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CHAPTER
TWENTY

The sun was coming up by the time I slotted the car keys through the hire company’s letterbox and ambled back to the station. It was a spectacular dawn of pinks and golds and endless glittering blue, and I was content to tune out the chitter-chatter of wheels on rails and quietly watch it slide past my window.

At the end of the line, I disembarked into fresh, clean, wide-open air and followed the sound of crashing waves and tinkling bells to the promenade. The air was already warm, but the breeze from the sea had a bite that made me turtle down into my jacket. My eyes were already stiff and heavy, my skin tingling with fatigue. My mouth tasted disgusting. I didn’t linger.

A hundred yards along the seafront was a taxi stand, and a minicab delivered me to the village store a quarter of a mile from Annie’s front door. The driver made a token early attempt at pleasantry, but he clearly knew the comedown from an all-nighter when he saw it, and so passed the twenty-minute drive in respectful silence while I dozed. I gave him an unremarkable tip and fussed over nothing in my rucksack until he’d driven away. Then, whistling tunelessly and with a pint of milk and whatever newspaper I’d just purchased held comfortably on display for the benefit of any nosy neighbors, I strolled on back to the house.

I don’t know what I expected from Annie; relief, maybe, or indifference, or a pang of foolish regret. Given that it was bang on the dot of 8:00 a.m. when I turned the key in the lock and let myself into her cottage, I might most reasonably have expected to find her on the telephone, trying to eat some toast and finish her makeup and get to work on time. But no.

The house was silent and cool and hours-gone-by still. The curtains were drawn. There was no mug on the table, no cereal bowl with a half-inch puddle of grainy milk in the bottom. I kicked off my shoes and dropped my bag and padded through to the kitchen. The sink was empty, the worktops clean. The dishes on the draining board were bone-dry.

I left the milk and paper on the counter and resurveyed the sitting room. Nothing seemed out of place. I turned my ear to the ceiling, hoping to detect a creaking board or a running tap or a twanging bed spring. I heard the fridge compressor kick in, which made me jump out of my sleep-deprived skin, but that was all.

Tentatively, hearing alarm bells at the back of my neck, I headed for the stairs. No reply when I called her name, so I went on up. The bathroom wasn’t spotless; there was a towel on the floor and toothpaste in the sink, and the screen around the shower end of the bath was streaked with water marks, but the tub was dry and the air settled and the toilet seat ice cold. And so I moved straight on to Annie’s room. And that room was nothing at all like the other rooms, because in that room, Annie’d made a hell of a mess.

I smelled it before I opened the door, but I went in, anyway. Her quilt was on the floor, feverishly cast aside. At the foot of the bed, one of her shoes lay forlornly where it had fallen beside the trailing edge of the sheet, rumpled and untucked, once bright white but now mostly crimson, a dark, wide stain creeping out from the sorry heap of rags at its center.

Annie was most definitely gone.

I closed my eyes and waited for my heart to leave my throat. Then I took stock.

She’d used a T-shirt and a cashmere sweater to try to stem the flow, and they’d been saturated. Beneath the sheet, the mattress was spotted but relatively unharmed.

The room smelled plummy and a little floral, with a sweet oaky undertone. Hints of caramel and...toast? I wasn’t sure, but I guessed at a Merlot. Judging by the size of the stain, there wouldn’t have been a drop left in the bottle.

I crossed to the window to peer out between the curtains. Annie’s Renault was nowhere to be seen, of course. I’d missed her, that was all.

I bundled up the ruined laundry and took it down to the rubbish bin in the kitchen. I threw the duvet cover and pillowcases and an armful of clothes I found on the floor into the washing machine, and then, for the second time in six hours, I went in search of clean bedding. I found it in a small airing cupboard in the spare bedroom—a matching set, dusky pink and soft as a kitten. By the time I finished dressing the pillows, I was already lying down, and seconds later I was dead to the world.

