‘What made you want to see Eva now?’ Clara heard her voice, the choke in it. She dipped her head and took a gulp of tepid tea.

  Charles put his head on one side as if considering. ‘I promised my sister I’d keep an eye on her daughter. It was the last thing I said to her,’ he opened his hands, ‘after all, the child is family. I’m only sorry it’s taken me this long. But it was hard at first… losing Suky.’ He crossed his legs. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ he asked. ‘I take it you’ve told Eva that she’s adopted.’

  Max was beginning to talk but Clara cut through him, ‘No, of course we haven’t told her.’ She stared at Charles, her chin lifting. ‘She’s too little. She won’t understand.’

  A wail came from upstairs. All three of them looked towards the ceiling and Charles put down his cup expectantly. ‘Ah, awake already. Perhaps she can sense her uncle’s here.’ He gave Clara a satisfied grin.

  She got up silently and went to the door, her feet heavy.

  As she re-entered the room with Eva yawning in her arms, Charles jumped up, and Clara stopped, her body poised for flight, her heart racing. Charles came forwards, and Clara tightened her grip on Eva. But he faltered, tripping over the rug, and his expression drooped into bewilderment. ‘This is Suky’s child?’

  Clara nodded warily, putting her nose into Eva’s dark hair, smelling the milky scent of her.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Charlie frowned. ‘Has there been a mistake? I was expecting a child that looked… that wasn’t…’

  ‘Her colouring?’ Max said.

  ‘I thought she’d look like… like Suky.’

  ‘Yes, we were surprised at first.’ Max stood next to Clara, looking into Eva’s face. ‘But genes are strange things aren’t they?’

  Charles didn’t stay for long. The conversation became more stilted. Charles told them that his father had died recently and that he’d inherited the family home. ‘A ruin of a house, needs plenty of restoration work.’ His hands shook as he raised his cup to his lips. He stole glances at Eva, but he didn’t ask to hold her. Sensing an atmosphere, she behaved badly, throwing her beaker on the floor and crying when she wasn’t allowed a second piece of cake.

  As they stood in the doorway waving goodbye, Max leant close and said, ‘Don’t think we’ll be seeing him again.’

  ‘He just can’t get away fast enough, can he?’ Clara hugged Eva close. ‘Anyone would think she has horns on her head.’

  Eva turned her chocolatey face upwards and grinned.

  ‘He’d come to take her.’ Clara said.

  ‘No,’ Max began to protest.

  ‘Yes,’ she contradicted, ‘I knew it from the moment I saw his car. You heard him. They’ve just inherited some stately pile.’ She hugged Eva close. ‘He’s married. He has money. He’s in a position to take Eva back.’ She was trembling.

  Max frowned. ‘Well, if that was his plan, he’s changed it now. She obviously wasn’t what he’d expected.’

  ‘I don’t know why he was so certain that Eva would be blonde. I hope he doesn’t get over the shock of it. What did he think? That he could just take her away from us? I’ll never give her up,’ Clara said, turning to go into the house. ‘She’s our child. He’d have to take her over my dead body. Papers or no papers.’

  ‘Dead bodies plural,’ Max said, slipping his hand into hers.

  25

  The dinghy yard is empty. I lean against the rowing boat. A low mist swallows my legs so that I shiver, feeling damp and cold. The river has shrunk, leaving sloppy banks of mud stretching down to the water. Seagulls appear out of the pale like small ghosts, rising from the water on outspread wings. I’ve forgotten to check the tide. It’s going out, pulling back towards the sea. Low tide will make it harder to get the boat into the water. But we’ll manage, I tell myself. There is a concrete slipway, even if it’s slimy with green.

  I’d escaped before anyone else woke up, taking the remains of a joint of lamb out of the fridge to give Silver to keep him quiet. He couldn’t believe his luck. Mum won’t be happy when she finds out. Leaning against the wooden side, I listen hard for approaching footsteps. Maybe they won’t come after all. There is no wind to set masks clanking, no wave swell to move the water onto the shore. It is strangely silent, the river dark under a layer of shifting white.

  I look at my watch. They’re late. I give the boat a tug, straining at the shoulders. It’s heavy as a boulder. I’ll never move it on my own. I hear a crunch of footsteps, the murmur of voices. Fred and Joe appear beside me, like pantomime wizards materialising out of stage smoke, Fred chewing on a bread crust.

