This Isn't the Sort of Thing That Happens to Someone Like You Part 6

*Police will be here in a minute,' he said. She nodded. *Lorry must have been overloaded,' he said. *Driver's probably none the wiser even now.'

*No,' she said, glancing down at the sugar-beet again. *I suppose not.' The younger man came back, waving a green plastic first-aid box at her. He looked just as pleased as when he'd held up the phone. She wondered if he was on some sort of special supported apprentices.h.i.+p or something, if he was a little bit learning-challenged, and then she thought it was probably discriminatory of her to have even thought that and she tried to get the thought out of her mind. Only you can't get thoughts out of your mind just by trying; that was another one of those Buddhist things. She should just concentrate on not thinking about her breathing instead, she thought. Just, total mindlessness. Mindfulness. Just breathe.

He pa.s.sed the first-aid box through the hole in the windscreen. His hands were stained with oil and mud, and as they touched hers they felt heavy and awkward. She put the box in her lap and opened it. She wondered what he wanted her to do. *I don't know,' he said. *I just thought. Has it got antiseptic cream in there?' She rummaged through the bandages and wipes and creams and scissors. And now what. She took out a wipe, dabbed at her arm, and closed the box. She handed it back to him, holding the b.l.o.o.d.y wipe in one hand.

*Thanks,' she said. *I think I'll be okay now.' Was she talking too slowly? Patronising him? Or was she making reasonable allowances for his learning-challenges? But he might not even be that. She was over-complicating the situation, probably. Which was another thing Marcus said to her sometimes, that she did that. She looked at him. He shrugged.

*Well, yeah,' he said. *If you're sure. I just thought, you know.'

Status update: Emily Wilkinson regrets not having signed up for breakdown insurance.

*Thanks,' she said.

She'd chosen Hull because she'd thought it would sound interesting to say she was going to a provincial university. Or more exactly because she thought it would make her sound interesting to even say *provincial university', which she didn't think anyone had said since about 1987 or some other time way before she was born. She wasn't even exactly sure what provincial meant. Was it just anywhere not-London? That seemed pretty sweeping. That was where most people lived. Maybe it meant anywhere that wasn't London or Oxford or Cambridge, and that was still pretty sweeping. Whatever, people didn't seem to say it any more, which was why she'd been looking forward to saying it. Only it turned out that no one knew what she was talking about and they mostly thought she was saying provisional, which totally wasn't the same thing at all.

Anyway, though, that hadn't been the only reason she'd chosen Hull. Another reason was it was a long way from home. As in definitely too far to visit. Plus when she went on the open day she'd loved the way the river smelt of the sea, and obviously the bridge, which looked like something from a film, and also the silence you hit when you got to the edge of the town, and the way it didn't take long to get to the edge of town. And of course she'd liked the Larkin thing, except again it didn't seem like too many people were bothered about that. Or knew about it. Or knew how much it meant, if they did know about it. When she first got there she kept putting *Emily Wilkinson is a bit chilly and smells of fish' on her status updates, but no one got the reference so she gave it up. Plus it made her look weird, obviously, even after she'd explained it in the comments.

She'd met Marcus in her second year, when he'd taught a module on *The Literature of Marginal(ised) Places'. Which she'd enjoyed enough to actually go to at least half of the lectures rather than just download the notes. He had a way of explaining things like he properly wanted you to understand, instead of just wanting to show off or get through the cla.s.s as quick as he could. There was something sort of generous about the way he talked, in cla.s.s, and the way he listened to the students. Plus he was what it was difficult to think of a better word for than totally buff, and also had what she couldn't be more articulate than call a lovely mouth, and basically made her spend quite a lot of time not actively addressing the issues of appropriation inherent in a culturally privileged form such as literary fiction taking exclusion and marginality as its subject. Her friend Jenny had said she couldn't see it at all, as in the buffness and the lovely mouth rather than the inherent appropriation, but that had only made her think it was maybe something more along the lines of a genuine connection thing and not just some kind of stereotypical type of crush; and Jenny did at least agree that no way did it count as inappropriate if it was just a PhD student and not an actual lecturer. His last seminar had been on the Tasmanian novel, which it turned out there were quite a few of, and afterwards he'd kept her talking until the others had left and said were there any issues she wanted to discuss and actually did she want to go for a drink. To which her response had been, and that took you so long why?

