‘Ha,’ Graham said weakly. ‘I’m not so sure. You were very good at keeping it secret.’ Graham’s words slurred slightly. ‘And, well, if they find me here then so be it. We weren’t together at the beginning, nor most of my life, but I guess we will be at the end.’

  Poetic, Lou mocked. The abandoned son returns to die at Daddy’s feet.

  Patrick grunted and shifted in his chair. The oxygen tank’s wheels squeaked. ‘You were never a full shilling. Even as a baby.’

  ‘So you keep saying.’ Or had he said it before? Graham couldn’t remember.

  ‘You never cried.’

  ‘Maybe I was happy.’

  ‘Looked at folk funny.’

  ‘I was a baby.’

  ‘Huh…’ Patrick sucked on his oxygen.

  Graham coughed again, and this time blood splattered across his palm – bright red against his fever-pale skin. He wiped it absently on the sofa, adding his stain to the farmhouse’s collection. ‘So this is your excuse for abandoning me? That I didn’t cry and looked at folk funny?’

  He’s making excuses, Lou whispered. Just like you make excuses. Lucy’s dead because of you. Because you couldn’t keep track of a phone number.

  ‘Hard to say I abandoned you. I gave your mother a lot of money.’

  ‘And we’re back there. Money isn’t love. Besides, you gave my mother money so she never told anyone.’

  Patrick looked away, sucked hard on his oxygen for a while, then said, ‘Well, long time ago now. Water under the bridge.’

  ‘Whose bridge, Patrick?’ Graham’s mind flashed to Lendal Bridge. The iron railings, the dark water below. He’d jumped from there once. Or thought about jumping. Or Lucy had asked about jumping. Or was that today? Yesterday? Was Lucy still alive then? Which memory was real?

  ‘You screwed up your own life.’

  ‘I married. Had a daughter…’ Graham’s voice cracked. Lucy’s face swam before him. Eight years old. No, six. No, she was dead.

  Six months dead, Lou reminded him. Today, you’ve been chasing ghosts.

  ‘And you let it all go,’ Patrick said.

  Graham’s eyes widened, fury cutting through the fever fog. ‘What the hell do you mean? You think I chose for my wife to leave, for my daughter to get sick?’

  Patrick shrugged. ‘A man takes care of business.’

  Listen to him, Lou said. Even your dying father thinks you’re pathetic.

  ‘I’ve watched from afar, son. A man doesn’t let his woman walk away like you did. And a man protects his children.’

  The oxygen hissed between them. Patrick’s chest rose and fell with effort.

  ‘Ha… like you protected me?’

  ‘I provided.’

  The words hung there, obscene in their inadequacy. Provided money. Not time. Not presence. Not love. Just money, as if Graham were a bill to be paid.

  ‘You’ve lost your mind. You think a man can control everything?’

  ‘I managed.’

  Graham looked around the decaying farmhouse, but the walls kept subtly shifting, breathing in and out like something alive. Or like Lucy’s chest in those final moments, so shallow he’d had to lean close to see if she was still there. He gripped the sofa arm harder. Stay present. Stay here. ‘You’re dying alone.’

  ‘Everyone dies alone, and in misery.’

  ‘My daughter didn’t.’ The words came out before Graham could stop them. But had she? He’d been there, hadn’t he? Or was that another dream?

  You were there, Lou confirmed. Holding her hand while she died. August fourteenth. The hottest day. Remember?

  Patrick nodded but didn’t say anything.

  ‘Nothing to say?’

  ‘I’m sorry for her. I’m sorry she didn’t get the life she deserved.’

  ‘But you’re not sorry I didn’t get the life I deserved?’

  ‘You’re a man. You make your own destiny.’

  Graham’s head was pounding. When had he last taken the flu remedy? Hours ago? Days?

  The farmhouse smelled of trapped time – old cooking grease, damp wool, the sweet-sick smell of approaching death. The old man shifted in his chair, the oxygen tank squeaking on its wheels as it moved closer. The sound made Graham think of Lucy’s wheelchair, also squeaking, also following her everywhere like a faithful dog.

