Chapters (87)
- Cover
- Praise
- Dedication
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Sixty-Two
- Sixty-Three
- Sixty-Four
- Sixty-Five
- Sixty-Six
- Sixty-Seven
- Sixty-Eight
- Sixty-Nine
- Seventy
- Seventy-One
- Seventy-Two
- Seventy-Three
- Seventy-Four
- Seventy-Five
- Seventy-Six
- Seventy-Seven
- Seventy-Eight
- Seventy-Nine
- Eighty
- Epilogue
- Acknowledgements
- Extract from To Keep You Safe
- About the Author
I lower my wrists and try for a smile. ‘Sorry, I look a state, I know. I promise I’m a normal person, I’ve just been . . . in a car accident.’ I don’t want to scare her with the truth. The farmer needs the truth, but not her. ‘My car rolled, my handbag is in the car so I haven’t got my phone. I just need someone –’ someone my son can’t attack – ‘who can help me get sorted.’
‘No one is here. I can’t help you.’
I feel a flicker of frustration. But I suppose it’s remote out here, isolated. Perhaps she’s been schooled to be defensive.
‘What can I do? I can’t just wander off like this.’
‘Cleasong is north,’ she says, gesturing with a curt nod of her head.
I blink, not believing that someone could be that cold. ‘Really? You won’t help me?’
‘If you leave now, I’ll call the police for you. I’ll tell them you’re on the Cleasong road.’
I decide I do not like this young woman. ‘Please!’ I take a step forward. ‘Look, I’ve got a head injury. I don’t want to cause you any trouble, I just . . .’ I falter as she lifts something in her arms. It’s long and dark and dangerous and desirable: a shotgun. I know farms are susceptible to robbery – she is used to standing guard.
‘I’ve already told you – there’s no one here,’ she says. ‘Just go. The pub at Cleasong will help you.’
‘Cleasong’s four miles away!’
‘Ask at the Red Lion. I work there – tell them Erica sent you.’
‘You’re Erica?’
‘Erica who will shoot you – if she has to.’
I feel a flash of indignation: it never occurred to me that someone could be so unkind to another in need. I’ve got my faults, but I would never ignore a cry for help. ‘Look, I’m a woman on my own, hurt. I’m not in any shape to walk to Cleasong – I haven’t even got shoes. If I passed out because of my head injury, nobody would find me until at least morning. Don’t you think your parents would want you to help me?’
‘They’re practical people, just like I am. They’ll understand. And in case you’ve got any funny ideas, don’t think they’ll be long, neither. They’ve got the vet out for a mare, but since he charges more than its bones are worth, they won’t be lingering.’ She stays in the doorway; she’s savvy, she’s in a place of safety. And like the expert she no doubt is, she’s got the shotgun cocked over her arm. I wonder if it’s loaded.
I decide that it probably is.