For Emma, my constant, my rock.

  And for Zac and Henry, my pebbles, for always.

  Chapter 1

  Michael dived into the surf before his brain had time to register the cold, plunging down beneath the waves for a few seconds before surfacing and stroking out into the calm open water. His shivers subsided as his body quickly acclimatised, the Californian sun warming his head and shoulders.

  He swam solidly for ten minutes, heading straight out to sea. Glancing up at the sky from time to time he noticed a bank of clouds rolling in on the horizon, a storm perhaps, but too far away to be of real concern to the experienced swimmer.

  A moment or so later and he felt a blast of unexpectedly cold air against the back of his head. The sea went dark at the same time, the colour of the water shifting from bright blue to slate grey. Looking up he saw the clouds had advanced impossibly fast to obscure the sun. As he watched, the mass of blacks and greys was ripped apart by seams of blinding white lightning.

  ‘Shit.’ He swore and turned back to land, increasing his speed to reach the shore before the storm could overtake him.

  The change in weather brought with it increasingly large waves and a strong cross current, slowing his progress towards the safety of the beach, but when he felt his feet brush against the seabed, he knew that he was in the clear and without a drop of rain falling.

  He began to wade up the slope leading to the beach, treading with care to avoid the larger rocks embedded in the ground whilst moving with as much speed as he could towards the pile of his clothes on the sand. He was mid-stride when a powerful wave hit him in the back, knocking him off balance and pulling him back from the safety of the shore.

  He surfaced quickly, coughing and spluttering, trying to regain his balance and resume walking. Another wave broke over his head before he could take more than one gasping breath, leaving him no time to register his surroundings. This time he closed his mouth and eyes and allowed the water to push him down towards the bottom of the ocean.

  The wave seemed to bear down with unnatural force and his feet did not touch the ground for what felt like an age. He bent his knees and pushed off from the seabed, striking for the surface. At the same time, he opened his eyes, ignoring the painful sting of the saltwater. He aimed for the light that heralded the sky.

  Five strokes led to the surface and he gulped in air so quickly that his vision began to darken and blur. He forced himself to calm his breathing and his eyesight cleared in an instant allowing him to appraise the situation once more.

  The rain was now lashing down with so much force that at first he could not work out which way to swim to reach the shore. The wind had also picked up, causing the surface of the ocean to roll to such an extent that it formed a tunnel of water with the rain, a horizontal tornado.

  Still squinting against the water pounding his face, he spotted a green brown blur that he figured must signify the shore. He struck out towards it in a powerful front crawl, unsure for the first time whether or not he would reach the beach.

  A few minutes later a lessening in the rain’s ferocity provided a clear view of land for the first time since he had been struck by the waves. The shore was still at least fifty metres away and he opened his mouth to cry out in anguish, the action interrupted as a wave crashed over his head forcing him to stop swimming to spit out the salty water.

  He considered shouting for help or waving his arms around to attract attention but knew that the beach was not patrolled by lifeguards. Calling out would only waste what little energy he had left. All he could do was keep swimming. Then he saw a shape on the beach.

  Someone was on the shore, a small figure, perhaps a child. Michael waved his hands, pumping his legs as he treaded water to avoid sinking.

  'Hey' he shouted at the top of his lungs and the figure appeared to wave back. For a second Michael thought that he heard them calling out in response, but then their words were lost, drowned out by the wind. Then a wave, larger than any of the others, crashed down on top of the swimmer.

  Again, Michael felt himself being driven downwards by the great weight of water, and this time he was not sure he would be able to fight his way back to the surface. He waited, trying to conserve what little reserves he had left, waited to hit the seabed again, but this time he just kept sinking.

  He had been descending for half a minute when he began to feel the weight of the water compressing his body, squeezing the last of the air out of his tired lungs. He forced his eyes to open, prepared for the sharp sting of salt water, surprised when this did not come.

  Instead he found he could see clearly, not that there was much to see. On all sides was a dingy, grey darkness, the colour of a shroud.

  Panicking, he kicked out with his legs, moving his arms to try to propel himself, unsure which way he needed to travel. God alone knew how far he was under the water or how many metres he had now drifted from land, all he knew was that his lungs were burning, and that black was starting to creep into his vision.

  Then he remembered the figure, perhaps a child, on the beach, and he prayed that they would have raised the alarm.

  Then all at once he realised that he knew who the boy was.

  Chapter 2

  Michael opened his eyes, turned his head to the side and spat blood. He was lying on a smooth, hard surface in a pool of cold water stained pink by his blood. He lifted his head, awakening some sort of vindictive creature that began pounding on the inside of his skull like it was a drum, and looked around in a daze.

  A strong scent of pine assaulted his nose and a mound of earth was visible out of the corner of his eye. He reached out and brushed his hand through the soil, bemused as the dirt fell from his fingers, expecting the golden sand of the beach. He turned with exaggerated care from his front to his back and squinted against the bright light of the sun, grateful that the storm had blown over as quickly as it had begun. He sat up, putting a hand out to support himself, grabbing the nearest thing he could in order to lever his battered body upright. The surface beneath his hand was cool and hard and he looked at it in confusion, imagining he was holding onto the hull of a boat.

