‘How?’
He hesitated.
‘Because he came here, this morning. We helped him shove one of the boats out. He wanted to go out in it.’
‘They aren’t seaworthy.’
‘No, not exactly.’
They had reached the road and the glimmer of lights ahead. Sarah shook herself free of their arms and fished in her pocket for the key to her house.
‘Here, go home. Wash, make yourselves human – you stink. Go and show yourselves in the pub. Sam Brady’ll need you tomorrow, Jeremy, you too, Jack. You both owe him.’
She smelt the wild garlic that had brushed against her legs. It was a beautiful chilly night.
‘She texted me,’ Jack said suddenly. ‘Sunday afternoon. Got the message on my phone. She wanted me to phone at one in the morning, Monday, that’d be. She wanted me to phone and listen where she was and record it. Only I didn’t. I was asleep. Last thing she ever asked me to do.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Sarah said.
‘Mr Hurly gave me a wad of money,’ Jeremy burst out. ‘What do I with it?’
‘Put it down on a boat? Give it to me for safe keeping. Get
on with you. You smell like shit. No girl’s going to want you, smelling like that.’
‘Aren’t you coming with us?’
‘No.’
She left them at the bend of the road, watched them canter uphill and then walked back along the row of cottages running parallel to the sea, divorced from the main village and ending in the pub. Few lights in these houses. She looked up at the stars on this clear night, then back towards where the road bent uphill, disappearing into an invisible street, a destination as hidden as if there was nothing there.
The church of St Bartholomew was just visible. Home? As good as; maybe there was no such thing. Home was a place where you might be able to make a difference. Make friends with your enemies, organise forgiveness, calm troubled waters, reconcile the elements, which was all she had ever done. Home was where you knew the way back.
Celia Hurly’s house was well lit. Sarah knocked at the door, stood away from it and waited. The door needed paint.
If she was going to stay here it might involve becoming a Christian, and if that was the way she had better behave like one. It would not involve martyrdom and being flayed alive, or even asking forgiveness. She wanted to know the elusive Mrs Hurly; wanted to be a better friend than she had been to the woman’s daughter. She wanted to know and be known.
She wanted to confirm that it was indeed Mrs Hurly who had sent the search parties in the wrong direction.
She looked uphill to the secret village. There was plenty of room for a Christian courtesan, for a while. God knew, the vicar needed one.
She noticed the smashed-up baby buggy in the garden,
along with a rubbish sack, and composed herself to tell a version of the truth.
Sarah was icy cold. If she was going to stay here she would need a woman friend. Someone at least as ambiguous as that woman’s daughter.
She wanted to see the summer. She could live here for a long time and never know the half of it.
She would rely on the spoken word.
FRANCES FYFIELD
has spent much of her professional life practicing as a criminal lawyer, work which has informed her highly acclaimed novels. She has been the recipient of both the Gold and Silver Crime Writers’ Association Daggers. She is also a regular broadcaster on Radio 4, most recently as the presenter of the series ‘Tales from the Stave.’ She lives in London and in Deal, overlooking the sea, which is her passion.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This book was originally published in the UK in 2009 by Sphere, an imprint of Little, Brown Book Group.
COLD TO THE TOUCH
. Copyright © 2009 by Frances Fyfield. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition DECEMBER 2013 ISBN: 9780062301871
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