  ‘You used to be wealthy,’ Graham said, grasping for something solid in the conversation, something that wasn’t memory or fever dream.

  ‘Well, the farming industry isn’t what it was. The government turning its back on what’s important.’

  Sound familiar? Lou taunted. Like father, like son. Both abandoned by the system. Both failures.

  Graham snorted. ‘I thought you were a man making his own destiny.’

  ‘Well, I never scavenged. Always knew how to work. They said on the news that you were on benefits… then, when you didn’t get your handout, you killed the person responsible. To think!’

  Graham sneered, but the expression hurt his face. Everything hurt. ‘I’m not sure you’ve had it explained clearly enough to you.’

  He knows exactly what you did, Lou said. Everyone knows. You’re a murderer. A failure. A man who couldn’t save his own daughter.

  ‘Oh, I understand well enough. Look. Life’s hard for everyone. Everyone suffers. Has setbacks. You pick yourself back up. It’s only when you get to my state that it’s time to call it a day.’ Patrick tapped the oxygen tank for emphasis, as if it proved his point rather than undermining it.

  ‘Easy to say when you’re born with opportunities – you certainly were.’

  ‘I gave your mother money.’

  ‘How many other mothers did you give money to?’

  Patrick smiled. ‘I took responsibility.’

  ‘Do you know how old I was the last time I saw you?’

  ‘I recall coming to you when you were eighteen and giving you money to help you set up a life.’

  ‘Five thousand pounds. I remember.’ The exact amount. He’d counted it so many times that first night, spread across his single bed in the bedsit. Blood money. Silence money. ‘Came with conditions, didn’t it?’

  Patrick’s eyes slid away. The oxygen hissed louder, as if objecting on his behalf.

  ‘Never contact you again. Never darken your door.’

  ‘It was your chance. Five thousand pounds. You should have been more careful.’

  More careful, Lou echoed. Like you were careful to change the emergency contact for the hospital?

  Graham’s jaw clenched. He gripped the sofa harder. ‘My mother had just died. I had nothing. No family. No connections. Just a father who wanted me to disappear. So I took your money and I tried to disappear, to become someone else. Someone worth knowing. Someone who mattered.’

  ‘And you did. You found a career. A family. You could say I helped in the end. It was you who chose to throw it away.’

  Graham closed his eyes, and immediately the room began to spin. The farmhouse, Patrick, the oxygen, the decay – all of it whirling like water down a drain. He felt himself falling backward through time, through all the versions of himself: the abandoned boy, the hopeful husband, the desperate father.

  You’re losing it, Lou whispered. The fever’s taking you. Maybe that’s for the best.

  He fumbled in his pocket with clumsy fingers, found the flu tablets, punched two out. They stuck to his dry tongue as he tried to swallow them. The bitterness made him gag, but he forced them down.

  After a few moments, Patrick said, ‘Are you asleep?’

  ‘No.’ Graham’s voice sounded far away, even to himself. ‘But I was hoping I could have a sleep. Just for a short while.’ Just close his eyes. Just for a moment. Maybe when he woke, Lucy would be alive again. Maybe when he woke, none of this would have happened.

  The old man wheezed. ‘The bedroom’s through there if you want⁠—’

  But Graham was already drifting, Patrick’s voice fading, the oxygen’s hiss becoming the sound of waves, the farmhouse dissolving around him…

  He was thirteen again, in the shadow of York Minster. Another stone hit him.

  He gritted his teeth against the pain. The bullies laughed.

  They’re still laughing, Lou said from somewhere far away.

  He saw Dennis Hartley laughing. And Dr Phillips.

  There was Clive from the shop, too… and Williamson for the hospital waiting room…

  One missing.

  There he was. The Viking from the home counties.

  All of them laughing.

  He waited for it to stop, to go quiet, then opened his eyes.

  They were leaving.

  He didn’t get to his feet just yet, was content to stare at the Gothic towers spearing into a blood-red sky.

  Was this a dream or was this real?

