Wake

by Elizabeth Knox

Genres: Literary Fiction

Synopsis

A small community on New Zealand's Tasman Bay is suddenly overwhelmed by a bloodthirsty madness.

There are fourteen survivors.

Trapped in by a strange force-field called the 'no-go', cut off from the world outside, they must pull together, bury the dead and face their fears.

Because whatever caused the insanity is still at large. And it hasn't finished with them yet.

Wake is a riveting tour-de-force. A book about extreme events, ordinary people, heroic compassion - and invisible monsters.

Release date: March 5, 2015

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 448

Sample

 

Later, when people talked about the fourteen, they called them survivors. It wasn’t strictly true. All but one arrived after the deadly moment. They came alone or in pairs, some with their heads up and their eyes on the smoke.

Constable Theresa Grey had spent the morning helping break some bad news to a woman in Motueka about her teenaged daughter. It had been Theresa’s job to hold the woman’s hand, which she did, leaning forward, knee to knee, for over an hour. Then the woman’s brother arrived, and the detectives thanked Theresa for her support, and sent her off.

As she drove, her grip on the steering wheel gradually erased the ghostly sensation of that stricken woman’s hands. She began to feel better, to come alive to the drive and the sunny weather.

Then she got a call from the dispatcher at Nelson Central police station. ‘We’ve a mayday from a helicopter flying out of Kahukura Spa,’ said the dispatcher. ‘Four on board. I’ll give the spa a call and get back to you.’

Theresa pulled out, and accelerated. She passed a milk tanker and a Holden Captiva and glided back into her lane. She hit her siren and—because she was looking for it—spotted the smudge of smoke while still on the straight before the cutting that crossed the bluff west of Kahukura Bay. Theresa reached the cutting, and the smudge vanished behind the frothy white screen of apple blossom along the ridge of Cotley’s orchard.

She picked up her radio again and tried to raise the community constable in Kahukura. Then she tried the dispatcher. No one responded.

Theresa was a young police officer, but she had initiative. She figured that if a helicopter got into trouble shortly after leaving the spa, it might try to put down in the clearing around Stanislaw’s Reserve—300 hectares of old-growth forest enclosed in a state-of-the-art predator-proof fence. Sixteen of the world’s 140 remaining kakapo nested in Stanislaw’s Reserve—the rest were on an offshore island in the far south. Theresa’s friend, Belle Greenbrook, was a ranger at the reserve, and rangers carried radios.

Theresa got lucky; Belle answered right away. ‘Belle? We’ve a helicopter down. I’m at the turn to Cotley’s Road and I can see smoke. I’m pretty sure it’s coming from the field above the spa. Over.’

Belle said that she was by the east gate, with her chainsaw, clearing a fallen branch from the fence. She reckoned that, if she cut up over the ridge and ran to the main gate where she’d left her quad bike, she could be at the wreck in twenty minutes.

Theresa dropped the radio and put both hands on the wheel to take the long horseshoe bend. She was aiming for the bypass, which would take her straight to Kahukura Spa. The spa’s driveway would offer the quickest route to the crashed helicopter.

But when she reached the bypass, Theresa saw fire in the far perspective of Kahukura’s main road. She ignored the turnoff and floored the gas. Houses, hedges, churches all poured past her windows while she peered into the seething knot of oily, orange flame.

A woman ran out into the street in front of the car. Theresa braked, and her seatbelt clutched her so forcefully that she was grateful for the padding of her stab-proof vest.

The woman didn’t swerve, or cringe, as the car bore down on her, slid to a halt, and was overtaken by a drift of smoke from its own tyres. She didn’t seem to see the car. She wasn’t screaming, or crying, only fleeing. She was naked from the waist up, and her arms were marked by red notches.

Theresa jumped out and raced after the woman. She caught hold of her. The woman’s skin was cold with shock, and slippery with blood. The V-shaped wounds on her shoulders and upper arms were as much bruised as bloody, and identical, as if inflicted by the same weapon. It looked like they’d been made with one of those can piercers from a standard bottle opener.

Theresa looked about for an assailant, but the only people in view were a couple in the driveway of a house back down the road. They were locked in a passionate kiss, holding each other’s heads. It wasn’t an open-air, mid-morning kiss, and Theresa felt faintly embarrassed. In a moment she’d have to go interrupt them to ask if they’d seen anything. But first she must look after the injured woman.

