Water Like A Stone

Chapter Fourteen

The victim clutched his head and staggered, then swayed and slumped to the floor of the inn’s lounge bar, like a rag doll divested of stuffing. He twitched and, with a final moan, lay still.

Standing over him, the murderer nudged him with a toe, once, twice, then, still holding the club, raised his hands above his head and pumped his arms in victory. He pranced around the room in an impromptu dance, face obscured by his mask, ragged clothes fl uttering.

“A doctor!” someone called out from the crowd. “Get a doctor!”

A tall, skeletally thin man in a black top hat pushed through the bystanders and, kneeling beside the corpse, opened his large black bag. From its depths, he pulled a jug of medicine that looked suspiciously like cider, and a pill the size of a Ping-Pong ball. The doctor held the pill up between thumb and forefinger, displaying it to the crowd, then pushed it between the unresponsive lips of the corpse.

There was a pregnant pause, a momentary holding of the collective breath, then the corpse stirred, sat up, and gave an exaggerated shake. He spat out the pill and took a swig from the jug, which made him roll his eyes and wipe his lips with the back of his hand. Then

he leapt to his feet and began to attack his assailant with the same club that had previously been used against him.

After a frenzied chase round the small open space in the pub’s center, the murderer at last fell to his knees, vanquished, and the crowd erupted into cheers. Murderer, victim, and doctor all took bows, then the doctor swept off his top hat and began passing it through the crowd to the accompaniment of clinking glasses.

“That’s barbaric,” murmured Gemma to Kincaid, who stood beside her at the bar. They’d been queuing for drinks when the play had begun and everyone had fallen silent to watch.

Tossing the change he’d received from the barman into the doctor’s hat as it passed by, Kincaid said, “Mummers on Boxing Day are a respected rural tradition. I thought they were quite good, actually.”

To Gemma, Boxing Day meant watching football on the telly, which she thought more civilized than pantomimed murder, football hooligans notwithstanding. Toby, who had clamped himself to her and tucked his face away as the villain struck his blows, now tugged on her trousers leg. “Mummy, is the bad man gone?”

Contrite at not realizing he’d really been frightened, she knelt beside him and tousled his hair. “Yes, lovey. It was all just pretend, like on the telly, or a film. See, they’re friends again.” She pointed to the actors, now engaged in a spirited conversation at a far table, and Toby stood on tiptoe to look.

“The play’s medieval, or older,” Kincaid explained as he and Gemma collected the round of drinks he’d bought for their table.

“Perhaps even pagan—no one seems to know for certain. At least they don’t stone wrens these days.”

“Stone wrens?” Gemma looked at him askance. “As in little birds?”

“The twenty-sixth of December is the feast day of Saint Stephen, an early Christian martyr who was stoned to death,” Kincaid explained as they threaded their way through the crowded room, Toby s

leading the way. “According to legend, it was the wren that betrayed Stephen to the mob, so boys and young men used to go out on Boxing Day and kill a wren with stones as a sort of retribution. Then they’d affix the little body to a pole tied with ribbons and parade it round the village.”

“Ugh.” Gemma made a face. “You win. I’ll take mummers. But you country people are all a bit cracked,” she teased, letting him know he was forgiven for leaving her behind that morning.

She had enjoyed her time with the children—or at least with the younger two. Sam was unexpectedly patient with Toby, and Toby had responded with his usual uncomplicated enthusiasm. Even the ponies had not been too bad: shaggy, friendly creatures who had butted her and nibbled bits of carrot, their warm plumes of breath carrying the beery scent of slightly fermented grain.

But some of her pleasure in the outing had been spoiled by a tension she sensed between Kit and Lally, although they had seemed almost pointedly to ignore each other. It made Gemma uneasy, and she would have guessed they’d had a falling-out, except that once or twice she could have sworn she saw a complicit look pass between them. Had something happened that she’d missed?