  ‘Couldn’t get out of the caravan without Sandra knowing.’ He swallows his mouthful and yawns. ‘We had to tell her we were meeting you in the end. She just told us to be quiet so as not to wake the baby.’

  ‘Right. Well, now you’re here let’s get on with it.’

  Fred chews a last mouthful, licking stray crumbs from his lips. ‘Not much of a breakfast.’ He takes hold of the boat. ‘Joe, you grab the other side.’ He nods. ‘Faith, lift the end.’

  ‘The stern,’ I mutter.

  We stagger across the dinghy yard, tripping over anchor chains and ropes, the boat swaying between us. Joe groans. He drops his side and shakes his fingers, wincing. ‘Weighs a ton. How is it going to float?’

  Reaching the concrete slipway, we slither on slimy seaweed, staggering to keep our balance. The boat seems to get heavier, bashing into my knees. I curl my aching fingers tighter. Water laps around my ankles. As it touches the river, the boat changes character, becomes frisky and playful. It bobs and pulls, the tide catching at it, plucking it away from me. Fred and Joe stand at the brink, looking uncertain.

  ‘You sure you know how to do this?’ Joe asks, shivering.

  I’m up to my knees in freezing water. I frown at him. ‘Just get in, will you?’

  Joe clambers in first. Fred follows, attempting to swing his leg over the side. He holds on with both arms, scrabbling to get his leg high enough, clinging on for a moment before he falls back with a heavy splash. Hopping up and down, he keeps trying, swearing and rolling his eyes, making a joke out of it, but he’s out of breath, hands and knees scraped red. His shorts are soaked up to his waist. Joe tries to help, pulling at Fred’s arms, grabbing a handful of jacket and tugging so that Fred flounders, half in and half out of the boat.

  ‘Careful! You’ll tear it…’ Fred gasps, collapsing over the side into the bottom, rubbing scraped shins.

  Climbing in after him, I manage to push off with one foot, sending the boat out into the river. I pick up the oars and set them in the rowlocks. Looking over my shoulder I realise that the island is invisible. Mist hangs across wider stretches of the river. I think I can make out the dark contours of a pagoda like a strange fortress from a dream. Setting my shoulders, I begin to row towards the mouth of the river, dipping the blades, trying to find a rhythm. It’s not as easy as I imagined; with a rattle and a bump, the oars keep slipping out of the rowlocks. When the boat catches the mid-stream current, I hardly need to use oars at all.

  Fred’s gone the colour of cheese. He grasps the sides of the boat with clenched fingers. ‘Why are we going so fast?’

  ‘We’re moving with the tide,’ I explain, ‘don’t worry.’ But I hear the emptiness of my words.

  Moored yachts loom out of the white, towering over us. The boat hits something beneath the waterline; there is a dull thud and a slight veer to the left. Joe gasps and peers over the side, craning to see. ‘It’s a man’s head!’ He turns to us with round eyes. ‘In the water. We ran over him!’

  The memory of the Wild Man’s face comes to me, the blurred features taking certain shape in my mind. I imagine him now, a gash on his forehead, sinking back inside seaweed hair and inky blood. Feeling sick, I drop the oars and make myself look. There’s a round shape receding behind us. It’s bobbing low in the water. I catch the shine of a smooth surface.

  ‘It’s a buoy.’ I’m almost laughing with relief.

  ‘But that’s just as bad!’ Fred exclaims. ‘Is he all right?’ He leans over to look into the mist and the boat tips abruptly to one side.

  ‘No.’ I hold the sides of the boat and try to explain. ‘Not that kind of boy.’

  The two of them turn to me, puzzled. And Joe lets out a yelp. ‘My feet are soaking.’

  He’s right. I realise that several inches of river water swills in the bottom of the boat. We’d emptied it before we set off. ‘Are there any bailers?’ I gaze around the interior, hoping for a tin can, an old cup, anything we can use to scoop with. But there is nothing, and the water is rising fast. I look behind me. I can hardly see land. We’re in a rotten boat. None of us are wearing lifejackets. I clench my teeth, trying to ignore my scrabbling panic, but I can’t ignore the sense of failure dropping hard and heavy through my insides. We’ll have to go back.

