Page 62

Adam

‘Ready?’ Sophie asks.

Am I? My mind is whirring. Sophie was certain we’d be involved in an accident before we got into the cab.

.. We’ve narrowly avoided one. Was that a hunch due to the bad weather?

Or did her prediction have something to do with her mathematical skills?

She could have calculated the probability of a crash happening in these conditions.

I bat away the questions and take Sophie’s hand.

We run silently to the end of the lane, almost bent over double against the wind.

I check my phone as we reach the car park.

It’s empty except for an abandoned camper van that’s being rocked by the gale.

Litter is whipped out of the bin and catapulted into the air.

‘Still nothing from Mum! What if... what if she’s deliberately avoiding my calls?’

‘Of course she isn’t! Why would she?’ Sophie’s voice catches with pain as she hobbles barefoot.

‘Because she has terrible news. She’s waiting to tell me in person that Wren is...’ My throat dries. I can’t utter the word.

‘Wren isn’t dead. We’re going to find her. She’s going to be okay, I promise.’

That’s the second time she’s said this. Sophie has 100 per cent certainty that Wren is alive, whereas my conviction is dipping well below 50 per cent.

Anything could have happened to her! Sophie’s trying to make me feel better because she’s kind and thoughtful.

But she doesn’t know my daughter is safe and well. No one does.

We head across the slippery, wet concrete, dodging a traffic cone that twirls past, and reach the footpath.

The torch illuminates an uneven sandy trail with jagged stones.

Brambles sway on either side. I go first and Sophie follows, touching my back to steady herself.

Questions multiply in my head as we make our way down to the beach.

‘How did you know that tree bough was about to fall?’ I ask. ‘You warned the driver right before it hit the road.’

I’m about to repeat the question when she replies.

‘I saw the minuscule changes in the angle of the branch as it was giving way.’

‘That’s amazing!’ I frown, remembering her terror when I flagged down the taxi. ‘But what numbers did you see before we got into the cab?’

‘How do you mean?’ she asks.

‘You thought the car was going to crash and I could be injured.’

‘I figured there was a high chance we’d be involved in an accident in this weather.’

My brows knot together deeper. Sophie had sounded petrified when she attempted to stop me from taking the ride. But she was worried for me, not herself, and was specific about Bob’s car.

‘You worked it out like a risk assessor... the likelihood of a crash in a storm? And you knew the diverted route we took would be extra hazardous?’

‘Exactly! The wind is blowing at 70 miles per hour, and those trees are unstable and more than two hundred years old. There was a 98.8 per cent chance one of them would come down tonight.’

I throw a quick glance over my shoulder. The gale buffets us forward, and it’s hard to stay upright.

‘Have you done a calculation for Wren?’ I call back to her. ‘Is that why you think she’s all right?’

‘Sort of.’

‘How?’ I prompt when she doesn’t elaborate.

‘I told you I see numbers for people – their exact heights, number of freckles on their cheeks, and so on.’

‘Erm... how does that help you work out the level of risk they face?’

‘I’ll explain later. Look, that must be the search party.’

She points down at the beach, where lights dance like fireflies.

We quicken our pace and after a couple of minutes the ground softens into sand underfoot.

We repeatedly shout Wren’s name, but our voices are tossed away by the wind.

I hold on to Sophie and plough on towards the beams, sand whipping our legs.

‘Mum!’

Torchlights swing wildly as we draw nearer. Mum breaks away from two dark figures and staggers towards us.

‘Adam! Thank God! I’ve tried calling but couldn’t get through.’

‘Anything?’ Panic claws at my throat.

‘Nothing,’ she gasps. ‘The police are on their way. They asked if we’re sure this is where she’d come?’

‘It’s the only stretch of sand she’d be able to find in the dark. It’s the closest to your house. She wouldn’t know where else to go. She must be here somewhere.’

Fear flits through Mum’s eyes as she gazes out at the huge, towering waves crashing on to the shore.

‘The police have alerted the coastguard... just in case.’

Pain rips through my chest as though a tiny, invisible hand has reached inside my ribcage and squeezed my heart.

‘W-w-what if she’s been swept out?’

‘Wren would never have gone in the sea on her own,’ Sophie says firmly.

‘But the tide’s coming in!’ I exclaim. ‘She could have been knocked over by a wave while she was paddling. We should look for clothing. . . or the urn at the shoreline.’