Kit had come home from his walk with Duncan the previous evening full of excitement over the boat he’d seen and its owner’s invitation to come back for another visit. Was he merely out of sorts because the family’s plans for their traditional Boxing Day lunch at the local pub had got in the way of his expedition?

If so, perhaps the inn would make up for it, Gemma thought as she and Duncan reached the table their party had snagged near the fire. In London, going to pubs wasn’t a normal experience for the kids, but the Barbridge Inn, like many country pubs that served meals, allowed children in the restaurant area and was family oriented.

The pub was a welcoming place, Gemma had to admit, hugging the canal side in the tiny hamlet of Barbridge, just a mile or two from the Kincaids’ farmhouse. Open fires burned in both bars, the rambling rooms were filled with comfortably worn furniture, and the walls were covered with canal- themed prints. There was even a bookcase, filled with used volumes that the patrons traded, and in the central room, a jazz band was setting up for a session.

The musicians were older, all local men and friends of Hugh’s, Rosemary explained when Gemma and Duncan had taken their places at the table again. Juliet sat with her back to the fire, as quiet as she had been since her return from the police station, but it seemed to Gemma that she had begun to relax in the warmth and bustle of the pub. Her face seemed softer, less pinched with strain.

The children had taken a small table beside the adults, adjusting their chairs so that they could see the band, but Sam often glanced back at his mother, as if assuring himself that she hadn’t vanished.

The band started up just as their food arrived, and they ate the good, plain pub cooking with their feet tapping under the table. After a few bites, Toby abandoned his chicken and chips and stood, jiggling to the beat with the unself-conscious abandon of a fi ve-year-old. It was happy music, Gemma thought, New Orleans–style jazz in an irresistible upbeat tempo, played with professional fl air and obvious enjoyment by the band. By the end of the first set, even Juliet had begun to smile.

When the band stopped for a break, wiping sweaty faces with handkerchiefs, the crowd erupted into cheers and applause. Gemma had pushed back her chair, intending to take Toby for a closer look at the instruments, when she saw Juliet’s face freeze.

Turning, she saw Caspar Newcombe standing a few feet away.

How long he’d watched them while their attention was diverted, she didn’t know, but now he stepped up to their table and blocked Juliet’s chair.

“I thought I might find you here,” he said, quite pleasantly, and gave them all a smile that chilled Gemma’s blood. She had seen such control before, and it was much more frightening than any drunken shouting. “You’re such creatures of habit, which I suppose is good

for me, since you didn’t trouble to invite me to your little gathering.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Gemma saw that Piers Dutton and his son had apparently come in with Caspar, but they were watching from the bar, as if disassociating themselves from impending disaster.

“I thought we might have a little civilized conversation,” Caspar continued, all his attention now focused on Juliet. “You’ve behaved very irresponsibly, you know, and you’re obviously unfit to look after the children. I’m going to take them home now. You”—he stabbed a finger at her, his careful discipline slipping—“can do whatever you bloody well like, you stupid—”

“Caspar, don’t make a scene,” Kincaid broke in, his voice even but firm. Heads were beginning to turn, and the tables nearest theirs had fallen silent.

“Me? Make a scene?” Caspar’s voice dripped sarcasm. “And what advice did you give to your sister after she walked out of my parents’ house without a word? Did you tell her it didn’t matter that she insulted my parents and upset the children?” He was certainly playing the righteously incensed husband to the hilt, but Gemma had the odd feeling that his performance was not entirely for their benefit.

“It’s you who’s upsetting the children now.” Hugh rose, as if determined to step into the breach, and Gemma remembered he had berated himself for not defending his daughter when Caspar had verbally attacked her on Christmas Eve. “This isn’t the time or place—”

“Shut up. Just shut up, all of you.” Juliet sprang up, pushing her chair back with a grating screech that drew the attention of everyone in the room not already mesmerized. “I don’t need anyone to answer for me. You’re not taking the children, Caspar.” Her hands were raised, her breathing hard, and Gemma feared the situation was seconds away from degenerating into a brawl.

