There were better ways of waking, but at least this was waking . . . The man last night had had a gun. That’s what Emma had said, and she was all kinds of reliable, being a former cop, a former Dog, and a woman who took no shit. So the man last night had had a gun, which indicated intent: had he caught them, they’d not be waking at all. Louisa had already known that finding Lucas had led her into dangerous water, but she’d hoped it reasonably shallow. How wrong could you get?
Emma had left the man in the churchyard, and the three of them had run through the town, crossing the deserted main road and heading towards the estuary: no plan involved. The air was heavy with unreality. Snow had made everything strange, casting the town back centuries, and everyone had taken shelter—everyone bar a cat on a wall, its hateful eyes glinting.
There were footpaths by the estuary, with enough tree cover to be free from snow. A sign by an open gate warned of possible flooding, but this seemed more acceptable than an armed man. Who wasn’t on their trail yet—behind them was only the cat, now a black shape in the middle of the road, picking its way townward with slow, exaggerated steps. And then they were among the trees, and the road might as well have been miles away; a distant glow from an alien settlement.
A car chose that moment to chug slowly along the High Street, its engine a reminder of a different age, which hadn’t yet come to pass.
They were still running, Lucas in front, Emma at the rear; deliberately, Louisa knew. She was in good shape, could have outrun either, but this was Emma being a cop again, taking others under her wing. Which irritated Louisa, but not as much as the memory of Emma telling her to run, and Louisa doing just that. Not waiting to help. Not bringing the bad guy down together. Just running, as if she were afraid the two of them acting in concert would be less effective than Emma solo. As if she were afraid.
But she hadn’t been afraid last night, she reminded herself. She’d taken on a carful of bad actors, armed with only a wrench.
By the water’s edge, just visible through the trees, were boats; dim heaps in the darkness which might have lain there years. Lucas was sprinting ahead—and then wasn’t; dropped from sight as if down a hole, which was more or less what had happened.
When she reached him he was already scrambling to his feet, but something in his eyes made her turn away, knowing he’d not want her to see him sob.
Emma arrived.
“Any sign?” Louisa asked.
“I think we left him in the town.”
But it wasn’t a big town, and there weren’t many places the three of them could be.
“What should we do?” said Lucas.
He was very young suddenly; a twelve-year-old, too small for his boots. Mud on his face.
“Police,” said Emma.
Louisa touched her elbow. “No. Trust me.”
“Yeah, I tried that. And look where we are.”
Lucas said, “What’s that?” and pointed into the trees.
That was a shed some yards off the path, so nestled in darkness, it looked like one more shadow among many; the kind of place, in a fairytale, that would house a cobbler or troublesome elf. This one, when Louisa forced the door—a padlock hanging from a hasp that had lost two screws—turned out to contain a stack of traffic bollards and collapsible signs warning of men working ahead. Presumably this was a seasonal activity: it didn’t look like men had worked anywhere near here since the clocks went back.
“Is this wise?” Emma asked.
“What’s your better idea?”
Police, Emma’s look repeated, but she didn’t say it out loud.
They gathered inside, and it didn’t get bigger, but once Louisa had shifted the signs, there was room to sit on the floor. Lucas, clearly, needed this—fear had carried him this far, but the fall had knocked the flight out of him, and all he wanted now was to be in the dark, unseen.
“It’s okay,” she told him. “It’s going to be okay.”
He didn’t answer.
Emma said, “Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It might be okay. But given I’ve no idea what’s going on, I’m not handing out guarantees.”
“Thanks,” Louisa said. “He needed to hear that.”
“I’m cool,” Lucas said, without sounding it.
She was reminded of Min, and it was sudden and painful.
There was a window, but it was half-obscured by a stack of poles whose function Louisa couldn’t guess at. And it was cobwebbed and filthy, and they were surrounded by trees . . . In the gloom, they were vague shapes, Lucas cross-legged on the floor, Louisa half-kneeling by his side. Emma standing. What little light there was reflected off her hair. It was like sharing a cupboard with a guardian angel. Outside, all seemed quiet; a thought that hadn’t finished forming when something scratched at the window.
“Jesus!”
“It’s a branch,” Emma said, a heartbeat later. “Tapping on the pane.”
Even the trees wanted to come inside. That’s what kind of night it was.
“Are we safe here?” Lucas asked.
Before Emma could respond with the truth, Louisa said, “We’ll be fine for a while.”
“How many of them?” Emma said.
“Last night, three. I put one of them down. He’ll have got up again by now.”
“Three’s not many,” said Emma, half to herself. “Maybe you’re right. We’ll be fine for a while.” And then she had looked down at Lucas. “So. Let’s start with why three men want to kill you.”
. . . That had been last night. It was morning now, and Louisa had woken, which was good news; had fallen asleep in half the space she needed, which wasn’t. Beside her, Lucas slept. Emma was nowhere. Louisa got to her feet, feeling like an origami figure being unfolded, and reached for the door. It was light outside; a thin, watery light that made her want to say gruel. Emma was there. In her long dark coat, her blonde hair loose, she looked like she’d stepped from a trailer, ready for her close-up. And this was after a night in a shed. It wasn’t like Louisa was jealous, but seriously? Fuck.
Emma said, “Get some sleep?”
“A bit. Got a signal?”
“Don’t know. Haven’t got a phone.”
“. . . You what?”
Emma said, “It must have fallen out of my pocket. Probably when I tossed my coat over that wall.”
“Ah, shit.” Louisa looked up the footpath towards town. “Like it or not, you’re a slow horse now. Any signs of life?”
“A dogwalker twenty minutes ago. Are you okay? You’re moving like a crash dummy.”
“I’m too old to sleep in a shed,” Louisa said. “Or too young. One or the other.”
Emma nodded. “What Lucas said. Did his story change since he first told you?”
“Not so I noticed. I think he’s telling the truth.”
“Yeah, well. The whole men with guns bit does add weight.”
Lucas had been staying in a B&B further up the coast, he’d told them. Had thought it wise to be in the area a few days before the arranged handover, “to check things out.”
He’d looked so much like Min, saying that. And if Min had indeed said that, the first thing Louisa would have done was come up with a contingency plan.
“And what was the result of this . . . ‘checking out’?” Emma asked.
Lucas, miserably, said, “I thought it would all be okay.”
“You wanted money for your silence,” Emma had said. “For not telling anyone what you saw.”
Lucas had nodded.
“Okay then. Tell us what you saw.”
So he had.
What Anton had this morning was a sore fucking face.
“You know what’s good for that?” Lars had asked.
Lars. Team medic.
“Not getting stomped on.”