Then I notice my hands. There are no warts on my fingers. Every single one has disappeared. I touch my skin in wonder, feeling it smooth, as if it has always been like that, as if I dreamed the warts. I spread my fingers wide to study them again. There are no bumps, or scars or marks of any kind. I walk over to the window, my fingers held up, staring at them from every angle. It’s like magic. My hands look like everybody else’s.

  I eat breakfast alone. Dad has already left for work. Sophie hasn’t come down yet. Mum is busy at the sink, washing my porridge pan. I have to force myself to swallow the thick gloopiness of the oats. What are Fred and Joe eating for breakfast? Their kitchen will be as small and cosy as the caravan. I expect Sandra will be cross and flustered, and that Penny or Carol, or both, will be crying.

  It is quiet in our kitchen. The clock ticks on the wall, rain pattering against the glass. I push my bowl away, half-eaten. Mum leans against the sink sipping a cup of tea. ‘My warts have gone,’ I tell her.

  ‘Oh Faith,’ she comes over, ‘look at that! Didn’t I tell you they’d go all on their own one day!’

  As Mum examines my hands, I remember that I dreamt about Eva again. She was reaching out to me, breaking the surface then sinking away. I’d tried to tell her that I was coming. Shouting out through murky water that she had to hold on. But she’d been shaking her head, as if she was telling me that I was too late.

  Puddles leak into puddles, our garden path and the lane slick with water. My school shoes and socks are already soaked. I pull my hood over my head, adjust my satchel, and in case Mum is watching from the window, begin to walk in the direction of school. But after a moment I double back and hurry past the house, following the track that leads across the field to the seawall and the quay.

  Ted’s figure appears through a blur of water. He’s trudging through the rain in the opposite direction, a shiny figure in oilskins. I freeze, heart beating. But he ducks into his hut without seeming to notice me. In the dinghy park, I push my satchel under an upturned rowing boat and pick up the canoe at one end, grasping it tightly, testing its weight. It’s slippery and awkward, heavier than I thought. Little by little, I drag it across the ground, scraping over anchor chains and gravel, closer to the slipway. A woman walks past with a dog. I pause, but she ignores me. The paddle is wedged inside and I pull it out as I steady the canoe in the river.

  The boat rocks wildly from side to side as I ease myself slowly into the low seat, tucking my legs inside the fibreglass shell. I stab at the riverbed with the end of the paddle to steady it. Clouds of mud swirl towards the pitted surface. I swallow, thinking that I could still change my mind; drag the canoe back into the dinghy park, find my bag and go to school.

  One careful push with the oar and I’m floating away. Too late now. Each movement I make sends the canoe tipping and my heart lurches. I try to remember the way the man in red used the paddle, the swing of his shoulders as he’d dipped the oar in at one side and then the other. He’d kept very still, only his arms moving, like a wind-up toy. I try to do the same. The canoe begins to move in the right direction. Water dribbles down the paddle and up my sleeve, waves splashing over the side. A lot of water is getting in, and I remember that the canoeist had a tarpaulin cover around his middle, stretched to cover the opening. But there is no tarpaulin. I paddle on, hot from my exertions, my school skirt clinging to my mottled legs.

  I feel the bite of the tide and struggle to dig the paddle deeper, wrenching against the force of the current. A large seagull settles on the water close to me. I don’t dare look behind to see how far I’ve come, but up ahead is the line of water where the river meets the sea, and beyond that is the island.

  I pass moored yachts with empty creaking decks and rolled sails. I feel very small in the canoe; the boats tower high above. A man pops out from a cabin and stares at me with his hands on his hips. I ignore him. Something surfaces in front of the prow and slides out of sight under the waves. I freeze for a moment, paddle in mid-air. A face appears, close enough for me to see a cat-like nose and liquid eyes. The seal dives again. There is a flick of tail. I almost feel its body twisting below the canoe, the invisible roll of its movement. I hold my breath, waiting for it to reappear. I think I’ve lost it then the dark head comes up further off, turns to look at me and disappears.