“Sam! Lally!” called out Casper. “Come here. Now.”

For an instant, no one breathed. Then Sam moved slowly to his mother’s side. “I—I want to stay with Mummy.” He locked eyes with his father, and after a moment, Caspar looked away.

“Lally.” There was threat in Caspar’s voice now, rather than command. He stepped towards her, hand out.

Lally cast a stricken look at him, another at her mother. Then she scrambled from her chair and ran from the pub.

There was a moment of chaos as everyone in the family shoved and jostled in an instinctive attempt to follow the girl. Then Kit’s voice rose clearly above the hubbub, with a ring of authority Gemma had never heard before. “I’ll go. Let me talk to her.”

Kincaid hesitated, then nodded his approval. Stopping just long enough to grab Lally’s jacket, Kit slipped out the side door Lally had taken.

“All right,” Kincaid said, taking charge in a manner that brooked no more argument. “Jules, you stay with Sam.” He laid a seemingly casual hand on his brother- in- law’s shoulder, but Gemma saw Caspar wince from the pressure. “Caspar, you can’t force the children to go with you,” he continued. “When everyone is a bit calmer, I’m sure you and Juliet will be able to work out a visitation arrangement.

“In the meantime, I just saw the barman pick up the phone. My guess is that he’s calling to report a public disturbance. I’d highly recommend you not be here when the police arrive—unless, of course, you want to embarrass yourself further. I’ll walk out with you, shall I?”

Kit pushed his way out the door that led to the children’s play area at the side of the pub and stopped, getting his bearings. The gunmetal sky had lowered until it met the horizon in a gray sheet, and a fi ne, freezing mist hung in the air. Traces of glaze had begun to form on the

playground climbing equipment and on the branches of the

nearby trees. Outside the fenced area, a swath of lawn ran down to the canal side. Mooring rings had been set into the concrete edging, and though every space was filled, the boats were all dark, wrapped and shuttered.

Lally stood on the concrete border, back turned and shoulders hunched, staring into the canal. She must have heard the sound of the door, because she swung round and started picking her way along the edging, away from the pub.

“Lally, wait up!” Kit called. “It’s me.”

She stopped, nudging a mooring ring with the toe of her trainer, but didn’t turn round. “Just bugger off, Kit. Leave me alone.”

He let himself out of the playground gate and slid down the lawn.

“We can talk,” he said, coming to a breathless stop beside her. The concrete felt elusively slippery beneath his feet. “Here.” He handed her jacket to her. “I thought you might want this.”

“I don’t want to talk,” she said, but she shrugged the coat on.

“Look, I—” He’d started to say he knew how she felt, but realized that he didn’t, not really. How could he, when it hadn’t been his parents fighting in front of everyone in the pub?

For the first time, he realized how people must feel when they tried to speak to him about his mother. Their awkward declarations of understanding had made him furious—they couldn’t know what it was like, how he felt. But now he saw that it didn’t matter that they didn’t—couldn’t—understand. They genuinely wanted to help and were going about it the best they could.

He also suspected, from his own experience, that even though Lally said she didn’t want to talk, she didn’t really want to be left alone, either. She had moved on a few steps, to the end of the concrete edging, and stood dangerously close to the lip of the canal.

Beyond her, an arched stone bridge crossed the water, giving access to the towpath on the opposite side.

Kit glanced back at the pub. If he went in to say he was taking Lally for a walk, she might disappear. They would just have to trust

that he was looking after her. “Come on,” he said, and started back up the bank towards the play yard and the road. “Let’s have a look at the boats on the other side.” He didn’t look back, didn’t give her a chance to refuse, and after a moment he heard the squelch of her footsteps on the mist-soaked grass. When he reached the road, he slowed a bit and let her draw level, but he still didn’t look at her or speak.