There hadn't really been anyone before Marcus. Not since coming to university, anyway. There'd been a few things at parties, and she'd slept with one of her housemates a bunch of times, but nothing serious enough to make her change her relations.h.i.+p setting. With Marcus it had been different, almost immediately. He'd asked her out, like formally, and they'd had late-night conversations about their relations.h.i.+p and what relations.h.i.+ps meant and even whether or not they were in love and how they would know and whether love could ever be defined without reference to the other. She didn't really know. She thought being in love probably didn't mean telling your girlfriend what she could wear when you went to the pub together, or asking her not to talk to certain people, or telling her she was the reason you couldn't finish your thesis.

They hadn't moved in together, but almost as soon as they'd started going out their possessions had begun drifting from one house to the other until it felt like they were just living together in two places. Sometimes when she woke up it took her a moment to remember which house she was in. It wasn't always a nice feeling. Which meant, what? She fully had no idea what it meant. Because she liked Marcus, she liked him a lot. She liked the conversations they had, which were smart and complicated and went on for hours. And she liked the way he looked at her when he wanted to do the things she'd been thinking about in cla.s.s when she should have been thinking about discourses of liminality, when she'd been imagining saying he was welcome to cross her threshold any day. There was still all that. But there were other things. Things that made her uncomfortable, uncertain, things she was pretty sure weren't part of how a relations.h.i.+p was supposed to make you feel happy or good about yourself or whatever it was a relations.h.i.+p was supposed to make you feel.

She should be calling him now, and she wasn't. He'd want her to have called, when he heard. Something like this. He should be the first person she thought of calling. He'd think it was odd that she hadn't. He'd be hurt. She thought about calling Jenny instead, to tell her what had happened, or her supervisor, to tell her she'd be late getting back to the office. She should call someone, probably, but she couldn't really imagine having the words to explain it and she couldn't face having anyone else tell her she could have been killed and plus anyway she was totally fine, wasn't she? She looked down at the sugar-beet again. Was that what that smell was? It wasn't a sugary smell at all. It was more like an earthy smell, like wet earth, like something rotting in the earth. She didn't see how they could get from that to a bowl of white sugar on a cafe table, or even to that sort of wet, boozy smell you got when you drove past the refinery, coming up the A1. Which come to think of it was probably where the lorry would have been heading. It would be, what, an hour's drive from here? Maybe she should go there and give them back their sugar-beet, tell them what had happened. Complain, maybe.

The pa.s.senger door opened, and the older man leaned in towards her.

*You need to get out,' he said. It seemed a bit too directive, the way he said it. She didn't move. *It's not safe, being on the hard shoulder like this,' he added. *We should all be behind the barrier.' They'd been discussing this, had they? It looked like they'd been discussing something. The older man was already holding out his hand to help her across the pa.s.senger seat. She looked at the traffic, roaring and weaving and hurtling past, and she remembered hearing about incidents where people had been struck and killed on the hard shoulder, when they were changing a tyre, or going for a p.i.s.s, or just stopping to help. She remembered her cousin once telling her about a school minibus which had driven into the back of a Highways Maintenance truck and burst into flames. Which meant they were right about this, did it, probably? She swung her feet over into the pa.s.senger's side, took the man's hand, and squeezed out on to the tarmac. It was an awkward manoeuvre, and she didn't think she'd completed it with much elegance or style. The younger man was already standing behind the barrier, and she clambered over to join him. She didn't do that very gracefully either. He started climbing up the embankment.

*Just in case,' he said, looking back at her. Meaning what, she wondered. *Something could flip, couldn't it?' he said, and he did something with his hands which was presumably supposed to look like a vehicle striking a barrier and somersaulting across it. The older man caught her eye, and nodded, and she followed them both up the embankment, through the litter and the long gra.s.s.

It was much colder at the top. Sort of exposed. The wind was whipping away the sound of the traffic, making her feel further from the road than they really were. The two men looked awkward, as though maybe they were uncomfortable about the time this whole situation was taking. The younger man made the whistling noise again. She could barely hear it against the wind.