  It’s a message from Eva. Setting my shoulders, I grip the paddle with sore hands. I’m almost there. I work the oar, finding my rhythm, heading for the island. I can pick out details on the shore now: colours of pebbles becoming clearer, outlines of bushes and shrubs revealing shapes of leaves. I glance up, looking for the pagodas. I’m passing the point, leaving the river and entering the sea. There are proper waves here and as they hit, the canoe rocks, salty water drenching me.

  I hear the roar of the powerboat. The white boat comes out of the rain fast. From my angle all I can see is the underbelly of the pointed bow. I can’t see who is driving it. And I know they can’t see me. The boat appears to be coming straight at me, like an arrow. I have no time to get out of the way. No time to shout.

  45

  Billy’s voice breaks the silence. ‘Eva.’

  I must be imagining it. My throat is aching with thirst. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.

  ‘Eva.’

  I lick my lips and turn my head slowly, blinking in the early-morning light. I’m alive. The bottle gleams by my face. A shadow falls across me. I sense movement against the side of the pit. Raising myself onto my elbows, I turn my head to see a rope dangling. I heave myself into a sitting position, my head throbbing. Billy is leaning over, staring down at me, his face red and distorted by the angle. He gestures towards the rope. ‘Grab it.’

  It’s difficult to stagger onto my feet: every bone aches, every muscle pulls, tight as a corkscrew. Hobbling over to the rope, I try to tie it around my middle, but my hands fumble, fingers numb and useless, and I whimper in frustration. Billy shouts down instructions and eventually I manage. I cling to the rope, slumping against it. My feet leave the ground and I’m heaved up in unsteady lurches, clamped around the straining fibre, the rope biting into my waist. I scrabble with my knees and feet against the concrete, and the rope turns, creaking, so that I flail from side to side. I can hear him above me grunting with effort.

  When I appear above the edge, he reaches out with one hand to grasp my jumper. He has to drag me out of the pit; I have no strength to help him. I sprawl across the cold ground at the edge of the drop, the rope coiled under me. The first things I see are the dead withered grasses of my sweeping sticks. Billy sinks down next to me, pulling me across his lap, breathing heavily.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he’s saying, his voice thick. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  He’s wet. His clothes are soaking. Water dribbles onto my face, dripping from his hair. He has his arms around me and I can’t speak. Shaking my head I curl up in his arms. ‘I thought you’d left me,’ I manage to say.

  He rocks me against him. The stink of him is comforting, familiar. ‘Are you hurt?’ He asks. I shake my head again.

  ‘You were lying so still,’ he says, ‘Eva, I thought I’d killed you.’

  ‘I wanted to die,’ I tell him.

  He hands me a bottle of water and I drink it greedily, letting it spill across my chin. ‘I never meant to let go,’ he says. ‘I don’t know what happened. I went blank.’

  I’m too exhausted to move. We stay where we are, Billy sitting with me sprawled on his lap. He slumps over me. ‘You’re all I’ve got,’ he murmurs and he touches my cheek. I listen to the sound of the waves and rain outside and the rasp of his breathing.

  ‘I don’t know who I’ve got,’ I say. ‘Just before the accident, I found out that my real mother is dead. Mum and Dad didn’t tell me. They let me think that they’re my real parents. All this time.’

  He is silent. I hear his stomach rumble, the rub of his parchment lips, and I think he didn’t hear me; then he asks, ‘Were they cruel?’

  ‘No!’ I’m shocked, sitting up.

  ‘So they loved you, looked after you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I admit. ‘But they should have told me…’

  ‘Why?’ He narrows his eyes. ‘Maybe they had their reasons.’

  ‘But I don’t know who my real parents are…’

  ‘Real parents?’ He shakes his head. ‘They’re your real parents–the ones who took care of you. The rest is just biology.’

  After a while he says, ‘How did you find out?’

  I tell him about Robert and what happened that night. I didn’t think that I’d be able to speak of it to anyone. I don’t recount it very well. I talk without thinking or shaping anything or even trying to make sense. It just is. As I tell him about it, he tightens his arms around me until he’s gripping me hard, his chin pressing against my head, and his breathing changes, becomes louder, but he doesn’t say anything. He listens without interrupting until I’ve finished.