At the apex of the bridge, they stopped in silent accord and gazed downstream. On the left- hand side of the canal, a dozen boats were moored end to end along the towpath, like brightly painted railway cars shuffled into a watery siding.

On the right, a cluster of houses backed onto private mooring spaces, and beyond them, a grove of evergreens stood, ghostly sentinel, in the mist. Their trunks were bare and evenly spaced, their tops round and full, so that they looked like Toby’s drawings of trees.

“I used to like it when we came here.” Lally’s voice was soft, disembodied. “Sam and I played on the swings, and in the summer you could see inside the boats at night. I’d watch the families and imagine that their lives were perfect.”

Kit knew that game. When he was small, he’d peered in neighbors’ windows, wondering what it was like to have brothers and sisters. Then, after Ian had left them, he’d watched families with fathers and wondered why some dads stayed and others didn’t. Now, if he glanced into an uncurtained window at dusk, he’d fancy he saw his mother, just for an instant.

He shoved his cold hands a little farther into his jacket pockets.

“No one’s life is perfect.”

Lally turned on him with sudden, blazing fury. “Well, mine sucks. How could my parents be so stupid? And my dad—you don’t know what he’s like. He’ll—”

“Sneaking away to bare your soul, Lal?” The voice was smooth and mocking, and Kit recognized it even as his body jerked from the surprise.

“Leo! You bastard!” Lally whirled round, striking at the boy’s chest with her fists, but Leo caught both her wrists in one hand and spun her back like a marionette.

“Shhh,” he said. “You don’t want to call attention to yourself. I should think there’s been quite enough of that in your family for one day.” That made Lally struggle harder, but when she saw Kit step forward to intervene, she went limp and Leo let her go.

“Where are you going?” Leo asked, as casually as if he’d run across them in the street rather than creeping up behind them and trying to frighten them half to death.

“For a walk. To see the boats,” Kit answered, trying to make it clear they didn’t need company. He started down the far side of the bridge, and Lally followed.

“I’ll come with you, then.” Leo fell in beside Lally. “My dad’s taken Lally’s dad to get royally pissed at a more ‘accommodating’

pub, so I’m all yours for the duration.”

“Your dad just left you?” Kit asked, curiosity overcoming his dislike.

“I’m not a baby, like some,” Leo snapped, then smiled. “I said I’d walk home. It’s not far. You can come with me, and we’ll have a look at where Juliet found this famous mummy.” He took a packet of cigarettes from the pocket of his peacoat and tapped out two, handing one to Lally without asking if she wanted it. She stopped, touching his hand as she held the end of the fag to the flame, and the casual intimacy of the gesture made Kit feel suddenly queasy.

“You can’t go in a crime scene,” he said as they merged into single file, now following Leo down the towpath. “Everyone knows that.”

“And who’s going to see?” Leo shot back. “The police have finished picking up things, and there’s only a stupid tape. How is a tape supposed to keep anyone out?”

“You could destroy evidence.”

“Ooh, listen to you, Mister Policeman. Taking after your daddy,

are you? Anyway, what difference does it make? The thing’s probably been there for ages. Just think, Lally—”

“Shut up, Leo.” Lally stopped so suddenly that Kit bumped into her. “That’s horrid. I’m not going any farther if you don’t shut up.”

The mist had beaded on her dark hair, and now a drop formed on the end of her nose. She wiped her face with the back of her sleeve without taking her eyes off Leo.

“Okay, okay.” Leo held up his hands, then took a drag off the cigarette. “Forget it. I’ve found a new place, anyway.”

He and Lally looked at each other for a moment in silent communication, then Lally pushed past Leo and trudged on, her head ducked in misery. Kit was about to reach for her, to insist that they go back, when a boat materialized out of the fog a few yards down the path.

He knew it instantly.