*You're lucky,' he said, nodding down towards her car. *I mean, you know. You're lucky we stopped. You could have been killed.' She didn't know what to say to this. She nodded, and folded her arms against the cold. The older man arched his back, rubbing at his neck with both hands.

*They'll be here soon,' he said, and she nodded again, looking around.

Behind them, the ground sloped away towards a small woodland of what she thought might be hawthorn or rowan trees or something like that. The ones with the red berries. There were ragged strips of bin-liners and carrier-bags hanging from the branches, flapping in the wind. Past the trees, there was a warehouse, and an access road, and she noticed that the streetlights along the access road were coming on already. Beyond the access road, a few miles further away, there were some houses which she wasn't sure if they were some estate on the outskirts of Hull or some other town altogether. Hull was further than that, she was pretty sure. It was the other side of the estuary, and they were still south of the river. Almost certainly.

The older man started down the slope, towards the trees. *I'm just going to, you know,' he said. *While we're waiting.' She turned away, looking back at the road. She was getting colder now. She looked at her car, and at the blue van. They were both rocking gently in the slipstream of the pa.s.sing traffic, their hazard lights blinking in sequence. She wondered if she felt like crying yet. She didn't think so. It still didn't seem like the right moment.

She would talk to Marcus at the weekend, she decided. He'd understand, when it came down to it. Once he gave her a chance to explain. She'd say something like although they'd been good together at times and she was still very fond of him she just couldn't see where things were going for them. She didn't like the way he made her feel about herself, sometimes. She needed some time to find out who she was and what she needed from a relations.h.i.+p. Something like that.

She'd tried it out with Jenny. Jenny had said it sounded about right. Jenny had said she thought Marcus was reasonable and would probably take it on board, although obviously he'd still be disappointed. That was how she talked sometimes, like she was a personal guidance counsellor or something, or an older and wiser cousin. Whereas in fact she was only like a year older, and had spent that year mostly in Thailand and Australia, which was her version of travelling the world and which she thought made her the total source of wisdom when in fact it made her the total source of knowing about youth hostels and full-moon parties and not even having heard of Philip f.u.c.king Larkin. And she was wrong about Marcus. It was way more likely he would shout at her when she told him. Or break something. It wouldn't be the first time. Everyone thought he was so reasonable. But she wasn't going to back down this time. She was certain of it, suddenly. Something like this, it made you think about things, about your priorities. She could say that to him, in fact. She could explain what had happened and that it had made her rethink a few things. Maybe she should call him now in fact, and tell him what had happened. So he'd already have the context when she talked about wanting to finish things. Maybe that would be sensible. She should do that. She wanted to do that, she realised. She wanted to hear his voice, and to know that he knew she was okay. Which meant what. She wanted him to know where she was. Her phone was still in her bag, in the car. She started to move down the embankment. The younger man grabbed her arm.

*You should stay up here,' he said. *It's safer.' She looked at him, and at his hand on her arm. *They'll be here in a minute,' he said.

*I just need to get my phone,' she said. *I need to call someone. I'll be careful, thanks.' She tried to step away, but he held her back. *Excuse me?' she said.

*You're probably in shock,' he said. *You should be careful. Maybe you should sit down.'

*I'm okay, actually, thanks? I don't want to sit down?' She spoke clearly, looking him in the eye, raising her voice above the wind and the traffic. Plus raising her voice against maybe he was a bit deaf, as well as the learning-challenged thing. She wanted him to let go of her arm. She tried to pull away again, but his grip was too tight. She looked at him, like: what are you doing? He shook his head. He said something else, but she couldn't hear him. She didn't know if the wind had picked up or what was going on. He looked confused, as if he couldn't remember what he was supposed to be saying.

She glanced down the other side of the embankment, and saw the older man at the edge of the woodland. He was standing with his back to the trees, looking up at the two of them, his hands held tensely by his sides. What was he. He seemed to be trying to say something to the younger man. He seemed to be waiting for something. She tried to pull away. But what.

What Happened to Mr Davison.

Cadwell.