  Does it matter? Lou asked. You’re dying either way.

  The bullies were real. Always had been. Always would be.

  Crows circled now. A few at first, though they quickly multiplied. Suddenly, there were hundreds, descending from the Minster’s towers like a black avalanche.

  Always.

  He closed his eyes, willing them to leave, but when he opened them again, they were all around him. Hopping. Cocking heads. Eyes locked somewhere between life and death.

  He thought of his Irish gran, dead for almost five years. No, longer. Time kept slipping. The only person who had ever really seemed to have time for him.

  Until Lucy, Lou reminded him. And look how that turned out.

  She’d once told him a story of battlefield crows. ‘The ones that would choose who lived and who died.’

  There was the Morrigan, though he’d thought it sounded more like ‘Morgan’ when he was younger. ‘A queen who became a crow.’

  Or maybe she was always a crow?

  Three crows came close.

  Three sisters?

  The first pecked at his hands where the stones had cut. The second at his cheek where tears mixed with blood.

  The third watched. But that was so much worse.

  Like Patrick watched, Lou said. Like everyone watched while you fell apart. While Lucy died.

  Those that watch. That allow this. That somehow relish this.

  ‘Washer at the ford,’ his gran’s voice echoed. ‘She washes the blood from your clothes before you die.’

  But there was no water. Only Lucy’s face in the fever dream, asking why he hadn’t saved her. Why the kidney went to someone else, why he’d let her die.

  Then there were more beaks and feathers. Brothers and sisters. A thousand tiny wounds opening across his skin.

  But it didn’t hurt any more.

  There was only release.

  Yes… he lay still, encouraging them on. Peck deeper.

  Find the poison in my veins. The fever in my brain. Make me clean. Making me empty.

  Take away the grief in my heart…

  But the grief remained. It always remained. Lucy’s face appeared among the crows, and she was smiling.

  She’s not smiling, Lou corrected. She’s dead. Six months dead. And you’ve been running from it ever since.

  Graham opened his eyes, gasping.

  The farmhouse solidified around him. How long had he been unconscious? Minutes? Hours?

  Patrick had moved his chair closer. He had a shotgun straddled across his lap.

  ‘I see,’ Graham said, his voice barely a whisper. ‘You couldn’t even let me sleep.’

  He’s going to kill you, Lou said with something like satisfaction. Your own father is going to put you down like a sick dog.

  Patrick took aim.

  51

  Riddick crossed Station Road.

  He lumbered, slow and heavy, weighted down by ghosts again. And not just the ghosts of those from before. But the ghosts of those which may come.

  Frost, Gardner… Graham.

  Strange, to feel this weight of responsibility for a killer who’d put his colleague in intensive care.

  But wasn’t he a killer, too? One pushed by the same desperation as Blanks.

  Okay, Dennis Hartley had not been Ronnie Haller, but a life was a life.

  For better or worse, Riddick shared a bond with Graham. And with that came an inevitable sense of responsibility. In the same way someone who is a sponsor in AA might feel responsible for someone’s drinking. Or like a parole officer who feels accountable when someone they vouched for falls back into old patterns – even when they know they can’t control another person’s choices.

  He approached the Gothic iron bridge that Samantha had identified: ‘Lendal Bridge. He used to take Lucy there to feed the ducks when she was small. After she died, he’d go back. Standing at the rail, looking down at the water.’

  The white roses of York adorned the painted railings, interspersed with crossed keys and English lions. His footsteps echoed hollow on the bridge’s surface as he joined the flow of tourists and locals crossing between the medieval towers.

  He walked it several times but there was no sign of Graham.

  On the final pass, he paused halfway across, gripping the cold metal railing. Below, the River Ouse moved sluggish and brown, swollen with winter rain. On the embankment near Lendal Tower, a young mother knelt with two children – a boy, maybe seven, a girl no more than five. They were tossing bread to the mallards that bobbed in the calmer water near the bank.

  The girl’s delighted squeal carried up to him: ‘Look, Mummy! That one’s got a green head!’

