sigh of warm summer breeze stirred through the saplings on the railway bankings below her.
The only thing she knew for certain was that she couldn’t walk away not knowing what had happened to them.
Maybe they’ve escaped out the other end?
In which case, they’d try and make their way back here. That’s what she would do. The trailer parked at the bottom of the steps was all there was for food. They’d have no other choice than try and find their way back to the bridge.
Please not Jacob, too.
First Hannah . . . now Jacob. This shitty world seemed fully intent on taking away absolutely everyone she’d ever cared for; taken from her one by one so she could really savour the pain of each loss . . . get to squeeze every last ounce of hurt out before the next one could be snatched away.
Stupidly, for a while yesterday, listening to Take That, the Kaiser Chiefs, the Chili Peppers, even Abba, she’d allowed the gloom to shift ever so slightly. She’d allowed herself to wonder whether she really did want to go home to her old bedroom, snuggle up in whatever was left of her duvet and call it quits. Raymond’s ‘fight-on’ spirit had managed to touch her for a few hours.
I can’t lose Jacob, too.
Something was telling her she hadn’t lost him . . . yet. That he was alive. But she might be wasting valuable time standing here looking at the back of the building.
Go back in?
The thought terrified her. Those bones . . . and the horrible look of those things, she could barely think of them as children; they were like wraiths, lost souls. No, running in there and getting taken by those feral children wasn’t going to help anyone. She realised the only sensible thing she could do was to stay where she was and watch and wait for the boys’ return.
Come first light, Lee, what if they’ve not returned? What then?
She had no idea. No plan.
Can’t stay here for ever.
She stood in silence on the bridge, holding on to the handrail, listening to the soft rustle of trees below.
‘Maybe I’ll find him at home?’
Chapter 41
10 years AC
‘LeMan 49/25a’ - ClarenCo Gas Rig Complex, North Sea
Valérie Latoc watched the women moving amongst the terraces and walkways of the drilling platform, watering the plants from cans, taking care not to waste a single drop of fresh water. It was quieter here. Fewer people to break the soothing murmur of the sea below. Quiet enough to hear himself think.
Whilst Jennifer Sutherland had been unconscious, in the grip of a chemically induced stupor, he’d noticed how quickly things had begun to unravel under the stewardship of that poor old fool, Walter. His manner was clumsy and unappealing. He patronised people when he spoke to them. He was gruff and irritable, and when he did attempt some good-natured humour, it was usually ill-judged and fell uncomfortably into a silence.
No one seemed to like the poor man. He’d heard the ladies mutter about him. How his little rheumy pink eyes darted where they were not invited. How they hated it when he accompanied Jennifer on her tours of the rigs. The bunking areas in particular. His ‘little ferret eyes’ - that’s what that woman, Alice Harton called them - always seemed to be hunting for a tantalising glimpse of someone half-dressed, according to her, lingering too long on items of underwear that dangled from washing lines strung from handrail to handrail. How he seemed too close to Jennifer and her family; how he’d been too close to poor young Hannah . . . always there, hanging around their personal quarters.
The superficial unity of this community had very quickly begun to unwind with Walter in charge of things. Without Jennifer Sutherland’s forceful personality keeping things ticking over, they were drifting, breaking apart.
That’s why I ended up here. Their compass is spinning. They’re lost.
What they needed to know was what he fully understood. That their being gathered here on this remote, windy, damp artificial island wasn’t just random happenstance. There was a purpose to it. Something far more important than mere ‘making do’ day after day.
Valérie knew deep down it wasn’t mere chance that had driven him east out of London up to this remote rump of England. He was needed here. These people, these hard-working, these wonderful people, who’d managed to create something that vaguely resembled a little Garden of Eden on these ugly rusting platforms, they needed to hear that