  ‘We’re letting in water.’ I begin to flail the oars, attempting to turn the boat.

  ‘Sinking!’ Joe jumps to his feet. The boat judders and lurches from side to side, and I let go of the oars to grab his wrist. ‘You’ll have us over!’ I tug at him, feeling the jab of his bone. ‘Sit down!’

  One of the oars, already out of its rowlock, slips sideways. Fred lunges forwards, hands reaching for it. The oar rolls overboard.

  ‘Bugger!’ Fred throws himself against the side, leaning as far as he can, fingers reaching for the oar, which is being carried away on the tide. He flails his arms, attempting to reach further, his fingers batting waves. The boat tips at a dangerous angle.

  ‘Stop it Fred!’ I clutch my seat.

  Joe starts forward as if to grab Fred, but the extra weight causes a sudden violent tilt. The edge of the boat kisses water. Like a sack of kittens, Fred slithers overboard. I watch the arc of his heels in the softening air. There is a deep splash and silence. The boat, swinging back with the lurch of a fairground ride, makes Joe lose his balance. Out of the corner of my eyes I see the wooden seat catch at his knees, sending him crashing onto his shoulders.

  I’m staring at the waves, searching the water. It seems thick as a grey carpet. Impossible to see through. I pray for Fred to surface and there he is, his head bobbing up like a cork, eyes wide and blank, spitting river. He splutters, trying to call out, his hands scrabbling. He chokes and coughs as water washes into his gaping mouth. Before I can shout, he’s going down again. I see the swirl of his hair, a bubble of sodden jacket.

  Joe is still sprawled in the bottom of the boat. ‘Get up! Help me,’ I hiss at him, grabbing the remaining oar, but he just keeps lying there. I’m thrusting the oar in Fred’s direction, prodding the water. When Fred breaks the surface I shout for him to grab it. His head tips back, mouth sagging. He looks tired. ‘Come on!’ I urge. ‘You can do it.’

  He reaches out, his hand moving slowly. He touches wood and slips away. I can hear myself panting. I think I’m crying. The fear in Fred’s face turns his mouth into a snarl, wipes colour from his eyes. He can hardly keep afloat. I’m thrusting the oar further out. Behind me, Joe has set up a low moaning.

  ‘Try again!’ I yell.

  Fred makes another effort, a last surge, and manages to touch the oar. I watch his fingers curl and grip, feeling the tug. I’m exultant for a split second before I realise that Fred’s weight is pulling me in. I brace myself, slamming my knees against the wood, leaning back. He keeps swallowing water, his head slipping under the surface. I’m not sure how much longer I can hold on when I hear the sound of a motorboat.

  Ted the quay master appears beside us. He cuts his engine and leans over to hook Fred in with one strong, gnarled hand, bundling him into his boat. He’s tossing a rope over to me, indicating that I should tie the boats together. I fumble with the knots, ashamed, relieved.

  ‘What do you lot think you’re doing?’ he growls, starting the engine again. ‘Out here with no lifejackets in the mist.’

  Crouching in the bottom with Joe, I don’t answer. Joe’s lips are pale, his breath coming in ragged gasps. One of his shoulders doesn’t look right. It sticks out at a weird angle and his arm is sort of just hanging, like a broken doll’s.

  ‘Joe?’

  His eyelids flicker and he looks at me without any recognition. His eyes slide back, showing wet whites and broken red. The sound of the gulls is like laughter above me. I daren’t move him. He lies where he fell, water sloshing around his ears. I glance behind at the island emerging out of the evaporating mist, pagodas rising into the sky.

  Strands of damp hair twist around my face like wet ribbons. Holding Joe’s thin hand in my own I tell him over and over that everything will be all right, but I’m not sure if he understands. His freezing fingers are dead in mine. His eyes flutter open, staring at me, bright with pain. Fred is coughing. I hear the chatter of his teeth as he sits, hunched in the other boat. With Ted’s engine puttering and the smell of petrol in my nostrils, I set my face to the mainland. I can’t look back.