Even with her sapphire paintwork dulled by moisture, the sleek lines of the Lost Horizon were unmistakable. Light glowed from within, and smoke hung heavily above the chimney, barely distinguishable from the surrounding fog. Annie Lebow was at home.

Kit’s first instinct was to call out. He could show Lally the boat; they could get warm; maybe Annie would even offer them something hot to drink. Then he realized two things simultaneously.

The first was that he didn’t want to share anything that was special to him with Leo, and he didn’t see how he could make Leo leave them alone. The second was that he’d expected to find the Horizon above Barbridge, on the Middlewich Branch, where he had seen her yesterday. Had Annie changed her mind about her invitation? Or perhaps she had never meant it at all.

So humiliated was he by the idea that she hadn’t intended to keep their appointment that he stopped dead, wishing himself a planet away. The others halted as well, turning startled faces towards him.

Perhaps if no one spoke—if they turned back now—

It was too late. The boat’s stern door swung open and Annie

Lebow stepped out, a cloth firewood carrier in her hand, and reached for the firewood stacked neatly on the roof of the boat. She paused when she saw the three of them just standing there on the path, then smiled a little hesitantly. Her eyes were a clear green against the gray sky and the gray fleece she wore, and her short blond hair stood on end, as if she’d absently run her fingers through it. “Hullo,” she said. “It’s Kit, isn’t it?” she added as she transferred a few pieces of wood into the carrier.

“You’ve moved your boat,” Kit blurted out, then inwardly cursed himself for a complete idiot. Now she’d think he’d been searching for her, like some kind of stalker.

“Oh . . . yes.” She sounded bemused, as if it hadn’t occurred to her. “It was a twenty- four- hour mooring, and all the spots at Barbridge were taken. I should have thought to say so yesterday. I’m sorry if you looked and couldn’t find me.”

“No.” Kit saw the possibility of redemption. “No, we had . . . family things.” Belatedly, he added, “This is my cousin Lally. And Leo.

We were just walking, and saw the boat.”

Annie studied them. “You’re wet. And it’s freezing. Do you want to come inside?” she added, but Kit could hear the reluctance in her voice.

He imagined the three of them in their sodden, steaming clothes, crammed awkwardly into the Horizon’ s cabin as he tried to make conversation, and shook his head. “No, thanks. We have to get back.

But—”

“You could come tomorrow. The weather is supposed to clear.

I’ll be here, or up at Barbridge. I’ve some things to . . . to take care of.” She sounded as if that surprised her.

“Okay, right.” Kit raised his hand in an awkward wave. “See you then.” Grabbing Lally’s sleeve, he pulled her hurriedly back down the path the way they had come, figuring that Leo could bloody well take care of himself.

But after a moment, he heard the unmistakable rustle of movement behind them, and felt an arm draped across his shoulder.

“Did you have a date, then?” Leo whispered, his breath warm in Kit’s ear. “A little old for you, isn’t she? Or does that make it more fun?” When Kit tried to shrug loose, he gripped harder. “I think you’d better tell us all about it.”

The phone rang, sounding tinny and distant in the mobile held to Annie’s ear. She imagined the house at the other end of the electronic connection, pictured Roger swearing as he got up from his laptop and searched for the handset he’d misplaced. But perhaps he’d changed, become more organized, less obsessed with his work, without her there as a foil.

After a moment, however, the answering machine kicked in and she hung up. She didn’t want to leave a message—Roger would see her number on the caller ID, and saying “Call me” seemed stupidly redundant. He would ring her back, he always did, although she was no longer quite sure why.

The dark day had faded imperceptibly to night, and Annie had found herself unable to settle to anything constructive. She’d had an unexpected urge to talk to her husband, as if that might help her sort through her jumbled emotions, but now she realized she hadn’t any idea what she’d meant to say. She’d never been very good at sharing—that was one of the reasons they’d separated. Why did she think this would be any different?