First of all I want to start by saying we all of us just really have every sympathy as regards what happened to Mr Davidson. Obviously the conclusion was not one which I or any of us were seeking. That goes without saying. I mean, I honestly don't think that what happened was within the range of foreseeable consequences. Not that we sat down and undertook a full risk a.s.sessment before embarking on that particular course of action. Of course not. It was more of a spontaneous, spur-of-the-moment type of scenario. But I think even given how little forward a.n.a.lysis was involved it would be safe to say that the outcome was not one any of us envisaged. I mean, clearly not. That's just not the kind of people we are, any of us. I think that's just really understood. I think I'm safe in saying that that's been accepted, by some of the people who've been impacted upon, in terms of the subsequent turn of events. Including Mr Davidson himself. As far as we've been able to gather. I mean, you know, some of the people he has around him have been understandably cautious, in terms of what I suppose you could call access. That's been my understanding at least, to date: that an approach of that manner would not be favourably received at this time, given the ongoing circ.u.mstances. I'm speaking in terms of with reference to third parties, in this context. Given our feeling that a direct approach would be likely to have been deemed insensitive, in light of the wider context, and the history and suchlike.

Davison. Yes. Of course.

Right.

I'm not sure there's actually any need to rehea.r.s.e the facts of the day in question. I think everyone's very familiar with the sequence of what went on. Suffice it to say that the context was rather a pressured one. Myself and the other three gentlemen in question have discussed this at length, and we all agree that any of the precursors to our actions would in and of themselves have been sufficient as to be considered intolerable; but it was the combination of those precursors which led to the rather hastily agreed-upon course of action which was then taken.

Yes, I would concede that it was hastily agreed-upon.

No, I wouldn't support that notion. That doesn't necessarily follow.

I can't recall which one of us specifically initiated the proposal. We've spoken about this as well, and we are all in agreement that the proposal arose as a more or less spontaneous initiative between us. We take collective responsibility on that point. Which is to say, on the limited point of how and by whom the proposal was initiated; that was a collective responsibility, I'm saying. I'm not talking about the wider question of responsibility for the eventual outcome. Not at all. That's very much a matter for debate. I think we can all agree on that. And of course that's a debate I would welcome, when the time comes. No one would welcome that more than me. But my feeling is that this wouldn't be the appropriate context for that discussion, not today. My understanding was that this was simply an opportunity to clarify the narrative, as it were.

Thank you. Yes. I will.

Yes, quite so. The background. So. Mr Davidson and myself have been near-neighbours for a number of years, understanding of course that neighbour is a relative term in that neck of the woods. His house is visible from our house, and his land abuts on to ours. I wouldn't say that we've become close friends over that duration; he's a busy man, understandably, and although I spend as much time in that property as is possible I wouldn't cla.s.s myself as a full-time resident, by any means. So our opportunities for interaction have been naturally limited. But there hadn't been any animosity between ourselves. Not historically speaking.

I wouldn't say surprised as such, no. One expects a certain amount of countryside activity in the countryside, clearly. Possibly the range and duration and volume of those activities did somewhat exceed our expectations, yes. But we understood that our grounds for complaint were fairly restricted. Mr Davidson was a farming man, after all, and that much was perfectly clear at the time we purchased the property, and indeed Mr Davidson was absolutely ent.i.tled to reiterate this fact from time to time, as he felt it necessary to so do.

Davison. I stand corrected.

Quite, absolutely.

Well, it's just that I would dispute whether motorcycle scramble racing can be considered to be a farming activity. Harvesting is one thing, even allowing for the fact that at times it went on until two or three o'clock in the morning. Constructing a new intensive poultry-production unit is also one thing; notwithstanding one's own personal views on the merits of such a farming method, it is still cla.s.sifiably a farming activity. But motorcycle scramble racing is just quite another thing altogether, I'm sure we can agree. I mean, look, I understand the need for economic diversification as much as the next man, especially in this day and age. I really do. I just wonder whether there's such a thing as being too diverse.

Oh, I'd hardly know where to begin. It wasn't just the noise, although that was of a peculiarly piercing and high-pitched quality which I have to tell you was just about consistently unbearable. But noise is one thing. No, it was more the fumes, and the dust, and the type of people it brought to the area. I mean, the dust was unbelievable. The situation was extremely unpleasant, at best.