The woman let Theresa lead her back to the patrol car. Theresa popped her trunk, grabbed a bagged rescue blanket, and used her teeth to tear the bag open. ‘It’s okay,’ she said, ‘I’ve got you. You’ll be fine.’

A dog ran from a property down the road, stopped beside the lip-locked couple, and barked at them. Then it flattened its ears and backed away, trembling.

Theresa wrapped the woman, and ducked her head to meet her eyes. ‘You’re safe now.’

There was a sharp concussion of an explosion in the fire up the road. Theresa flinched, but the woman didn’t react at all. She just stared at Theresa, apparently intent. Only she wasn’t meeting Theresa’s eyes. Her gaze seemed to focus on the air millimetres from Theresa’s skin, as if caught on the tip of each hair—the hair lifting all over Theresa’s body.

Theresa became aware then of sounds below the roar of the fire, and the skirling alarms of trapped and wounded cars. Unaccountable, frightening noises were coming from behind her, on both sides of the street. She heard a hissing, as if someone were busy spraying weeds, followed by a deep flutter, like a wind-baffled bonfire. There were thumps, smashes, a squealing noise, and the sound of someone gasping for breath. But there were no screams, no cries for help.

Theresa glanced again at the couple. Their heads were still pressed together, grinding and working. Theresa saw that their cheeks and necks were smeared and dark.

In the house nearest Theresa a scuffle broke out. Two men tumbled from an open screen door and commenced belting each other, neither of them making any attempt to block the other’s blows.

Theresa told the injured woman to stay where she was. Then she went to the secure box in her car, punched in the code, and removed her pistol. She clipped its holster to her belt. Never before in her professional life had Theresa had to get out her gun.

She hurried into the yard, and tried to grapple the brawling men apart, using her hands and her baton. It wasn’t clear which of the two was the aggressor, but one was taking a real beating, and was bleeding from both ears. He continued to fight, fearlessly and insensitively.

Theresa yelled at them to stop. She tried to haul the stronger man away. His arms were as hard as wood, his body solid, hot, clenched all over and slick with blood—far too much to have come from just his own injuries. Theresa’s hands slithered off him. She lost her balance, and came down hard on one knee.

Once she was down, both men turned on her. Without exchanging a look, they simultaneously ceased hitting each other and began pummelling Theresa instead.

She scrambled away, dropped her baton, and drew her gun. She pointed it, swinging the barrel back and forth between them. ‘That’s enough! Don’t come any closer!’

But they didn’t even glance at the gun. They looked through her, as if she were an obstacle they meant to trample over to get at something promising that lay beyond her, something more worthy of their pitched savagery.

Theresa risked a backward glance. The injured woman was standing right behind her. She had followed Theresa, trailing the rescue blanket like a queenly mantle.

Theresa gasped. ‘Jesus!’ She scrambled to her feet and lunged at the woman, meaning to haul her off, throw her in the patrol car, and flee. That’s what Theresa was thinking: she had to pull back somewhere safe and call for help. Lots of help.

But she only managed a few steps before one of the men barged her. Theresa sprawled on the grass, and the men began to kick her. She pushed the injured woman away from her, and flipped over onto her back. Her boots connected with someone’s legs, and the kicking stopped. Theresa raised her head and held the gun out before her again. From the corner of her eye she saw the empty rescue blanket floating away over the lawn, bundling up the sunlight. The weaker of the two men was in flight, pushing his way through a hedge. But the other had got hold of the injured woman. And they were both giggling—sly, silly giggles. Then the man began to shake the injured woman, violently.

Theresa clambered up. She shouted, ‘Stop that or I will shoot you!’ She issued her warning. She followed her training. But no one had ever told her about the blank bit of human hesitation, of unwillingness, that appeared before her then. A gap between procedure familiar to her, and procedure she hadn’t yet had to follow. She had to act to save the woman. But the idea of hurting the man filled her with a terrible queasiness. It was as if she were about to shoot herself.

Theresa stepped towards the man. Again she shouted her warning.

The shaking continued, and the injured woman’s sweat-soaked hair bounced around her smirking face. Theresa tried one-handed to snatch her free, but the man kept moving like a machine, his limbs greasy and as inexorable as pistons.