Wandering from the salon into the galley, she pulled an open bottle of Aussie Chardonnay from the fridge. But as she reached for a glass, she felt the slightest movement of the boat and stopped, puzzled. She knew every creak and quirk of the boat, as if it were an extension of her body, and only registered movement when it was something out of the ordinary. This hadn’t been backwash—she’d

have heard another boat going by—and she’d checked the mooring lines carefully for slack. Perhaps one of the mooring pins had pulled a bit loose in the wet soil. She would check it, she decided, next time she went out for wood.

The brief interruption, however, added to the uneasiness that had been nagging her all afternoon, and she decided against the wine.

She didn’t want to feel fuzzy, or to sound muddled if Roger rang her back. Instead, she put on the kettle, sliced half a lemon and a bit of fresh ginger into a mug, then filled the cup with boiling water. The smell of this homemade concoction was always better than the taste, and she held the steaming mug under her nose as she went back into the salon.

The fire burned brightly in the stove and the Tom Rolt volume that Roger had given her lay open on the end table, but even as she curled up on the sofa and lifted the book, her mind wandered.

Although she’d never had children of her own, she’d worked with kids for years and had a well-developed radar for trouble. She’d been drawn to Kit the previous day, although even through his friendliness she’d sensed a reserve that seemed more adult than his years.

But today she’d sensed something off, an unhealthy dynamic between the three of them. Was it just an overabundance of adolescent testosterone? The girl—Kit’s cousin, he’d said—was far too pretty, and she’d had the haunted look of children who lived with emotional trauma. Perhaps the boys were vying to protect her, and that, she was sure, was a recipe for disaster.

But whatever it was, she told herself, it was not her problem—

she’d got herself embroiled in enough of a mess as it was. She’d done as much as she could for the Wains—she had to let it go.

“Are you sure she’s dying?” she’d asked Althea Elsworthy when they’d reached the car park at Barbridge.

“As sure as I can be without running diagnostics,” the doctor had snapped. “You asked my opinion and now you don’t want to take it?”

“No, I—”

Elsworthy shook her head. “No, I’m sorry. I don’t like it any better than you do. There is a remote possibility that she could survive a heart transplant. That’s assuming that she could get on the transplant list, with the MSBP strike on her medical records, and that she’d last until a heart became available. And all that would depend, of course, on her being willing to subject herself, and her family, to the system.

We can’t force someone to seek medical care, Ms. Lebow.”

No, but should she at least try once more, Annie wondered now, to convince Rowan and Gabriel Wain to seek medical help? She’d tried to tell herself that she could disengage, that isolation would insulate her from pain, but she had not found the peace she sought.

Maybe she’d needed to discover that no such thing existed. And if she stopped striving for perfection, could she ease a toe back into the water, so to speak?

The thought made her smile. Roger, journalist to the core, would tell her that metaphors weren’t for amateurs. She sipped her cooling drink, puckering a little at the lemon’s bite, and when her phone rang, she answered it with unexpected anticipation.

“Two calls in two days?” Roger sounded amused. “What did I do to deserve such largesse?”

“I just . . . wanted to talk.”

“Are you all right?” he asked, the amusement shifting instantly to concern.

“Yes, I think so,” Annie said, then laughed at the sound of surprise in her own voice. “Yes. Truly.”

“How about dinner, then? I could drive over, pick you up.”

She glanced at the clock, then peered out through the half-closed blind covering the cabin window. The fog pressed against the glass, swirling like a sinuous white beast. “The mist has come down. I don’t think I dare move the boat, and I’m halfway between Barbridge and the Hurleston Junction. There’s no way for you to get to me easily, and besides, the roads may ice.” Even as she set out the practical s

objections, she felt a stab of disappointment. She hadn’t expected such an instant response, hadn’t realized, until that moment, how much she looked forward to the prospect of sharing her concerns.

“Tomorrow, then?” he asked, and she heard the hope beneath the caution.

“Tomorrow,” she said, with certainty.