  Then Billy gets up, unfolding his body stiffly. He shakes his head, and he frowns into his beard. ‘Maybe I didn’t understand,’ he says, tapping his fingers against his forehead. ‘I got it wrong. I wasn’t there when I was supposed to be.’

  He’s walking up and down the pagoda, marching like he must have done in the army, and he’s muttering angrily to himself. I don’t know what he’s talking about. My chest hurts and I’m tired. He must have remembered to fetch in the blankets from outside before it rained. I crawl onto them, pulling one of them over me. I can smell the honeyed yellow of gorse flowers. I close my eyes, shifting on the hard floor to find a patch on my side that isn’t sore. He lies down behind me and I’m grateful for the warmth of him close against my back. His heart thuds against my spine. He holds me, one arm heavy across my waist. ‘You’re going to be someone,’ he says, his voice muffled against me. The vibrations of his voice passing into my bones. ‘You’ll be a painter. Like you want to be. An artist. Don’t forget. It’s important.’

  After a while, he moves away, standing up. My back feels cold without him. He leans down. ‘I’m going to check the traps,’ he says. ‘You must be starving.’

  I watch him leave the pagoda, seeing the rain falling in sheets outside through the openings at the top. I can hear it on the pebbles. I remember that I heard the rain last night as I lay in the pit, and how the sound of it had seemed lonely and strangely human.

  46

  The powerboat cuts past in a streak of white. Its wake crashes towards me. The canoe flips upside-down in a quick twist. I’m in the river, water shooting up my nose and into my mouth.

  A roaring noise. I’m falling through inky darkness. Gritty clouds swirl around me. I begin to flail with my arms and legs. I can see light above, the paler world of sky and air. But I can’t reach it.

  A dark shadow slides across the light: a pointed nose. The canoe. I stretch up towards it, break the surface, my lungs igniting. I fill them with oxygen. Waves slap my face, wash over my head. Rain beats down. In the distance boats bob, a flutter of faraway sails, a sliver of land. And then I’m sinking again. I’m too heavy. The water wants me, pulls me under with wet hands. I can’t see anything. But I feel things flitting around me: fins and scales, the brush of wings, a sweep of tail.

  Something closes around my arm. Fingers tight on my skin. I am being pulled towards the light. It grows brighter and brighter until it bursts open. I find the cold relief of air in my lungs. I am coughing. There is an arm around my neck, solid and unyielding: I struggle and the arm tightens so that I can’t breathe. I let myself go limp and my legs float up behind me.

  My mouth slips under water and I swallow and cough. Panicking, I push my hand through water and grasp a soft handful of liquid earth and round shapes of stones. I kick my legs and they strike ground too. I am half-crawling now. The arm is still around my neck. When it lets go I’m on my hands and knees in the shallows, cold water lapping at me.

  I look up. A man crouches over me. He is panting, dripping with water. I can’t see his face; he’s covered in dark, thick hair. The skin that I glimpse between the hair is waxy and bluish. A tangle of beard moves. He’s speaking, but I can’t understand him. I remember that they cut out his tongue. He reaches waterlogged fingers to me.

  47

  Clara is sick of the rain. She turns away from the sight of it at the window, but she can’t get away from the noise: the battering, claustrophobic sound. It feels as though it wants to take over the house, washing away human and man-made things, dragging them back to the ocean. This part of the country is under sea-level; walls can only buy time, hold back the ocean for a little while longer. It is useless, she thinks, useless to fight it. Water is insidious, powerful, corrupting.

  She puts the radio on as a distraction, fiddling with the dial to find a channel that she wants to listen to. She switches through programmes, unable to settle on anything. Wincing at a sudden blast of static, she turns it off. Clara makes herself another cup of tea and leaves it to go cold on the side while she tidies the kitchen, tripping over the dog, picking up breakfast debris, cleaning surfaces, brushing toast crumbs into the bin. She has just opened a letter from the estate agent. Apparently the surveyor’s report hadn’t been good. The prospective buyer has made a lower offer to take into consideration the fact that the roof needs serious work, and there is a damp problem in the cellar. ‘Of course there’s damp in the cellar,’ Clara says aloud, ‘we practically live in a marsh!’ The cellar floods several times a year. Black mould furs the whitewashed walls, paint peeling away. Green slime creeps across the floor. They can’t store anything down there.

