His torch showed him solid ground, the grass he had mown only three days earlier. He saw his feet, brown lace-ups stained with dirt, push into the dark grass, the shadow shaking with every movement of his hand.
Edward reached the end of the garden and stopped a yard short of the cliff edge. He closed his eyes and felt the wind around him. Just the gentlest breeze, not cold, wrapping him, cupping him. He thought to himself,Who throws radiation into a pizza restaurant in Sidmouth and kills a little girl?And an answer came, as if on the wind:No one. No one does that.
If he had had the lawn chairs at the end of the garden, he would have sat down and fallen asleep outside, which he had done many times before in the warm season, his busy brain soothed by the sea. He turned to see where they were. They were by the house. His eyes seemed to catch movement near the back doors. Imagination was a powerful deceiver.
He turned back to the sea.
Now there was a noise. Unmistakable movement in the dark, by the side wall. He turned back again and – with a thrill of panic – saw shapes moving across the garden towards him.
There were two. Their movement had triggered the sensor in the side passage to come on again, so the figures became simultaneously more visible and impossible to see: tall black shapes like spirits.
‘Hello?’ he said, because they were only yards away now, close enough for him to hear a voice. They were dressed like police. ‘Officers, what is it?’
But were they police? His heart banged like a drum. The outfits were ill-fitting, the trousers too short, and the two figures wearing them were huge. They wore peaked caps with visors. Was he asleep? Was he dreaming this?
No. He felt the grass underfoot. He raised his phone light to see their faces, but as he did so the phone was swept out of his hand.
A mask.
These were not human faces. He was looking at latex masks, pulled all the way over their heads. When they spoke or made noises, the mouths did not move.
‘Stop the questions. Do you understand? No more questions.’
The voice was so muffled, he couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman.
‘Stop the fucking questions,’ said the second person, also sotto voce. This speaker held a walking stick. Knobbled wood, the outline distorted by the knuckles and knots all along thesurface. They seemed to be in pain, groaning as they spoke. ‘Do you understand? Fucking arrogant twat.’
The person raised the stick and swung it at his head, missing by inches.
He was so shocked by the confrontation, by losing his phone, that he took a step back … and then jerked forward as he remembered how close he was to the edge of the cliff.
The two intruders rushed him in that instant and grabbed him, shook him, shouted at him – always the same thing – ‘Stop the QUESTIONS! No more fucking QUESTIONS!’ – but one of them seemed to be causing themselves as much pain as they were doing to him, and screamed as they moved their body as if they were being struck by their own blows.
Edward tripped and fell. When he was on the ground, on his front, they delivered kicks to his ribs and kidneys that made him cry out in agony. One sank heavily onto his legs, their shins and knees grinding into his muscles, grinding to the bone until he screamed again. Meanwhile the second attacker remained standing, wheezing and moaning as if they were having a heart attack, pushing the walking stick into his back, searching for the line of his spine.
‘No more questions, bonehead.’
And then they were gone. The one grinding their knees into Edward’s body got up with a fleet movement, then seemed to help the other one escape. Leaning heavily on the stick, the second attacker yelped at every step they took. They shrank in Edward’s line of sight like black spectres, heading towards the back of the house, into the side passage and escape.
Edward had no phone.
He lay in the garden, shaking like a leaf, panicking, shuddering, crying, murmuring to himself, dreading their return, until the first light of dawn came at four and he knew he was safe.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
For her official briefing from Devon Police on Tuesday morning, Stevie Mason had set up her laptop to ensure her fiancé would not be visible. Her bed was against the wall and ran underneath the window. She sat on the bed, the computer on her lap, seeing the picture of herself with the slate-grey sky behind her; had summer been and gone? She watched the caption: THE HOST WILL LET YOU INTO THE MEETING SOON.
‘Can’t believe I take the week off before my wedding, and I have to spend it with someone who’s radio-fucking-active. You look like a troll, sat there with your hair on end.’
Stevie said meekly, ‘I’m sinking into the bed, aren’t I? We can’t get married at the weekend. And I’m not a troll.’
‘What about the bloody refunds?’ he said. ‘I know your parents are paying, but still …’ His voice was muffled. He was wearing a reflective red tracksuit, and had zipped the top half all the way to the neck and pulled it over his face, up to his nose. He also wore mirrored sunglasses.
‘I can’t hear you, darling. I need to watch this.’
‘Are you in the waiting room? That clueless cop. What’s he going to say?’
‘An update, I hope. You’ll hear. Just don’t make a noise, Roddy,please.I had to sign something saying I wouldn’t record it or have anyone else in here.’