  26

  A soft tug at my scalp wakes me. I’m confused. It feels as though fingers are threading through my hair. I blink. It is hardly daylight. Billy looms just above me, crouched low, his face so close to mine that I breathe the stink of his unwashed teeth. Shock pins me down. His touch trails across the rise of my cheekbone, fingertips crawling along the angle of my chin and into my neck. I swallow and shiver, shaking my head mutely, wanting to pull away, but I can’t move.

  ‘You look like her,’ he says in a distant voice. ‘Except your skin. The colour of your skin.’

  I twist my arms across my body, wrapping them tightly, trying to fold myself inside the blanket. But there is nowhere to hide. This is what I’ve been frightened of since that first morning, waking to find him staring at me, just his eyes visible over the scarf; and when I caught him looking while I was washing in the bucket, his mouth gaping inside his beard.

  I am strangely calm. I glance down at the knife hanging from his belt, checking that it’s there in the greasy sheath. I will kill him or he will kill me. But I won’t let him rape me.

  His touch moves back to my hair. Stroking through the length of it, his fingers snag on tangles and knots. I lie very still, my heart hammering against my ribs while I curl my hands into fists, clenching them into packed balls to smash into his face. He circles my neck with the broad span of his fingers as if he’s measuring the circumference. The expression on his face is far away, thoughtful. He holds me for a moment, his hands resting quietly against my skin; thumbs on the jump of my vein. He closes his eyes, mouth trembling.

  I feel hollow. Weak. ‘Don’t,’ I say, my voice breaking. ‘Don’t.’

  Billy lets go with a startled jerk, staring at me as if I’m the one who’s done something wrong. He backs away, shuffling from his knees onto his feet, spinning around to crouch in the corner, pulling his arms over his head, protecting himself, or blocking out a sound.

  I put my hand to my neck in confusion. He didn’t hurt me. But the sensation of his fingers lingers.

  ‘What… do you think you’re doing…’ I begin to ask in a broken voice, catching my breath, struggling onto my elbows to look at him.

  He doesn’t answer, reaching to pick something up. He comes across with the coil of rope in his hands and I know that he’s going to put me in the pit. ‘Stand up.’ He doesn’t look at me. His face is grim and closed. I smell sweat on him. Rank. Bitter. I am trembling, waiting for him to fasten the rope. But when I glance down at the opening of the dark mouth, I can’t stand the thought of it. My bladder aches. I need to pee. I plant my feet, shaking my head, pulling away from him. He takes the knife from his belt, holding it up with trembling fingers. The blade glints. ‘Don’t be stupid.’ His left eye twitches. He yanks the rope tight around my waist. ‘You’ll be safe there.’

  The pit swallows me as he lowers me into shadows, the rope straining around my waist. Standing on the bottom, I watch as the frayed end jerks out of sight. I breathe deeply, tasting stale air, pushing away a tangle of panic. I want to scream; instead I whisper, ‘Billy. Don’t leave me.’ There is nothing but the sound of his feet on concrete and a door shutting. The wind makes a soft whistling noise through the pillars high under the roof. The sea sighs in the distance. And I hear a scuffle and thud and know it’s the sound of his fists against stone.

  I yank down my jeans, squatting in the furthest corner to release the liquid pressure inside. Hot urine splashes my bare feet. I crawl away from the wet, finding a patch of pale morning light to settle in, hugging my knees and listening to the sounds of muted violence, remembering him touching my face, his expression as he said: ‘the colour of your skin’.

  My first boyfriend, Philip, was a farmer’s boy, the year above me at school. He was fifteen and I was fourteen. He’d asked if I’d come home for tea, meet his parents.

  Autumn. There were leaves gathering in drifts, speared against the spiky hedges. Fields swept up to the skyline, newly ploughed, the earth dark and raw, soft as an underbelly. We walked hand in hand through the farmyard, smelling dung and the milky heat of cows. The beasts were penned in, a shuffling crowd of piebald hides, turning wary eyes to watch us. Philip grasped the top of the pen and jumped up to stand on the middle rail. He had a stick in his hand; he leant over and brought the stick down hard on the nearest bony bottom. The cow let out a low cry and shuffled into the herd, bumping against the rest of them in panic. A long stream of shit hit the dirty floor behind her, steam rising.

  I put my hand over my mouth. ‘You hurt her.’