The sunlight was almost horizontal through the gap in the curtains when I finally woke. The alarm clock on the bedside table told me it was just after six. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d managed nine hours’ sleep, and I marveled at how rested and ready I felt. None of which encouraged me in the slightest to move a muscle, because the house was still warm and quiet, and the mattress was pillow-soft and foam-topped, and the sheets were so gentle they were barely even there, and so I couldn’t remember when I’d last felt as comfortable, either. At least until I felt the next thing I felt, which was a block of ice on the back of my leg.

I startled upright, which woke Annie, which I tried to process but couldn’t. I just watched her stretch and yawn and twist around and squint up at me and say, “What’s up?”

“How frigging cold are your feet?” I blurted.

She gave a lazy smile and a long hum of sleepy contentment and settled back into her pillow. “Sorry,” she murmured. “Bad circulation and...”

She had bed hair. She looked pretty. I rubbed my eyes. No change. “You look pretty with bed hair,” I said.

“Fuck off,” she replied. “You know where the kettle is. Get it yourself.”

I laughed. Now that she mentioned it, I could add hunger to the list of superlatives. My stomach was emitting the kind of rumble that would bring a seismologist back early from lunch. “I’ll get some dinner on,” I said.

“Breakfast first,” she muttered. “Stick to the routine, it’s time-honored.”

Because it was six in the fucking morning.

“You bought the
Daily Mail
? What the hell kind of monster are you?” Annie threw the newspaper onto the dining table and sat down beside me in the Hello Kitty T-shirt she’d worn to bed.

“Honest mistake,” I assured her.

She took a bite out of her toast and daintily chased the crumbs away with her little finger. “I guess you had a busy couple of days,” she said. “I couldn’t wake you up for love nor money last night. Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m feeling awake.” I laughed. “That’s the second time you’ve asked me that.”

“I was worried,” she smarted. “I thought you were in a coma until you started thrashing about and panting. Then I thought you probably had swamp fever or something. I thought I was going to have to call someone to come and take you away and...put me in quarantine or something. Did you get everything done that you needed to?”

I smiled and nodded and gulped my tea. “I’ll be out of your hair in a minute.”

“That wasn’t what I meant,” she tutted.

“I know,” I teased, “but...” But I hadn’t attended to Erica in thirty-six hours.

“But?”

“I haven’t fed my cat?”

Annie laughed so hard she choked on her toast.

She made me keep her key. “You never know when you’ll need it,” she said, and slipped it back into my pocket. “But ring first, in case I’ve got a man here.”

“Got it.”

She giggled again. “As if that’s ever gonna happen!” Then she led me out into the sunshine and made a show of embracing me longingly in full view of the neighbors. “Acting face,” she said. “Pretend you’re here for the hot booty action.” Which set me off again.

“Take care, Annie.” I laughed. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“How hard can that be?” she said, and squeezed me tight. “Don’t be a stranger, Stranger.”

* * *

Missing Annie was a new thing. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. Never having had or needed or wanted a friend before, I’d never known what I’d been missing. The notion that it might have been Annie was as startling as my longing to return to Rachel; a painful urgency that ambushed me at the edge of the village and burrowed deeper into my chest with every red light and stalled junction for forty miles.

Inevitably, though, the closer I got to home, the more pressing the problems awaiting me there became, and by the time I turned into my drive, my gluttonous head was sick from gorging on my predicament.

First things first: Erica. Satisfied that there were still no binoculars in my begonias, I clattered into the basement with my hands held high in apology, only to find her dozing with a book in her hand.

She stirred as I let myself into the cage, and greeted me with a yawn that could scarcely have been more indifferent. “Morning,” she mumbled.

“How are you?” I asked her, fortunately biting back the explanation our respective roles dictated I didn’t owe her. She’d stopped me in my tracks somewhat, and my words were coming out fussy and nervous.

“I had plenty to eat,” she said, indicating the dishes neatly stacked on her tray beside the door. “But the toilet’s blocked. It needs plunging or something.”

I had to concede that I probably deserved that. “Right.” I nodded. “Is there anything you want me to get you?”

She shrugged. “I’ve got a headache,” she said.

Imagining that she was biding her time, I fetched her half a pack of paracetamol and a jug of ice water and collected her mug, since I was about to put the kettle on.