Kit gasped awake, sucking great gulps of air into his lungs, the hammering of his heart still sounding in his ears. Sitting up, he saw that he’d thrown the covers off and pushed poor Tess to the foot of the bed again. The room was quiet, except for the sound of the younger boys’ breathing, and the light coming through the curtain gap was the pearly gray of early morning.

Reassured, Kit reached down to pull up the duvet and scooped Tess to him. The little dog licked his chin with enthusiasm, and he hugged her, rubbing his cheek against the rough, springy hair on the top of her head. He settled back into the pillows, the dog now nestled in the crook of his arm, and made himself examine the nightmare. This one had been different.

He had been walking along the river, behind the cottage in Cambridge where he had spent the first eleven years of his life with his mother, and all except for the last year with the man he had known as his father, Ian McClellan. It was dusk, and he could smell the cold, damp air rising from the river . . . except that in the dream he had suddenly realized that it wasn’t the river at all, but a canal.

Then light had spilled out from the cottage window and he had moved toward it, gliding across the familiar lawn as if he were a ghost. All the while the window seemed to recede, but when he reached it at last and looked in, it was not his mother he saw, but Lally. She turned towards him, but her face was pale and featureless, and blood ran from her hands and splashed onto the white floor—

No, it wasn’t a floor, but snow, the blood blossoming in the white

powder like crimson flowers appearing before his eyes, and he was running, running, trying to catch her, but the snow clung to his feet and his legs grew heavier and heavier. Then the dark figure ahead ducked into an opening, and as Kit followed he recognized his surroundings—it was the yew tunnel that ran alongside his friend Nathan’s garden.

Hope had surged in him; this was his place, he could stop her here, keep her safe. But the snow still mired his feet, and even as he wondered how there could be snow inside the tunnel, he realized it wasn’t the yew hedge at all, but a canal tunnel, and it wasn’t snow closing over his head, but water . . .

Then reflex had jolted him awake, but even the memory of the dream made him shudder. Tess whimpered, and he realized he’d gripped her hard enough to pinch. “Sorry, sorry, girl,” he whispered, stroking her, trying to will the fear away. It was just a dream, and it didn’t take much to see where his subconscious had picked up the material. His worry over Lally had merely crept across the barrier between waking and sleeping.

She’d been quiet all the way back to the pub yesterday, ignoring him, ignoring Leo’s taunts about Annie, and when Leo had finally left them at Barbridge, she hadn’t even said good- bye.

They had all been waiting, Duncan and Gemma, his grandparents, Juliet and Sam, but no one had questioned or criticized either him or Lally. On the way back to the farmhouse, and later, as Rosemary had prepared ham sandwiches for tea, the adults had made small talk as if nothing had happened. Kit understood that this was meant to reassure the children, but it hadn’t helped him, and he didn’t think it had helped Lally, either.

After tea, a friend of Hugh’s came to the house and took Juliet into the kitchen for a chat, and although no one said, Kit guessed the man was a lawyer.

Rosemary herded the others into the sitting room for a Scrabble tournament before the fire, but after a bit Lally began to drift away s

from the board between turns, and at last she disappeared altogether. Kit couldn’t concentrate on the board, and when Hugh had trounced him and Gemma beyond redemption, he excused himself and slipped out of the room as well.

The murmur of voices still came from the kitchen, the man’s low and steady, his aunt Juliet’s rising like a breaking wave. Silently, he’d climbed the stairs, and had seen that the door to Hugh’s study, where Lally had slept with her mum the night before, was slightly ajar.

He hadn’t known what he’d meant to say, had pushed the door open without thinking, really. Lally sat on the floor, her back to the sofa bed, the left sleeve of her sweatshirt pushed up to the elbow. She was peeling back a strip of bandage from the inside of her forearm, and a trickle of bright blood seeped from beneath the white gauze.