  He was suddenly back in the past:

  ‘Daddy, why do boy ducks have prettier feathers than girl ducks?’

  Lucy, six years old, hanging over this same railing on tiptoes while he kept a protective hand on her coat. Molly beside her, already knowing the answer but letting her sister ask.

  Rachel said, ‘The males need to attract the females, so they evolved brighter colours.’

  ‘Like peacocks!’ Molly added.

  ‘Exactly like peacocks.’ Rachel smiled at him over their daughters’ heads.

  ‘Can we feed them?’ Lucy asked.

  ‘We’ve been through this,’ Riddick said, looking left at a family who had a whole loaf of Warburtons. ‘It’s not good for them.’

  Rachel’s hand found his, warm despite the October chill.

  Work always intruded on his thoughts. How often had he admonished himself for not appreciating these moments more? He’d reassured himself that there would always be more Sundays.

  Until there weren’t.

  The children below on the embankment by Lendal Tower had run out of bread. Their mother led them away, the little girl waving goodbye to the ducks. ‘See you next time!’ she called out, absolute in her certainty that there would be a next time.

  Never take that next time for granted, he thought.

  Riddick’s hands tightened on the railing until his knuckles went white. Graham had stood here with Lucy. Fed these same ducks. Made the same promises about next time. Watched his daughter fade away week by week, dialysis by dialysis, until there were no more next times.

  Two fathers. Both destroyed by loss.

  As the last of the daylight died away, Riddick struggled to keep himself together.

  He felt a desperation he’d never felt before.

  The most peculiar yet.

  The desperation to help a killer.

  52

  ‘Nice way to welcome me home,’ Graham said. He coughed. His throat stung, but nothing came up this time.

  ‘This was never your home.’ Patrick paused, sucking in air. ‘And you’re not my son… not really.’

  ‘Believing that makes it easier for you to pull that trigger.’

  ‘Nah. I don’t want any trouble. I just want you to go.’

  Graham nodded. He sat up. He felt a little clearer – his last dose must be lowering his temperature. ‘What are you afraid of? Look at the state of you. You haven’t got long left anyway.’

  Patrick shook his head. ‘I just prefer natural causes.’

  Tell him about how Dennis slipped from the bonnet of that Astra, Lou whispered, and how you ran him over again.

  ‘Was there ever any regret?’ Graham asked. He studied his father’s face, looking for something – recognition, regret, anything human. Finding only the stubborn set of a Yorkshire farmer’s jaw.

  Outside, he heard crows calling.

  He noticed the opened box of shells on the floor. The shotgun was loaded, then.

  ‘There was a boy who followed his mother to this house one day,’ Graham said.

  ‘Save it,’ Patrick said. ‘I just want you to leave.’

  ‘He was curious, you see. She’d been sneaking off, telling him she was going to work extra shifts. But he knew she was lying. Kids always know.’

  Just like Lucy knew you were lying about everything being okay, Lou said.

  Graham nodded to himself. ‘Yes. Kids always know.’

  Patrick narrowed his eyes. The shotgun trembled in his grip. ‘I don’t want to hear this.’

  ‘Maybe not, but I think you need to. The boy was ten, skinny thing. He followed her all the way from their council flat to this cottage. Not as rundown then, was it? This place, almost respectable. Paint on the door. Garden actually had flowers instead of weeds.’

  The gun barrel wavered. ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘The boy waited outside while she went in. Waited in the bushes like a little spy. Could hear voices through the window. His mother crying. A man’s voice, gruff. Yorkshire farmer through and through. And another voice. A woman.’

  Patrick’s face tightened.

  ‘Margaret. The wife that looked away.’

  Just like everyone has looked away ever since, Lou said.

  ‘And when the mother came out – always crying after these visits, clutching a handful of notes – the bare minimum to live on – the little boy stayed behind, knocked on the door.’

  Patrick had to lower the shotgun with one hand to press his oxygen mask to his face and suck desperately at the air. He closed his eyes and shook his head.

  Graham had the opportunity to rush him, but the pills hadn’t completely worked their magic yet. Better to bide his time.