Intolerable was a word I used earlier, you're quite right. I stand by that.

Oh, now hang on. By saying type of people I simply meant to refer to the behaviour in terms of road-use, parking on verges and blocking driveways and bringing in large vehicles which the road there simply isn't designed to be capable of coping with. I didn't mean to cast aspersions. Far from it. This whole thing had nothing whatsoever to do with that. It wasn't the late-night music we objected to, nor the type of language we sometimes heard being used in the designated camping area which happened to be in the field adjacent to our garden. No. This was simply a question of the dust, and the fumes, and the overall intrusion into and disturbance of our lives.

Yes. That is my understanding of the prognosis.

Quite.

Well, yes, of course I would agree that Mr Davidson's life has now been disturbed, absolutely. But I think that's rather an emotive way of framing the situation, if you don't mind my saying so. The outcome of our actions on that day cannot in any way reflect upon the reasons we felt we had for taking those actions. Look, the situation had been recurring for months. And on this occasion, with guests at the house who were able to see the situation anew and emphasise to myself just how utterly unacceptable it was; well, the phrase I recall being used was this will not stand. You know, this simply will not stand. A line needed to be drawn. I had guests in my home, and I was effectively being humiliated by the situation. And so that was the background to the decision which was taken by myself and the other three gentlemen in question.

Possibly it was an emotive decision, yes. I do accept that.

Yes. Yes I do. I do believe it was a proportional response. Clearly the eventual outcome of the resulting chain of events was tragically disproportionate. But our original actions were reasonable, I feel, under the circ.u.mstances which I've gone to some lengths to outline for you today. And look, you know, the criminal proceedings relating to the earth-moving equipment, and the taking without consent thereof, have been concluded to the satisfaction of the Crown Prosecution Service. So that matter is actually now closed, I believe.

Right. I understand. Indeed.

Well, look, you know, regret is a very difficult word. It's a complicated word. Do I, in all hindsight, wish things had turned out very differently? Of course I do. We all do, fervently. Would I have undertaken an alternative course of action had what we now know to have been the outcome been clear to me at that time? Absolutely I would. But the fact remains, the outcome wasn't at all clear to any of us at that moment in time. As I've said, we were operating very much on a spur-of-the-moment basis. Something had to be done. The situation was intolerable. Of course I regret what eventually came to be seen as the outcome of the chain of events which the four of us perhaps somewhat inadvertently set in motion. But I'm just not sure I can accept the premise that this means I should regret my actions at that particular juncture, or the very limited decision-making process which led to those actions. Would an expression of regret change one single iota of the outcome of that day, or the impact upon Mr Davidson and his family? Of course not. Would such an expression somehow absolve myself of the burden of responsibility which I so rightly bear upon my own shoulders? Quite frankly, I fail to see why it should.

Look, of course I feel a sense of sadness about what happened to Mr Davidson. Of course I do. But this apprehension that somehow we should all go around apologising left, right and centre for a whole host of actions which clearly we are completely powerless to go back and rectify; well, I just don't buy it. I absolutely don't. None of us do.

Davison. Right. Of course.

Years Of This, Now.

Grantham.

She sat beside the bed and watched him breathe. She pulled her chair closer, the metal legs sc.r.a.ping across the floor. She'd been here barely ten minutes, and already she wanted to leave.

She should be praying now, she supposed. But she didn't know what she would be praying for, if she were to pray honestly; whether she would be praying for his healing or simply asking not to have to be here at all.

The machines beside his bed did what they needed to do. His chest rose and fell.

She tried to remember when she'd last prayed for anybody. The thought of it seemed almost ridiculous, now. She reached out and held his hand. It was warm. She held it between her two hands, and she thought she felt some small pressure in response. Was that possible? She closed her eyes. She opened her eyes and looked around. The door to the main part of the ward was open, but n.o.body was watching. She could hear the nurses talking in their little side-room, further down the corridor. She could hear a television beside one of the beds in the ward. She turned back to Michael, and closed her eyes. Keep him safe, she said, silently. It was all she could think to say. Keep him safe and well. Keep him on this road to recovery. Or, no; keep him.

She opened her eyes, shocked at herself.