In the pause where Theresa ran out of bearable options, she glanced once more at the other man, who was crawling away across the neighbours’ lawn. He was on his hands and knees. But he wasn’t walking on his palms. Instead his wrists were bent inward, and he was moving forward pressing the backs of his hands to the grass.

Theresa stopped shouting. Her breath left her in a grunt. Her arms sagged. Her body was in shock, but a small voice in her mind made itself heard. It said, ‘Who does that?’ Behind her shock a deeply rational and analytical part of her was trying to make her attend to something more important than simply what she should do next. It was telling her that she was in lethal danger, and that her own death wouldn’t be the worst of it. And of course she sought confirmation for her feeling. She glanced at the kissing couple.

They weren’t kissing. Their lips and noses were in red strings and tatters, and still they kept pushing mouth to mouth, their bared teeth biting.

Theresa’s arms came up. She stepped forward, jabbed her gun against the man’s shoulder, and pulled the trigger.

He staggered back, but he didn’t release the injured woman. Instead he used his good arm to grapple her closer, opened his mouth and sank his teeth into her scalp, like someone taking a big bite of an apple.

Theresa leapt at him. She pressed the muzzle of her pistol to his temple, and pulled the trigger.

He was at her feet, his head served on a bed of his own brains. The woman rolled free.

Theresa holstered her gun. She thought, ‘He didn’t look at me. He didn’t even see me coming.’ She picked up the woman, who immediately began to struggle.

‘It’s all right,’ Theresa said. She half-carried the woman to her car, and laid her on the back seat. She leaned on the woman while fumbling at the buttons of the radio. But there was only empty static as she cycled through the frequencies looking for people she knew must be there—Kahukura’s community constable, the dispatcher in Nelson, other emergency services.

The only open channel was to Belle. ‘Tre? What’s happening?’ Belle said, then, ‘There are fires on Haven Road. Over.’ She sounded desperate.

‘Where is everyone?’ Theresa said.

The woman stopped thrashing and began to claw at her own face. Theresa had to drop the radio to catch her hands.

For the next minute Theresa fought to keep the woman still. She spoke to her softly. The woman was making vacant, inarticulate sounds. Blood glistened in the join of her lips. She was gnawing her own tongue.

Theresa cast about for something to slip between her teeth. A sunglasses case might do. She popped the glove box, found the case, and, holding the woman tightly with one arm, she tried to slip the soft plastic between her chomping jaws.

In a nearby house a window shattered. An old man slumped through it, skewering his throat on the shards left in the frame. He moved only feebly while his blood unfolded like a concertinaed red banner down the weatherboard wall.

Theresa reached for her radio again. She held it to her lips and depressed the talk button, but she couldn’t speak. It was as if she were taking a sip of static—putting a pump bottle to her lips and tasting only air. She had ducked down below the level of her car windows. The only people she could see were those near her—the man she’d shot, and that one across the way, still gasping on his hook of glass, and the couple, head to head, slow-dancing on their patch of blood-soaked grass. No one else. Nothing new was happening in Theresa’s ambit, but she was still desperate for things to stop, to pause. She wanted to find herself and figure out what she should do—what she could do.

Theresa dropped her radio and concentrated on the woman. She held the sunglasses case in place, pressing down her tongue. She kept up her quiet reassurances, staring into the woman’s eyes. Those eyes were mad and spiteful; the woman’s nostrils vibrated with fury. Then, all at once, her eyes flicked sideways, and froze. She stopped struggling. Her face went stark, her body stiff.

Theresa pulled her straight, and began CPR. The woman’s mouth was clamped shut, so Theresa breathed into her nose. But the woman seemed to be holding her breath. Her lungs were full, her chest taut. Theresa shouted, ‘Please!’

The woman’s chest suddenly collapsed, and she went limp.

Theresa pumped at her sternum. She breathed into her bloody mouth. But nothing worked. The woman was gone. Theresa gathered her, held her tight, and looked over her bowed head, out the car windows, and through its open door. Looking didn’t help. She wasn’t able to check for danger. Everything was melting. For long minutes everything was melting.

Theresa was startled back into the moment by an explosion. She flung herself off the body and out of her car. She took off, striding away along the centre line, leaving her car with its doors open and lights flashing. She scanned the road for danger as she went. She felt like a nervy animal, rather than an upholder of public order.

There was a garage on fire in one property, and through the open front door of the house Theresa saw a heavy shadow swinging in the hallway. She paused, paralysed not by fear, but by the conflict between that and her sense of duty.

