Afterward I found I was sweating.
And I realize that I’m sweating now, which isn’t a good sign.
I mustn’t lose control.
William scrambles up the lower slopes of the barrow, toward the burial chamber, feeling the mist’s dampness on his face. The sun is struggling to break through, and for every few yards he covers the mist seems less dense and more crystalline, as if it plans to reveal something to him.
His legs ache but he pushes himself onward. His hands are filthy where he’s clawed his way up. His knees are damp and matted with grass.
He emerges from the claustrophobic whiteness into watery sunshine. The air seems liquid, the sky huge and the brightness startling.
As his eyes adjust, everything seems to shift around him, settling into place. The vast long-distance fades away and the foreground comes slowly into sharp focus, every tussock gleaming damply, every stone patterned with vivid shades of lichen.
The body is facedown, lying in front of the crumbled entrance to the ancient burial chamber.
He walks toward it as steadily as he can, trying to exhale fear and inhale courage.
“Just let me make you some food,” I tell Imogen. “And I promise I’ll go after that.” I don’t mean to sound as if I’m pleading, or being overly insistent, but I’m afraid that I do. My self-control is slipping. It might be best if I take some time out. She’s not going anywhere, after all, and I could use a moment to compose myself. It’s all a bit much and I’ll be able to look after her better when I’ve rested.
“I’m not hungry. But a cup of tea will be fine.”
I suspect she’s humoring me, and I want her to want me to look after her. “Wouldn’t you like another special hot chocolate?” I ask. I hear a sob and I’m afraid it’s me.
Tears spring to her eyes. Reciprocal tears? Are we connecting? Or is she still frightened?
She’s shaking her head, but says “Okay,” in a voice that breaks like a fine crack running through a piece of porcelain.
“Okay? Are you sure?” I feel a rush of pleasure even though she’s nodding as if she can’t stop, like one of those dogs on the dashboard, and you wouldn’t think so many tears could fit in someone’s eyes without spilling.
“Well, then,” I say. “I’m on the case. One more super luxurious hot chocolate coming up, or as luxurious as I can make it without the trimmings. We should have brought the cream and marshmallows from my house, but never mind.”
Luckily there’s enough milk in the fridge and I whistle as I work, totally focused, and it steadies me, cheers me up. I can do this. This is going to be all right. I can leave her safely for a little while. We’re both under pressure. I acknowledge that.
But after some minutes, I hear a door shut. Slowly, carefully. Too slowly, too carefully. Not how Imogen usually enters or leaves a room.
I look up from the pan of milk and hear the sort of weighty silence in which you know you’re alone.
Imogen has escaped.
I don’t know how long I stand there in shock. The idea that she would do this to me while I was trying so hard to do something nice for her crashes around my head, destructive and enraging.
The milk boils over and burns black on the ceramic hob. It brings me back. I turn off the heat beneath the pan. Still, no sound.
“Imogen?” I call but I already know that she’s gone. That she’s deceived me again.
As if I was someone else entirely, I see myself from above, and note how violent my movements look as I bolt after her.
It’s an ugly sight.
Ruth is nestled as if hibernating in the right-angle where two drystone walls meet.
Stones dig into her back, her head has slumped forward, the long stretch of her neck looks unnatural, and the vertebrae at its base protrude, damp skin stretched taut and white across them. Her hair is clumped and wet, a few strands twined through the lily-white fingers of a hand that’s curled against her face. Her eyes are part open, the whites showing.
She’s completely still. Not a breath seems to enter or leave her body.
But the gunshot rouses her. She wakes suddenly and her heart kicks in her chest. She sucks in air, forcing her rib cage and her locked-up shoulders to move. She aches all over, inside and out. She’s soaked through and cold has numbed every part of her. Her head is pounding, and her mouth is sticky dry. She has no idea where she is.
Someone calls her name and she shouts a reply but her voice only croaks. Pathetic. She’s pathetic. She’s lost. Out here. She knows she was drunk. Very drunk. She thinks she might have blacked out.