She leaned forward and smoothed the hair away from his forehead. It was getting long again. And he needed a shave. She wondered whether the nurses would do that. She pulled the sheet a little higher up his chest. She watched his breathing, his stillness. It was a long time since she'd seen him as relaxed as this. Even his sleep had seemed restless and tense of late; his arms wrapped round himself, his jaw clamped shut, his fists clenched. The doctor had warned him, in a way; if not of this exactly then of something. You're too busy, the doctor had said, too stressed. You're in need of a break, in need of some exercise, in need of a better diet. In need, also, of being able to pay attention when someone who knew what they were talking about said something like that, rather than thinking he was too young or too strong or just too b.l.o.o.d.y blessed for it to apply to him.

No, that wasn't fair. Michael had paid attention, but he'd had no idea what to do with the information. I can't have a break, he'd insisted. How can I have a break? How would the parish go on without me, at a time like this? There wasn't a time when it hadn't been a time like this. She wondered whether it was a male trait, this notion of being trapped by one's own indispensability, or if it was something exclusive to Michael.

She shouldn't be angry. It wasn't fair. He was dedicated to his job. That was a good thing. The world needed people who were dedicated to their jobs. That church needed a vicar who was dedicated to the parish, finally. But she was tired of it now. She was tired of being left alone while he did these things. This new parish was supposed to have been a chance for them both to take things a little more slowly. It was supposed to have been a refres.h.i.+ng change after the urban pressures of the last parish; a nice quiet country church to see them both into retirement. Long walks. Coffee mornings. Ladies seeing to the flowers. The occasional trip into the city to go to the gallery, the cinema, the restaurants.

Whereas instead he'd managed to find a country parish which had years of problems stacked up, where the church had to be kept locked and the congregation was unwilling to lift a finger and all the hard-luck stories from miles around still managed to find their way to the vicarage door.

She pictured him being alone when it had happened, laid out on the vestry's cold stone floor. He'd managed to reach his mobile phone, it seemed, with one side of his body numbed into sudden immobility and a terrible fear clouding his brain, and when he'd fumbled for the redial b.u.t.ton her work number had been the first to come up. It was the secretary in her department office who'd called the ambulance. I could hardly hear him, she told Catherine afterwards. It wasn't even a whisper.

And stroke was such a strange word for someone to have given this thing. It was misleading, underhand. Not that she could see much of the violence which had been done to him. There was nothing of the awful drooping grimace she'd seen on others who'd suffered strokes. Perhaps that would come later. For now, he just looked rested. As handsome as ever, in fact. He'd always been a handsome man, his looks seeming only to deepen with age instead of sagging and softening the way hers had done. She had been beautiful once, she thought a he'd told her often enough that she'd believed him, eventually a but that was mostly gone now, her figure rounded, her hair dulled, her skin marked and lined by the years. It felt as though their pairing had grown more uneven over the years, not less. And now there was this.

Because there would be years of this, now. If she stayed. His frailty, his dependence, his doing the things the doctors had told him not to and then looking to her to stop him. Everyone looking to her. People asking her gently how he was, when he would be back at work, whether he was thinking about early retirement. Adding And how are you? only as an occasional afterthought.

She heard the low hum and squeak of a floor-polis.h.i.+ng machine moving along the corridor. Whoever was watching the television in the main ward turned it up a little to compensate. Somebody leaned through the doorway, apologised, and disappeared. The machines beside Michael's bed did what they needed to do. His chest rose and fell.

She tried to imagine being somewhere else. Being contacted after the fact by his sister, or a doctor, or even by some other woman. Having to decide whether to visit. Having that choice. She found it impossible to actually picture not being here with him. To picture being with someone else when, as would surely happen again, the telephone call came. Somebody saying, It's Michael. Somebody pa.s.sing on the news of Michael being in a hospital bed once more, with wires taped to his chest and an oxygen mask across his face. She wondered how that would work, when it came to it. Whether this someone else would give her a lift to the hospital, whether they would wait downstairs or come up with her, whether there would be some residual awkwardness, still, or only concern, affection, love. Would they all be friends, in fact? Is that how these things worked? Would they have, what was it called, moved on?

The someone else was the hardest part to imagine. Some other woman. Some other man. It seemed impossible, now.