As Theresa hesitated, a cavalcade of runners emerged from a cross street ahead of her. The younger, fitter ones at the front, others trailing. But however spread out the runners were, they were going the same approximate pace, flat out, the group as cohesive as a school of fish. Some were barefoot. One was in pyjamas and a dressing gown. Two bringing up the rear were dragging objects that bumped and bounced along in their wake. One man had a small dog on a lead—no longer alive. The other had a child. He was hauling the child along by his ankle. The boy’s other leg was doubled back under him, his hip dislocated.

Theresa surged forward, gun pointed. She yelled a challenge—a wordless, simian roar.

But then a letterbox lunged at her. She sidestepped, and the box fell as far as it was able to, still attached to its pole, and followed by the body of the man who’d head-butted it out of its concrete footing, the man who had rammed his head into it as far as it could go. The man fell to his knees, hunched over the fallen box as if it were downed prey. He braced his shoulders and continued to push. The sides of the letterbox creaked and bulged, the man’s ears doubled over, and—that resistance overcome—his whole head plunged into the distorted box, passage lubricated by blood.

Theresa saw that the man was wearing a postie’s bright red and yellow uniform, and mail harness, though he’d lost his mail sacks.

He was a postie. A postie posting himself head first into a letterbox.

Theresa’s face went numb. Her ears stopped working. And the two men who’d peeled off the rampaging group were nearly on her by the time she noticed them.

She raised her gun, but wasn’t able to bring it level before the first man reached her. She didn’t remember pulling the trigger, but the gun went off. She didn’t hear the shot, only felt its kick. The bullet went into the attacker’s leg and smashed his thigh bone. She didn’t hear that either, but glimpsed powder burns, parted flesh, wet bone.

The man’s momentum carried him along the road, head over heels. Both he and the recoil knocked Theresa off-balance, and, because of that, the second attacker overshot his mark. He swiped at her in passing, then slowed and doubled back. The maimed man was struggling up, dragging his smashed leg.

Theresa regained her balance and bolted. She’d spotted an avenue of escape, a high boundary fence—one of those double-thickness ones with a flat top. She saw how close to the eaves of its house it came. Theresa scaled the fence, planted her heavy soled boots on its top, and sprinted along it. She made the leap from the fence to the roof, and her free hand caught hold of the ventilation pipe of a toilet cistern. She grappled with her other hand, the gun scoring the coating on the steel roof tiles. Showers of volcanic grit fell past her as she swung a knee up onto the roof. The PVC guttering shattered.

Theresa clambered up to the spine of the roof, straddled it, and pointed her gun back the way she’d come.

Her pursuers had lost interest. They didn’t even linger looking up at her, like dogs that have treed a cat. They just departed, one at the same breakneck pace, though not in pursuit of his group. The other dragged himself across the road to join the postie, who had finally torn the letterbox from its stand and, blinded by it, had blundered into a front garden rockery. The maimed man took the postie’s hand. He did it gently, and for a moment Theresa thought he might lead the postie out of the shrubs, and onto more even ground. But instead the man brought the postie’s hand to his mouth, as if about to kiss it gallantly. He pressed the postie’s fingers to his lips, then commenced to savage them.

Theresa’s spread her knees and dropped her head, shaken by a bout of retching. Everything went black. She was going to tumble off the roof. She clapped her free hand onto the ridge, and her fingernails prised more grit from the tiles. She put her gun down and planted her foot on top of it. Then she held on for dear life, fighting her own plummeting blood pressure. She tried to slow her breathing. ‘I’m hyperventilating,’ she thought. Then she made herself say it out loud. She might not be a police officer armoured with procedure anymore, but she was still a human being, with language.

There were no cries for help. That was the thing. Theresa had seen injuries, aggression, atrocities, self-mutilation, but had heard nothing from any of the victims or perpetrators. Nothing articulate or expressive. No matter how hard she strained her ears, Theresa couldn’t hear anything human.

After a while she gingerly lifted her head. From her vantage point she could see over the rooftops of the houses on Beach Road. She couldn’t see the beach, but further out was a trawler, coming into the bay, trailing a wedding veil of hungry gulls. It was such an everyday sight. Theresa stared at it for a time, resting her mind. Then she scanned the settlement: the billows of smoke, seemingly solidifying in the windless air; her patrol car in the fringe of the haze, lights flashing red, white, and blue. She peered hard at every corpse, checking for signs of life—not because she hoped to help anyone, but only to see whether they still presented any danger.

