ranger’s advice. Thank God he’d been the one to go to Di’s rescue, even if he had hesitated. That made up for his bad decision, didn’t it? And if that wasn’t enough, he was also paying the price in pain.

Derek was grateful that Clare wasn’t there. And Faye. His wife was the only one who knew about the warning he’d received. He wondered whether the rangers had managed to reach them and what Faye might’ve told them. Would she say anything about him having been warned about the weather? Surely not. She’d feel complicit for not having spoken up when they left. Knowing Faye as he did, he knew she’d blame herself for not having insisted they all stay at Heuningbos. He took another swig from the flask, listening to the drumming of the rain as it poured off the roof and onto the stone stairs.

“Anyone for a game?” asked Geoffrey, wielding a pack of playing cards.

Derek gave a dismissive wave. Helen placed her arm over Bev’s shoulders and guided her towards Geoffrey. Bruce offered to refill their water bottles and, when they declined, sat at the table to play. Diane made her way to where Derek lay, his head propped on his backpack.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Getting there.” He held up the flask. “Want some?”

Diane manoeuvred one of the tree-stump stools closer and sat down. “Actually, I can’t think of anything better,” she said, taking the flask from him.

“How are your injuries?” asked Derek.

She took a small sip and handed it back to him. “Fine. Lots of blood for a couple of minor gashes, really. My shoulder’s starting to feel better. You took the brunt of it. God, I was scared. I thought that was it.”

She shook her head and closed her eyes. Derek saw the tears before they rolled down her cheeks. He lifted the flask to his lips.

“If you hadn’t come—”