I returned with a cup of tea, a box of tea bags and an unopened bag of sugar, which brought a tear to her eye. I asked her whether she needed anything else. She said a teaspoon would be handy.

I fetched her a spoon and, as an afterthought, a packet of shortbread biscuits. Mindful of the dangers of boiling water in a microwave, I took the kettle, as well. This guilt business was becoming expensive.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE

“It’s just like being at the seaside.” Rachel laughed as I took her hand and helped her out of the Jensen onto the soft sand of the car park. “Only...you know...without the sea.”

“And the tourists and the screaming children,” I agreed.

She smiled at the sun and buried her toes. “Where to now?”

The picnic site was deserted. Before us, a sea of heather stretched back the quarter mile to the road and the tight rows of slender pines beyond. Above, a deep blue sky scattered with great billowing cotton-wool clouds, each with its own distinct arrangement of deep-set eyes, elfin ears and pointed nose. And behind us, twenty square miles of leaf and bark and shadow. I knew which one I’d prefer. “You choose,” I said. “It’s your day.”

“Right answer.” She smiled, reaching out for my hand to steady herself as she slipped into her shoes. “I hope you’re feeling fit.”

“As a fox,” I replied, enjoying a glimpse of the small of her back as she bent down to tie her laces. “Why, what have you got up your sleeve?” I grimaced at my choice of words; fortunately, there was no icy stare to meet them.

She simply stood, turned to me and, with a sly grin, said, “You’ll just have to wait and see.” And with that, she led me into the wood.

“So.” She squeezed my hand. “Is this where you bring all your lady friends?”

Ha. “If only you knew.” Sorry, it just slipped out. “Wait,” I protested, before she had time to take it in. “What do you mean,
all
?”

“Right.” She laughed. “If only I knew. So tell me about it.”

“There’s really nothing to tell,” I assured her, so awkwardly failing to strike a convincing tone that all I could do was hope she’d accept a change of subject with good grace, and then quietly forget about it. “Ask me another,” I said.

“Who’s your favorite Bond?” she replied, without so much as a sideways glance.

Easy. “Roger Moore.”

“Really?” she chuckled.

“Those were the ones on TV when I was a kid. Where I grew up, Roger Moore was how you knew it was Christmas.”

A moment’s silence like raised eyebrows. “Yeah, mine, too,” she admitted. “
The Spy Who Loved Me
’s my favorite.”

“That’s the one with the Lo—”

“The Lotus that’s a submarine, yes.” She laughed and curled her arm around mine and gazed up at the sparkling canopy.

“I’ve always wanted one of those,” I mused, and I smiled, too.

Rachel clung to me as we walked, but I felt I needed the support more than she did. My head swam with anxiety at sharing this personal space; an exhilarating novelty, and I leaned into her, held her hand to keep her close to me, to pin my pulse to its sweet allegro rhythm. I listened for hours to her lessons in wood lark and nightjar and will-o’-the-wisp; Spanish catchfly and perfect meringue and the elusive military orchid. She talked about the leaves on the trees and plucked tiny flowers from the ground. She stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of a doe, pressed a finger to my lips as it mirrored our petrified pose; stifled a joyous laugh as it bounded away, white tail bobbing from tree to tree amid a cacophony of crackling brush. And as we crossed the expanse of knee-high grass where four woods met, she simply settled her head on my shoulder and sighed.

“You want to know something really strange?” she said.

“Yes,” I replied. It couldn’t be any stranger than what I was feeling.

It was, of course. “I honestly can’t think of anywhere in the world I’d rather be right now than here, with you.” And then, in a missed heartbeat, she was looking down at me, sprawled in confusion at her feet. “Christ—” she laughed “—are you okay?”

If ever there was a loaded question... “What the hell was that?”

“A rabbit hole,” she said, probing the ground with her toe before cocking her head at me with a mocking grin. “I guess we should add those to the list of fearsome predators. Is it comfy?”

“Very.” I felt the soft grass curl around my face and the warmth of the sun wash over me. If I had any inclination at all to get up, it evaporated as she lay down by my side. “Don’t get too settled,” I warned her. “It’ll be dark soon.”