The postie was on his knees now, so tranquil that he seemed to be at prayer, his hands an offering to the maimed man and his voracity. The dragged child had been abandoned at the end of a trail of gore. And the running people had run on.

A block ahead, just before the road rose and forked for the bypass, Theresa caught sight of a man walking down the centreline. He was carrying a woman in his arms. There was something about the way he was moving, something less absorbed than the people Theresa had seen so far. He had a contradictory look of effort and aimlessness that seemed somehow normal. The others had been energetic and zealous—they’d moved as if they had places to be and urgent things to do.

Theresa stayed still and watched the man come. Once he was close she saw that he was a rangy fellow with thick silver hair and reddened, bright blue eyes. The woman in his arms was bonelessly limp.

Theresa called out to him. ‘Hey!’

He spotted her, then glanced at the patrol car. He had been looking for her. He’d come to find the emergency services.

Theresa called out, ‘Don’t move. I’ll be right down.’

He crouched and laid the woman on the ground.

Theresa slithered down the gritty roof, hung off its edge for a moment and dropped onto the lawn. She strode towards the man and he got up quickly, holding out his hands in a gesture of fearful supplication.

She went briskly past him and waded in among the rocks and flowering shrubs. She went right up to the man feasting on the postie’s fingers, and shot him in the head. Only after she’d shot him did she say to him, ‘Stop that.’ Then, ignoring his victim, she went back to the couple on the road.

Theresa hunkered down and put her fingers on the woman’s neck. The woman’s skin was cool already. She turned to the man. ‘What’s your name, Sir? Mine is Theresa—Constable Grey.’

‘Curtis Haines. This is my wife, Adele.’

‘Are you injured, Mr Haines?’

The man shook his head. He sat down on the road, and pulled his wife towards him so that her head lay in his lap. ‘A woman back there in the antiques shop—she’s dead too.’ He stopped speaking and his throat worked.

Theresa knew she should ask for details. She was scared of the bleak, faraway look on his face—but she’d have to write all this up eventually.

This brief moment of forward planning came to an abrupt end, punctuated by a clang, as the postie collapsed, and his metal-encased head impacted with a rock.

‘Mr Haines, I’m sorry,’ Theresa said, ‘but right now I’m reluctant to hear what you have to say.’

He nodded. He understood.

She unhooked her radio from her vest and put it down on the road to fiddle with its dials.

Curtis Haines said, ‘You have a black eye and a cut on your cheek. You need first-aid.’

‘Maybe later,’ Theresa said, as though he’d offered to buy her a drink.

‘That would be easier if you’d use both hands.’

Theresa’s hand had been clenched for so long that blood had set like mortar between each finger. She laid the pistol down, giving it a little shake to loosen it. With two hands free she was better able to manage her radio. She reached Belle.

‘Oh, thank God,’ said Belle. ‘No one survived the helicopter crash. Where are you?’ There was a forgetful hesitation, then, ‘Over?’

‘Belle, I want you go back into the reserve and lock the gate. Keep out of sight. I’ll be up to get you as soon as I can. Over.’

‘Tre,’ said Belle, ‘what’s going on?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘So—you haven’t got things under control?’

Theresa looked at Curtis Haines. He just stared back, his hands wandering over his wife’s silky grey bob.

Theresa tried to pull herself together. In her best, steely, police officer voice, she said, ‘Just do what I say, Belle. Over and out.’

A truck horn sounded somewhere to the west.

‘I should probably check that out,’ Theresa said to Curtis. Then she routinely attempted once more to raise anyone else. There was nobody. She clipped her radio back onto her vest, got up, and stooped to gather Adele Haines’s legs in her arms. Curtis took Adele’s shoulders and together they lifted her.

‘Shall we use your car?’ Curtis said.

Theresa didn’t want to retrace her steps. For a moment she was lost in blank indecision. She only came back when Curtis spoke. He told her that his car was the Volvo up the road, opposite the hairdresser. ‘If that’s better,’ he said, and she heard the kindness and concern in his tone.

They set out, and he led the way.

