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‘It’s Abraham Rose,’ he tells the night manager. ‘I just wondered if by any chance she’s still up.’
Silence precedes a sigh. ‘Mr Rose, it’s two a.m. Your mother went to bed hours ago. I can’t wake her. Even if I did, she wouldn’t know who—’
‘You’re right,’ Abraham says quickly. ‘Sorry. I hadn’t realized it was so late.’ He hangs up before he can embarrass himself further. Glancing at the side table, he sees a familiar motif now traced in the dust: his initials and date of birth, sheltering beneath a dome. Scrubbing it out, he retreats to his own room.
It’s a small space, austere. Bottle-green walls, floorboards dark as ship’s timber. A wooden cross hangs above the single bed.
On the dresser is his keepsake box. Going over, Abraham raises the lid. Most of its contents were added by his mother: a lock of his hair in a tiny, yellowed envelope; a coin and a stamp from his birth year; a photo of him on his father’s lap; a medal from his first sports day. Unfortunate, really, that he failed to make more memories. About the only thing he’s added is a warrant card from thirty years ago.
Except, of course, for the letter.
Years since he last read it; the handwriting alone is enough to lighten his stomach. With trembling hands he unfolds the paper.
Dearest Abe,
I hope this letter reaches you safely. Father Cuomo promised he’d post it to the priest in your new town. (He respected your mother’s wishes, by the way, and hasn’t told me where you’ve both gone – just that it was far away.)
I’ve promised myself I’ll try to reach you this way only once. I hope you’ll write back with a correspondence address. I hope, more than anything, that you’ll think hard about whose interests your mother’s really serving. One day she’ll be gone, Abe, and then what will you have?
There – I’ve said it. I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you, but I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I miss singing with you in the choir. I miss our talks after church.Pleasewrite back, if you feel you can.
All my love and God bless,
Sarah
Abraham returns the letter to the box and shuts the lid. In his head, he hears his mother’s voice:God ordained your path. And that girl wasn’t it.
Doubtless she’d been right – their relocation to Exmoor and the severing of that fragile beginning a necessary sacrifice. He’s God’s blunt-edged tool, after all, formed at speed from the roughest clay to hand. At least, that’s what he once believed.
What a lonely path it’s been.
Abraham strips down to his underwear, folding his clothes in a pile. In the brown-spotted wall mirror, he examines his frame.
He’s deteriorating fast. No denying it. His muscles hang withered and loose. His reserves of fat have almost entirely shrunk away. On his arms and belly, a rash of liver spots looks like a star map printed on white skin.
Dropping to his knees, Abraham clasps his hands together. He prays for Billie and Fin Locke. He pleads for forgiveness, for guidance, for strength and stronger faith.
When he opens his eyes twenty minutes later, he feels more frightened and alone than he ever thought possible.
EIGHTEEN
1
The figure on Lucy’s front step is wearing full waterproofs: black jacket and storm hood, orange overtrousers and boots.
‘Whoisthat?’ Noemie mutters.
Lucy stares through the windscreen as the wipers scrub off rain. Her exhaustion is so acute it’s hard to focus. The figure’s too big to be Billie. For a moment she thinks it’s Daniel, until she remembers he’s at the hospital.
Rain drives down harder, overwhelming the wipers. Noemie and Bee crack their doors and climb out.
‘You know who that is?’ Tommo asks, frowning.
‘About to find out,’ Lucy says, sliding across the seat. ‘You’d better come in and dry off.’
2
She follows her friends to the front porch. In the instant before Tommo kills the headlights, the figure stands and lifts its head.