Then, above the bandage, he saw a barely scabbed-over cut, a horizontal slash in the pale flesh, and above that, another, and another—purple scars, straight as rulers.

“Lally, what are you doing?” he cried out, his voice high with shock.

She jerked down the sleeve of her sweatshirt. “Nothing. Don’t you knock?”

“I didn’t know—” He shook his head. “That doesn’t matter. Let me see what you’ve done to your arm.”

“It’s just a scratch. It’s none of your business, Kit.” She crossed her arms tightly beneath her small breasts.

“It’s not. I saw it,” he insisted. “You cut yourself, and more than once.”

They stared at each other, deadlocked, until at last she gave a little shrug. “So?”

Kit gaped at her, unprepared for the enormity of the admission.

“But—but you can’t do that. You can’t hurt yourself.”

“Why not?” She smiled, then rocked up onto her knees and raised her chin in defiance. “Don’t you dare tell.”

“You can’t keep me from it,” he said, his anger and fear making him reckless.

“Oh, yes, I can.” Her eyes were dark with promise. “Because if you tell, I’ll do something much, much worse, and it will be your fault.”

The memory drove Kit out of bed, but he moved quietly, trying not to wake Toby and Sam as he pulled on his clothes. Although the travel clock on the desk had stopped the day before, its battery dead, the quality of the light and the stillness of the house told him it was early, perhaps just past daybreak.

He knew he couldn’t face the others, that he couldn’t sit across the breakfast table from Lally and pretend that nothing was wrong.

When he was ready, he fished a sheet of paper and a pen from his backpack and scribbled, “Taken Tess for walk. Back soon.” He picked the dog up in his arms and slipped out of the room, leaving the note on the floor of the hallway in front of the door.

He made it out of the house unaccosted. He’d forgotten Tess’s lead, but it didn’t matter, he’d no intention of going near a road. The sun hadn’t yet risen, but the fog had lifted in the night and the sky was a clear, pale gold, tinted with rose in the east. The air was cold and fresh, as if the fog had scoured it, and when the sun arched above the horizon, the glaze of ice on tree and hedge sparkled like crystal. The beauty of the sight made Kit stop, and he gazed a long moment, as if he could capture perfection.

Then his stomach rumbled, a reminder that time was passing. He knew he should go back—he didn’t want anyone worrying about him—but when Tess ran on ahead, he followed. Not even the glory of the sunrise had quite dispelled the uneasiness that lingered from his nightmare, and he hadn’t worked out what he was going to do about Lally.

Reaching the Middlewich Junction, he turned south, passing by

the sleeping inn on the opposite side of the canal. It occurred to him that if he went on, he would find the Horizon, and if Annie was up, he could apologize for yesterday. He’d been horribly rude, and he didn’t want her to think he hadn’t wanted to come back. Maybe they could even set a time for later that day.

He was afraid that yesterday’s fog had distorted his perception of the distance, but soon he rounded a curve and saw the Horizon, just where he thought it would be. The blue paintwork gleamed in the morning sun, but no smoke rose from the chimney. Fighting disappointment, he went on, just in case she was up but hadn’t yet lit the stove. Tess had stopped a few yards back to dig in the edge of the hedgerow, but he let her be, trusting that she would catch him up.

No sound or movement came from the boat, and he had made up his mind to turn back when he saw a huddled shape to the side of the towpath, just past the bow. His steps slowed, mired as if in his dream, but he forced himself to go on. Blood roared in his ears; he fought for breath as his brain pro cessed something far worse than any nightmare.

Annie Lebow lay on the towpath, between the foot track and the hedge. One of her shoes rested a yard from her outstretched leg, and he had to resist the urge to pick it up and slip it back onto her foot.

She was on her side, one arm thrown over her face, as if to protect her eyes from the rising sun.

Kit stopped, swallowing hard against the bile rising in his throat.

The blood that had pooled beneath the blond spikes of her hair was not crimson, as in his dream, but black as tar.