  Sophie hasn’t come to help clear up. She must have overslept. Clara had been almost relieved when she didn’t show up. But now she feels irritated. Sophie has overslept several times and often neglects to finish her jobs. She’s not pulling her weight. Clara goes up the stairs, passing the few half-filled boxes strewn across the hall. She’s not sure what she will say to Sophie, but something must be said.

  Clara knocks on Sophie’s door. She waits, her mouth dry. There is no answer. Clara knocks again and turns the handle. The bed is unmade, covers spilling out in a tangle. All the drawers hang open, sticking out at different angles. There are screwed up papers, old magazines and dirty plates on the floor. Clara walks over to push the drawers back into place and realises that they are empty. She goes to the wardrobe. Inside, naked hangers dangle in the gloom. There is one pair of muddy shoes abandoned in the corner.

  Clara’s heart is beating fast. She hurries onto the landing, checks the bathroom. A tap drips in the basin. She runs downstairs, looking into every room, calling Sophie’s name. The house is filled only with the sound of rain. Clara walks back up the stairs slowly. She goes into Eva’s room and sits on the bed, picks up the teddy and holds it tightly, hugging it to her belly.

  Water runs down the windowpanes: a liquid glaze, twisting open, weaving shut. Clara stares at it, pressing her cheek against the toy’s patchy head. Sophie has gone. Clara shakes her head. Why would she sneak away in the night? If she’d wanted to leave, she only had to tell them. Clara gets up and paces the floor. She will have to call the agency. Explain what has happened. They must check that Sophie is safe. She feels a chill wash over her. She shivers, an unexplained panic starting up inside. Something is wrong. Eva’s jewellery box is open. Clara pushes her fingers through the mess of broken earrings and cheap bracelets. The velvet pouch with the pearls inside is missing.

  With shaking fingers, Clara stares around the bedroom; she begins to search through drawers and inside the wardrobe, realising that Eva’s best woollen coat is no longer hanging in the wardrobe and neither is her battered leather jacket; a Lalique vase that she and Max bought for her in Paris has been taken from the mantelpiece. Clara thinks a mohair jumper has gone from the drawer. A purple one that Eva liked to wear with red trousers. Clara sits again, her legs giving beneath her. She feels nauseous.

  She breathes deeply, trying to control the fury that is tearing through her insides. They are just things, she tells herself, just objects. None of them contained Eva–the essence and life of her–did they? Clara bites her lip, covers her face with her hands and moans. All this time Sophie had been a stranger in their home. They never knew her. Clara rubs her forehead, feeling the nagging pain of a migraine beginning. Everyone is a stranger. We can never know another person. Not really. People are full of contradictions. That’s why we look for certainty, she thinks with sudden clarity, because we need to shore ourselves up against the terrible uncertainty of everything.

  And what about Eva? When she found out about being adopted, it would have destroyed all certainty. Isn’t she, Clara, worse than a thief? She stole Eva’s past from her, her parentage. And she stole her security, her knowledge of herself.

  She walks downstairs to the hall on hollow legs, gripping the banister as the steps blur and move beneath her. She will have to phone Max and tell him about Sophie. She’ll have to call the agency, perhaps even the police. As she reaches the telephone it begins to ring. Surprised, Clara stands for a second, staring at it. She picks up the receiver cautiously.

  ‘Hello,’ says a voice she doesn’t recognise. ‘I’m calling from St Mark’s Primary. Faith Gale wasn’t at registration this morning and we haven’t had a call from her parents. Is this Mrs Gale I’m speaking to?’

  48

  The Wild Man leads me across the island. I’m cold, shivering. He walks quickly without waiting and I have to run to keep up with him. My feet splash through puddles, slipping on mud. He’s taking me towards the pagodas. We crunch through shingle, stepping over straggling wire onto the old concrete road. He hurries along, avoiding the craters filled with twisted metal, drifts of rubble and broken glass. He doesn’t look behind. We pass deserted huts with empty windows and bits of old machinery left to rust in the grass. There is no sign of life anywhere. Not even a rabbit.