She wriggled closer, nudged up against me and flashed a mischievous grin. “I know.”

We lay in silence as the sun dipped behind the trees, streaks of orange and blood-red lingering in its place before they, too, slipped quietly over the horizon. And then the sky was gone, and a blanket of stars spread one by one across the endless black void.

Finally, at first sight of the half-moon, Rachel rolled to her knees and took both of my hands in hers. “It’s perfect,” she whispered. “Come on.” She stood and pulled me to my feet, beckoning me with her as she turned and walked away.

I watched her for a moment, hips swaying as she waded through the grass. She didn’t look back, though she clearly sensed me behind her as I began to follow. She said nothing as she veered right from our original path, heading up into the denser forest where the trees rose up from a carpet of broadleaf fern.

“You know what eats all the rabbits in these woods?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Weasels.”

“Stoats...”

“Same difference.”

She laughed. “Well, yeah, if the weasel’s been to the gym I suppose it might just—”

“Get to the point.” I smiled.

And then as Rachel reached the tree line she spun around to face me, halted me with two firm hands against my chest. “Do you know how the stoat catches his rabbit?”

“He saps its will to live via the medium of modern dance.”

“He hypnotizes it.” She laughed. “He fascinates it. Puts it into a freaky trippy trance.” She backed away from me, a sudden darkness crossing her face in tune with the shadows that folded in around her. In one swift movement she grasped the neck of her flimsy jumper, pulled it up over her head and cast it aside. “And when the little rabbit is all cross-eyed and dizzy...” She kicked off her shoes, reached around to unbutton her skirt, stepped neatly out of it with a defiant smile as it dropped.

I felt myself sway as the starlight played across her skin, the soft curves of her dark silhouette both luring me in and rooting me to the spot. My head was a mass of sparks and short-circuits, my spine coursing with electricity. I heard myself speak, felt my hands move. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll bite.” I unbuttoned my shirt and tossed it into the brush. I fumbled my belt open and shook free of my trousers. I shivered as the night air tightened my skin and wrapped me in goose bumps.

Her smile gave way to a throaty laugh as she stepped back among the shoulder-high ferns, shrugging out of her bra as they closed around her. “What makes you think you’re the stoat?” she said. The current surged as she dipped briefly from view; she straightened to throw her underwear onto the pile. “Your turn,” she instructed me.

Any stirring I’d felt abandoned me as I cast aside the last remnants of my clothing. I could barely see her, but in that moment I felt her eyes all over me, along with those of every owl, moth and bat that might be lurking in these woods. The sensation unnerved me, and I dropped my shoulders, willed my hands to fall to the rescue of my modesty. They slapped uselessly against my thighs.

“Good,” Rachel said. And then, with a loud, joyous giggle, she brought my mind crashing back down into sharp focus. “Now close your eyes and count to ten.” She laughed. “And catch me if you can.”

I plunged into the maze of ferns, and within seconds I was in almost absolute darkness. The supple branches bent easily before me, the leaves barely tickling my skin as I carved a blind trail.

At thirty paces I paused, straining to detect any sound that might betray Rachel’s position. From ahead and to the right came a faint rustling of foliage. To the left, a brief, distinct cracking of twigs. I gambled and broke right and the faint rustling became a thunderous crashing, accompanied by a loud, playful laugh. A nervous glee welled up inside me, spilled over into a grin as I increased my pace, lunging after what was now a sprinting quarry. I heard her spin around and dart to the left; I bolted after her, those branches she disturbed still springing back to meet me as I scythed through them. I could hear her panting, her feet pounding right there in the blackness before my eyes, a mere arm’s length in front of me. I tripped as I reached out, hit the ground so hard that I’d bounced to my feet before the pain had a chance to register.