Curtis Haines and his wife Adele hadn’t planned to stop in Kahukura, but when they got to the turn for the bypass Curtis spotted an antiques and collectibles shop. Adele was looking at the hairdresser on the other side of the road—Curl up and Dye. She laughed and pointed. Curtis smiled, then waited for his wife to notice that he was pulling over, and why. He waited for her face to light up. He loved watching her face light up.

Adele saw the shop. ‘Thank you, darling.’ She flipped her sun visor down, refreshed her lipstick, and got out of the car.

Curtis changed the CD. He reclined his seat and closed his eyes. He drifted off for a few minutes. It couldn’t have been long, because the CD was only on track two: ‘How High the Moon’.

What woke Curtis was a police car. It blasted past, sirens going. It went about half a kilometre down the road, then screeched to a stop. Its brake lights flashed and flickered. Its siren gave a few further whoops, as though in protest, then cut out.

There was something threatening in the silence beyond the car’s sealed windows. Curtis turned off the stereo and let his window down. After a minute he heard, from somewhere up ahead, a woman shouting, her voice hysterical. Surely not the police officer. Whoever it was sounded as if they were trying to shout the world back into its proper order.

Curtis looked over at the antiques shop and saw that a strange woman had hold of his wife. The woman was younger than Adele, but nevertheless wore spectacles on a chain, as some elderly women do. The spectacles were balanced in the woman’s spray-sculpted hair, their chain flapping against her cheeks as she was wrenched back and forth by Adele, who was struggling to free herself. Adele clawed at the woman’s arms, while the woman held Adele’s jaw open and dropped things into her mouth.

Curtis didn’t know how he got out of the car. Later he remembered the dimpled brass of the shop’s door handle in his grip and the cheery sound of the bell above the door. As it was, he simply found himself at his wife’s side.

It was coins that the woman was posting between Adele’s lips—lumpy coins, not perfectly round. Old coins, of blackened silver and greened copper.

Curtis grabbed the woman and shoved her away. He heard the money fall and roll about on the wooden floor.

Adele didn’t make a sound.

The woman staggered back, then regained her balance and looked about. Her eyes were so wide that Curtis could see the strained pink fibres connecting her eyeballs to her eyelids.

There was a fireplace in the shop—not one that worked, for it was filled with a brass coal scuttle crowded with dried hydrangeas. There was a fire-set on its hearth, and Curtis was worried that the woman would go for the poker. He looked about for a weapon of his own, then saw that Adele was on the floor, struggling, her face blue. She was choking.

Curtis hauled Adele upright. He put his knuckles in under her sternum and pressed hard with his other hand. He pushed. She heaved limply in his arms.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Curtis pumped and relaxed, pumped and relaxed. He shouted his wife’s name. He tried to use her name to tear at time itself, the seconds that kept passing.

He didn’t even look at the mad woman. He had forgotten her. He wasn’t waiting for the poker to fall, to injure him—he’d forgotten that too. He lowered his wife to the floor and sank down, holding her, rocking her, calling her name. Finally he got up and looked about for a phone. There was one on the wall behind the counter. Curtis ran to it, snatched at the receiver and punched in the emergency number before hearing that the phone was dead. He tried several times, then remembered that Adele had her mobile in the pocket of her jacket. He hurried back around the counter and bent over his wife, searching her pockets. But Adele’s phone had no signal.

The woman was still in the room. She stood, motionless, in front of the hearth. When Curtis looked up from the phone’s display and met her gaze she raised her brows and nodded at him in an approving manner, as if congratulating him on his distress.

Curtis picked up Adele and staggered to the door. Then the woman was beside him. He shrank from her, but she only wanted to open the door for him. Its brass bell chimed. Curtis plunged out into the street. He looked back in time to see the woman collapse. She gave a sigh, then folded and diminished, as if someone had let the air out of her.

Curtis peered up the road at the blue and red lights of the police car. He clutched Adele to him, and headed towards it.

At first he hurried, as if there was something that could be done. Then—because he was a year shy of sixty, and had problems with his right hip—he had to stop and rest for a while. He cradled his wife and stroked her hair. The sun had warmed it, but the skin on her forehead was cool. ‘Darling,’ he said softly.

In the road ahead the air was oily with the heat of fires, and full of flakes of soot.

Holly and her mother had spent the weekend at a family reunion. On the Sunday Holly’s brothers had taken her aside to remark that Kate looked low, and to ask: was that rest home Holly had found really the best arrangement?

Of course it had been Holly who’d had to do everything: find Kate a place, persua