  His eyes alighted instead on a bath and he groaned in understanding. He was in a bathroom, specifically his bathroom in San Diego.

  He turned his head from side to side, still bent almost double and holding on to the edge of the bath. He took in the scene in a detached dispassionate manner.

  The bath was full; in fact, the taps were still running, and water had flowed over onto the floor. This was the source of the puddle in which he had regained consciousness. The shower curtain had been torn off its rail above the bath and lay crumpled beside the tub; towels had been ripped from a rail, knocking a pot plant off a shelf and spilling soil onto the floor. A small, ivory coloured object lay beside the bath.

  Michael stooped down in a trancelike state, still in the throes of his dream. He knelt beside the bath, wincing against the pain in his head, and picked up the object. It was about the size of a pea, with a jagged edge and traces of drying blood. He gasped; he was holding one of his teeth.

  The sight of the tooth seemed to break the spell that had been cast since he had awoken lying on the floor. In an instant his senses seemed heightened. For the first time he became aware that he was soaking wet, dripping water onto the already drenched floor. He could taste blood pooled in his swollen mouth, could even smell the coppery scent of it.

  His vision cleared, becoming sharper and revealing a smear of blood on the edge of the bath. He figured he must have tripped and fallen getting out of the tub smacking his face onto the unyielding ceramic.

  He glanced up at the mirror above the sink. His short black hair was soaking wet, plastered to his scalp, his dark blue eyes were bloodshot, staring back at him in shock and wonder.

  Beyond the lost tooth, a few minor cuts and some throbbing aches, which would soon become Technicolor bruises, he was fine; at least physically. As to his mental condition he was beginning to have serious doubts.

  ‘Well that was bloody stupid.’ He cursed as he leaned forwards to turn off the taps and empty the bath, rebuking himself for falling asleep in a full bath, a misjudgement that could have proved fatal. As he pulled the plug however, he realised that what had happened was not an ill-advised doze interrupted by a nightmare in which he was drowning in the ocean. He had not been taking a bath, or at least he had not intended to take one.

  Looking down at his body again he confirmed that he was wearing the t-shirt and shorts that served as his pyjamas and he vividly remembered going to bed. A glance at the bathroom clock revealed that it was 5am, Monday morning - about 7 hours on from when he had gone to bed on Sunday night.

  Walking down the corridor to his bedroom as he towelled his hair, he recalled taking valerian tablets, a herbal remedy for insomnia that had become a regular habit. One look at his slept-in bed confirmed his memories of the night before.

  It took only a few seconds to realise what must have happened, but much longer to accept the situation as he slumped down on the edge of his bed.

  ‘Sleepwalking?’ He whispered in awe to his silent apartment. ‘Well that’s new.’

  Chapter 3

  ‘Your father is dead.’ The strident ringing of his mobile phone had interrupted Michael’s contemplation of his near-drowning, and his mother had spoken without preamble or pleasantr
ies.

  Michael’s answer was automatic, even as his mind wrestled with the concept behind his mother’s words, his shoulders dropping under the weight of the sentence. ‘What happened?’ His voice sounded strange to his own ears, thick, swollen as his tongue kept returning to the gap between his teeth.

  ‘How should I know? Probably crushed to death by his own wealth or simply too boring to remain alive.’ His mother’s voice was clipped and despite the earliness of the hour it already carried its customary slur.

  Michael sat, phone pressed hard to his ear, waiting for the caller to continue.

  ‘Anyway, contact Armstrong, he will arrange everything. Goodbye Michael.’ The line went dead with a click that seemed to echo around the room.

  Michael fell backwards on the bed, his head throbbing and his mind racing. Was he still asleep? Still caught in a nightmare that had moved with barely an intermission from drowning in the Pacific Ocean to the death of his father?

  His breathing was ragged, his chest rising and falling in time with his pounding heart, and he screwed his eyes shut, willing his body to calm down.

  He opened his eyes after a few moments, regarding his bedroom ceiling but imagining his mother’s face. He still held his phone in his left hand, his fingertips tracing patterns over the screen as his thoughts played through the consequences of phoning her back. She would be standing, probably on the wraparound porch of her ranch house, short grey hair perfectly styled, green eyes fixed on the horizon with a steely gaze, mouth set in a thin line of disapproval. One hand would be holding her telephone, the other a glass of something cold. She would not even glance at the phone when it started ringing, would instead press the button to decline the call, before taking a long swallow of her drink and returning to her real life.

  And yet he had to call her, had to find out what had happened to his father. Information must be something she could give him, simple cold hard facts, even if she could give him nothing else?

  He dialled his mother’s number with shaking hands, running his free hand through his still damp hair as he did so.

  He was directed straight to a messaging service, as in his fantasy of a moment before, and he let the phone fall from his hand, watching with detached disinterest as it bounced once onto the bed and then dropped to the floor.

  He was not surprised that his mother did not answer his call, but still he was struck by a wave of sadness, feeling as if he was an orphan – despite one parent still being alive. The thought brought his mind back to the present situation, that his father was dead.