The silence was so profound that it rang in my ears. I stood stock-still, just waiting and listening, willing Rachel to give herself away. It was a short wait; with a loud and deliberate clearing of her throat, she signaled herself no more than thirty feet in front of me. I bolted, covered the ground between us in half a dozen strides, but arrived in empty space; immediately, I heard her cross at speed behind my back, trailing a playful giggle. I whirled around to give chase, but no sooner was I behind her than she was gone. I dug in my heels, skittered to a halt, and she was behind me again, sprinting back toward open ground. Her shape was just visible enough against the moonlight beyond the wood; seizing the advantage, I took off at a savage pace, slashing the ferns aside, my feet barely touching the ground. I locked my eyes onto her back, let my remaining senses guide me through the trees as I gained on her in great soaring bounds. And then she fell.

I swooped, leaped onto her with an instinctive growl. And again, I fell only on myself. I crumpled and rolled, a thousand shards of dead wood tearing at my back as I grated to a halt. I caught her at the corner of my eye as I scrabbled for grip, clawed myself up from the floor. I certainly heard her; wood snapping, leaves tearing, hooves thumping the—

“Oh, shit” had barely escaped my lips when, for a split second, I was face-to-face with my quarry. It looked as surprised as I was, eyes wide and mouth agape as it pirouetted, hind legs scrabbling for grip before they left the ground.

I didn’t even make it upright. Seventy-five pounds of roe deer hit me square in the chest, knocked me clean off my feet and barrel-rolled over my head. I lay stunned and winded as it slammed into the undergrowth behind me, legs thrashing, hooves clattering together in its panicked attempts to right itself. Thankfully, as it did so, my prayers for it to continue on its chosen course were answered; it neglected to turn and run back over me.

I lay still for a full minute, regaining my breath, allowing my heart to return to some semblance of its regular rhythm. The shock faded rapidly, replaced by an almost delirious amusement tempered only by the throbbing pain in what seemed to be every one of my muscles. I felt little inclination toward getting up.

My lack of motivation, however, passed in a heartbeat when Rachel called my name. She was close; I listened carefully to the sound of her feet, determined to ensure that she had but two before resuming the hunt. She was moving slowly, heading back into blackness. I rose to follow, walking at first, swiveling my hips and stretching my shoulders, shaking the pain from my arms.

I gradually picked up speed, settling into a stealthy canter; I was confident of her position now, my ears taking the bulk of the strain, homing in on the crystal-clear sound of leaf against skin.

She yelped as she heard me approach, broke into a flat-out run. I had her then; I could hear her breath, smell her skin, taste her perfume as I bore blindly down upon her. And I was close enough to reach out and touch her when, despite the assertions of my ears and nose, I felt her behind me. My heart skipped into my mouth, and my insides rolled over, and I ploughed backward into a five-foot fern as I spun around to face her. I saw her shadow flash across in front of me, heard the snapping twigs and swishing leaves as she passed. I heard her above me and felt her beside me when I knew that she was circling right behind me, and the realization that I’d been chasing an echo sparked a fireball of panicked confusion in my head. That was when I lost it.

I abandoned my sense of irony and made a beeline for the tree line, eyes focused on the exit, ears filled with crackling bracken, nerves coursing electric; every hair on my body stood to attention, my spine tied in knots, breath coming in short, inefficient gulps. She gained on me effortlessly, so that I could all but feel her breath on my back as I exploded from the cover of the ferns. I lost all balance then, was briefly airborne as my body outpaced my buckling legs, and I sailed headlong into the floor. I rolled onto my back, scrabbled crab-like across the last twenty feet into open air, my own rasping breath ringing in my ears as I collapsed, prey, defeated, ready for her to pounce.

“Christ, are you okay?”

I heard myself yell out, felt all of my organs simultaneously fail as her voice floated down from behind me. I spun around to face her, standing there knee-deep in the grass, the moonlight through the treetops casting a spiderweb glow across her skin. “Jesus,” I stammered. “You made me jump.”

“It’s creepy in there, huh?” She smiled, brought out her hands from behind her back as she glided silently to me on the balls of her feet. “I picked you a flower,” she said.

I slumped, closed my eyes, let my head fall back and tried in vain to steady my breath as she knelt down beside me. As much as I yearned to watch her as she trailed soft petals across my chest, inside my head there was daylight.