‘That’s a waste of time,’ Sophie insists. ‘She’s somewhere along the beach. We need to split up.’ She turns to Mum. ‘Why don’t you go to the rock pools? We’ll head towards Bantham. Turn your torches off and on three times if you find her and we’ll do the same.’

‘All right. Good luck, both of you!’ Mum returns to her huddle.

Sophie walks away, but I don’t move. I can’t rip my gaze from the seven-foot-high breakers. Wren could be tossed around helplessly before sinking beneath the surface. I could have drowned as a teenager if Sophie hadn’t dragged me up. What chance does an eight-year-old have in a swell like this?

I kick off my shoes and roll up my trousers.

‘No, Adam!’ Sophie doubles back. ‘She wouldn’t still be alive if she’d gone in the water, but I know she is.’

‘How is that possible, mathematically?’ I shout above the wind. ‘What numbers are you using? I don’t understand your calculations... Why are you 100 per cent certain?’

‘ Please believe me, Adam.’

‘I want to! But you need to give me more, otherwise I’m going in.’

My torchlight picks out the panic in her eyes.

‘Tell me!’

‘This is going to sound impossible, but I swear it’s true.’ Her voice wobbles as she steps closer, holding my gaze. ‘I can see how many days Wren has left to live.’

‘W-w-what?’ I gape at her. ‘How?’

‘It just happens, like all the other numbers I can see.’

‘You know when my daughter will die,’ I say numbly.

‘Yes.’ She breathes out slowly. ‘Wren will live to have her own children, if that’s what she chooses, and grandchildren. She’ll be an old woman when she takes her last breath.’

I fall back a step, reeling. ‘What you see... Is it only for Wren?’

‘No. I see everyone’s numbers counting down. That’s how I knew about Walter’s prognosis.’

I stare at her, the enormity of what she’s confessed gradually sinking in.

She’s right... it does sound impossible, but Sophie would never exaggerate or lie about something so serious.

This explains why she desperately wanted Walter’s family to fly over for the party at The Wave!

She knew he had little time left. Had she told him?

Is that why they were close? Walter claimed she’d helped him with a problem.

More questions swirl around my brain:

When will I lose Mum?

Will it be in the next ten years? Sooner?

What are my numbers?

‘I know it’s a lot to take in,’ she says quietly. ‘That’s why I don’t usually tell anyone. It’s too much for most people to understand.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, taking her in my arms.

She frowns. ‘What for?’

‘Keeping those secrets, alone. It must be lonely.’

She holds on to my lapels, pressing her head into my coat. ‘It is. But now you know Wren survives tonight.’ She looks up, blinking away tears. ‘Do you think she could be where we picnicked yesterday? She might be sheltering near that funny-shaped rock.’

I bite the inside of my mouth, trying not to picture Wren lying somewhere badly injured. She can’t be in a life-threatening condition, according to Sophie’s prediction, but she could have hurt herself. She’s alone and must be terrified.

‘Good idea!’

We run, shouting Wren’s name until our throats are hoarse, struggling to keep upright in the wind. Sophie’s revelation continues to play on a loop in my mind as thunder growls louder.

She knows when every single person will die.

Including me.

Scary thoughts creep into my brain. I remember Sophie’s horror-stricken face in the café window when we met to discuss the quilt.

She fled, distraught, and threw up. She claimed she was ill but looked horribly shocked.

What did she see that day? Why did she tell me about Walter’s prognosis and the need to make the most of life?

She said this could be our last week and the Stanford’s board decision wouldn’t matter in the grand scheme of things.

And why was she jumpy about me driving to Plymouth, and during our cab journey?

Lightning streaks across the sky, picking out the cove.

‘We’re almost there!’ Sophie cries, overtaking me. ‘It’s around these rocks.’

‘What can you see when you look at me?’ I shout after her.

She reduces her pace but doesn’t reply.

‘What’s my number?’ Fear catches in my throat. ‘How many days do I have left to live?’

She stops walking. ‘Don’t do this, Adam. Please! Let’s keep going.’

My heart thuds painfully and I raise my voice. ‘How much time do I have left to spend with you and Wren?’

Whatever figure she says, I know it will never be enough.

Slowly, she turns to face me. Her bottom lip quivers and her face is taut with pain. Icy-cold dread grips my heart; I can hardly breathe.

My voice is a faint whisper. ‘How long?’

She looks at me with pleading eyes, begging me to stop. But I can’t.

‘How long?’ I repeat. ‘I have to know.’

‘I’m sorry, Adam,’ she says, weeping softly. ‘This is it. Your numbers will run out tonight.’