And what was all this in aid of, anyway. Where was she going with all this. She should just be praying for him to get better. Instead of all this speculation. All this might be and could be. Why was she even allowing herself? Hers wasn't the sort of life where choices presented themselves, and held equal weight, and remained dangling within reach. Other people had these lives, it appeared. Other people were able to choose not to live with regret.

This would be the most selfish thing she had done, by far. She wasn't sure, now, whether she would be able to go through with it. But it didn't need to be anything she was going through with, really. Not initially. She was just going on a retreat. It had been booked for months. n.o.body would think badly of her for going. Michael might not even know.

Michael might not know anything again.

She wondered how long his sister would take to get here, and whether Michael would be awake by then. She imagined his sister reading the letter she was going to send once she got there; what her reaction would be, what she would tell Michael. She wondered whether she and her husband would move into the vicarage for a time, or whether they'd persuade Michael to move in with them.

She wondered whether anyone would forgive her for this, whether they would understand. She doubted it. But doubt no longer seemed like a good enough reason for not doing something.

The machines did what they needed to do. His chest rose, and fell.

She tucked his hands back under the sheet and stood up to leave, putting on her coat and picking up her suitcase and pouring him a gla.s.s of water from the jug on the bedside locker, in case he was thirsty when he woke up.

The Remains.

Friskney.

Are believed to still be intact. Are understood to be within an area of approximately seventeen square miles. Are believed to have been concealed. Are either partially or completely buried. Are likely to be without clothes or jewellery or other possessions. May not be suitable for visual identification. Will be treated as a critical evidential scene. Have been the subject of much intrusive and unhelpful press speculation. Continue to be a key focus of questioning. Will be located using a combination of aerial surveillance and ground-penetrating radar. May be beautifully preserved, tanned and creased and oiled, by the action of the rich peated ground. May be laid in a resting position with legs together and hands folded and head turned gently to one side. Are of course still a concern to everyone in the department. May be intact. Have continued to be a topic of periodic speculation from time to time over the years. May be crammed into a box or bag or case. May need to be identified by recourse to dental records. May be wholly or partially lost due to action by animal or animals. May be wrapped in a silken winding sheet and buried with jewellery and other possessions pressed neatly into the folded hands. Must be in a location known to person or persons as yet unidentified. Could well be recoverable given the relinquis.h.i.+ng of certain key details known to person or persons unknown. May have been visited from time to time by the perpetrator or individuals known to the perpetrator. Are either partial or complete. May ultimately need to be recovered using a team from the forensic archaeology department. Are not currently a priority in this challenging period of strained resources. Have yet to be found. Continue to be the subject of an open case file. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have been destroyed by water. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have been destroyed by earth. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Will not give you what you need. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have no further purpose to serve. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have been destroyed by fire. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Will not bring her back. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have gone. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Are gone. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Is gone. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Are gone. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Is gone. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be.

The Cleaning.

Holbeach.

He had no idea where to begin. So much had been ruined. He stood in the hallway and felt the carpet sinking wetly beneath his boots. The smell was rising, already. She peered in from the front path, her arms folded, saying she didn't even think she wanted to come in. He waited. What did she know. She had no idea.

*There's nothing in there, is there? What if something's got in?'

Of course there was nothing in there. The building had been checked and secured. But she wouldn't come in until he'd looked. So he turned away from the door and walked through the hall into the kitchen, the playroom, the lounge. He went upstairs, keeping close to the wall as they'd been warned to, and into the bathroom and each of the bedrooms in turn. He stood at the window of the children's bedroom, at the back. The other gardens were piled high with rotten carpets and sofas and beds. It was weeks since the waters had finally receded. It felt strange to be looking out on solid ground. He remembered the last time he'd been here, holed up with the children, waiting for the boats to come, trying to make a game of it. He looked at one of the girl's paintings, tacked to the wall. She'd painted it a few days before the storms had come. It showed the three of them eating their dinner, him and the girl and the boy. It was spotted with mould and curled almost in half. It would have to go. All these things would have to go. He walked through to the front bedroom and looked down at her. She was stepping from foot to foot, her hands clasped together. He opened the window, and she looked up, sharply.