  The next thought that popped into his head was that orphan or not he was now very, very wealthy. As the main beneficiary of his father’s will, he would be inheriting the family business along with property and other assets.

  Michael shook his head, leaning forward with his hands on his knees, disgusted with himself for such an ignoble thought, but unable to stop visualising a life where he would not have to work, where he could afford to live wherever he wanted and where he could rescue Jess.

  Simultaneously he wondered how he had come to be devoid of feelings of affection towards his parents. The strongest emotion that he felt towards his mother was anger, a bitter fury that had been cultivated over many years.

  The phone rang, loud in the silent apartment and he scooped it off the floor, noting that the caller ID was withheld.

  ‘Michael Manners here; who’s calling?’

  ‘Michael, my son, I am so sorry to hear about Ian’s passing.’ The unctuous voice dripped insincerity and Michael’s lip curled as he recognised that the speaker was Robert Armstrong, his father’s lawyer and long-time friend.

  Chapter 4

  ‘Good Morning Mr Armstrong, I’ve just spoken to my mother and was about to call you.’ Michael closed his eyes and sighed, fervently wishing that he could fast forward beyond the current day.

  ‘Good, I’m relieved I’m not breaking the news then. You must call me Robert though, and it’s not morning here, as I’m sure you must realise. It’s already late afternoon where I am calling from in sunny Scotland.’ Armstrong spoke softly, gently reprimanding his late client’s son. ‘But no matter, I was just calling to let you know I’ve already started making arrangements for the funeral – as per Ian’s instructions.’

  Michael sighed again, a wave of relief washing over him as Armstrong went on to explain that a firm of funeral directors local to his father’s home had already been contacted, and that they had begun following directions left by his father. These instructions included details about where the funeral service should be held, where his father was to be buried and that the wake was to take place at the family home. They even specified the colour and type of wood from which his father’s coffin should be made.

  His father had also drawn up a list of whom to contact in the event of his death, mostly business associates, and Armstrong had already worked his way through these telephone calls. Michael had very few decisions to make, though would have to speak to a number of people to confirm he was happy with arrangements and to provide a ‘personal touch’ as the lawyer put it.

  Michael broke out in a cold sweat as soon as he hung up on Armstrong. He much preferred to conduct his social interactions by email rather than on the phone or face to face. Many people considered him to be a recluse, a view he was more than happy to cultivate.

  ‘HEY BRO.’ The message appeared on his phone as if it had been conjured up in response to his anxiety, but then he’d always known he shared some kind of psychic link with his 16-year-old half-sister Jessica.

  ‘SORRY ABOUT YOUR DAD….’

  ‘WANT ME TO COME OVER?’

  ‘MUM’S A BITCH BTW’

  He smiled as the stream of messages came through too fast to allow him to reply, waiting for a pause in the communication before sending back a brief message.

  ‘THANKS. NO I’M OK. I KNOW. SPEAK LATER’

  ‘OKEY DOKEY, RICHIE….’

  ‘AS IN RICH.’ Jessica fired back without pause.

  ‘So, I’m not the only one whose first thought is about the money.’ He mused to himself as he sent a final message.

  ‘I GOT IT JESS, GOTTA MAKE SOME CALLS NOW. X’

  Over the next hour Michael endured awkward conversations with Mr Henry Evans, the funeral director, and Father Macillroy – his father’s local priest. He also dodged countless calls from his father’s business contacts, housekeeper and others who had been given his number by Armstrong and who were calling to express their deepest sympathies.

  Armstrong himself phoned again, though he was forced to leave a voicemail because Michael was on his call to Mr Evans at the same time. The lawyer sounded extremely disgruntled at not speaking directly to the man he had taken to calling ‘son’ and insisted on meeting Michael as soon as he arrived in Scotland. Armstrong went on to say how desperate he was to see him after all these years, offering to put Michael up in his own home, ending the message by saying how much he hoped they could be as close as he had been with Michael’s father.

  This was definitely not a hope that Michael shared, intending to have as little contact as possible with his late father’s world.

  By the time the UK had gone to sleep, hundreds of miles away and eight hours ahead of the western United States, Michael’s head was spinning. He had learned a little about the circumstances of his father’s death, second hand from Mr Evans, and knew that he had suffered a massive heart attack – seemingly collapsing and dying instantly, alone in his house. This, Michael considered, was better than a long, drawn out illness, but still, dying alone was an end that he would not wish on anyone. He sighed, overcome at last by sadness at the death of a parent.

  His thoughts turned to memories of his early childhood, holidays and birthdays, meals and time spent together, the last times his family had been happy, whole and anything resembling normal.

  His reminiscing was interrupted by a sudden pang of hunger, and he realised that he’d not moved from the bedroom for hours.

  Fortified with coffee and doughnuts, he busied himself with arranging the earliest flight he could get to the UK and with throwing some clothes in a bag for the trip. His packing was hurried and erratic, five minutes that was sure to mean a visit to some shops to purchase essential items on arrival in Edinburgh.