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Theo didn’t come back.

  Marta’s narrowboat drifted, stern out, and after a while Neila realised no one was coming for it, so she climbed on board, slid along the narrow edge of the boat to the rear, threw a rope to shore.

  Tied off.

  Had a look at the smashed door, shattered lock, couldn’t see an easy way to repair it, thought of getting a new one for when Marta came back.

  Couldn’t think of a way to make that work out, didn’t know if …

  Let herself inside.

  Cleaned up a bit.

  Righted a smashed picture frame, Marta and a child, maybe a son?

  Swept the glass up, threw it away.

  Cleared out the stove, made the bed, put cups back in the cupboard, straightened everything out, didn’t want to do anything more, felt intrusive, felt that what she was doing wasn’t even close to enough.

  In the end, she put a note in the window.

  ENGINE TROUBLE—WAITING FOR REPAIRS

  The note wouldn’t buy Marta much time before she exceeded her permit to moor, but maybe someone would come and help save the boat before the scavengers split it open and stripped it down.

  At sunset Theo did not appear.

  Neila slept badly.

  There was no howling in the night.

  The streets were silent, except for a voice, raised shortly after midnight, a child singing in the dark, somewhere beyond the water.

  What shall we do with a drunken sailor, early in the morning?

  Hey ho and up she rises,

  Hey ho and up she rises,

  Hey ho and—

  As suddenly as the voice had begun singing, it stopped, and was not heard again.

  “Cut his throat with a rusty cleaver,” sang Neila under her breath as she turned the lights down. “Cut his throat with a rusty cleaver …”

  By the water

  to the north

  the man called Theo thinks he hears singing in the distance but can’t make out the words.

  “Blessed are the ones who walk,” he whispers under his breath as he trudges, head down, hands buried, through the night. “Blessed are they who remember and fear …”

  In the houses where the children live

  the school burned down and the parents had no place to go there is only

  the moon

  the night

  the howling at the sky

  A girl is dead and the children are silent in the corners of the crowded rooms.

  In the police station Marta said, “I won’t pay for an indemnity. I won’t pay. I won’t pay for the indemnity. I must pay some other way.”

  And the coppers shake their heads in disbelief, and one brings her a cup of tea and sits next to her and whispers, “You don’t want to go to the patty line, luv. Not at your age. You won’t make it a year, it’s the work you see, it’s just the work, round here you gotta make Cornish pasties and I like a pasty I do lovely jubbly but the fat you know the fat? You take a bite and the fat it just burns like—you don’t want to get burned. It was just a kid you killed. Just a kid. She wasn’t going to be nothing, you don’t have to—it was just a kid. Pay the indemnity. They’re giving you that discount anyway!”

  And in the office above the cells:

  “What do you mean, two sets of fingerprints?”

  “Two sets on the knife, and this second set you got there’s a …”

  On the table in front of the man in charge, a kitchen knife, the blood dry, white forensic dust on the handle where another man’s hand gently prised the weapon away from an old woman’s fingers.

  They wouldn’t have bothered to fingerprint it at all if the old biddy hadn’t been quite so peculiar about her need to be punished.

  In London a phone rings.

  “Mr. Markse? We’ve found a fingerprint and you won’t believe who it …”

  The clouds skim across the moon.

  On the towpath Theo stops suddenly, dead in his tracks, and sees a heron. It stands on one leg where a ledge creates a shallow step of water, waiting to strike with its raised claw, and does not move or turn its head.

  He stares at it for a very, very long time

  then raises one leg

  and makes like a heron.

  For a little while.

  Chapter 33

  The police had an inventory of items removed from Dani’s flat

  toothbrush hairbrush shoes bedside cup

  splatter evidence blood evidence fingerprints DNA not that anyone would

  A confession has been received, and given the low estimated value of the indemnity against Ms. Cumali’s death, it is not considered necessary at this time to run any more tests on …

  Theo went through the list, hunched in the low light of his bedroom, until he found her mobile phone.

  He called the station.

  “Paddington Safelife Policing?”

  “I’m from the Criminal Audit Office—if you could—thank you that is …”

  Holding music, a distortion of a tune he thought he once knew from his childhood. Or maybe all music just sounded the same these days; it was hard to tell.

  “Hello? Who am I speaking to?”

  “Hello, yes, my name is Theo Miller I’m from the CAO auditing the Cumali case. I just had a couple of questions …”

  “Auditing?”

  “Yes for the audit I’m—”

  “What do you need?” Brisk, bored, the copper was mid-email and now he’s got to deal with this, his shift is ending and he just knows his missus has ruined the dinner, she always does if he gets back soon though he might be able to stop her from making it worse.

  “The inventory gave a mobile phone as being part of Ms. Cumali’s possessions. I’m wondering if I can drop in tomorrow to access it?”

  “Why do you need—”

  “There’s a suggestion of cyber-crime which might affect—you know how it is if the defence find this stuff before we do they can argue an unfair indemnity against the value of …”

  “Hold on. Hold on. Just hold a moment will you if the …”

  More music. Electric guitar. Electric keys. A song about discovering how sexy you are and hoping all the women will notice your starlight smile your million-dollar sparkle your sky-high …

  “Mr. Miller?”

  “Still here.”

  “I don’t have any record of a phone.”

  “In the file I’m holding …”

  “No, no record definitely I’ve just—”

  “It says that—”

  “There’s nothing entered into evidence there’s no sign that I’m sorry but you might be looking at the wrong—what’s your serial number?”

  “I’ll cross-check with the office tomorrow thank you you’ve been very …”

  Lying awake, watching the ceiling.

  If he closes his eyes he can for a moment imagine the world above, he is rising like an angel, spreading wings of light and dancing, dancing in the clouds, ice-cold crystals on his skin and yet it doesn’t hurt, thin air in his lungs and yet breathing just makes him lighter, soaring, naked, beautiful, liberated and free.

  And all the people of the city they fly too, the dreamers and the sleepers, the staring children and the distant old ladies drifting before the TV, they close their eyes and soar, majestic in golden light, they dance around each other like mating songbirds, wings tucking in close as they twist and twist, ribbons of DNA across the moon, meteors ripping the stars in two as they …

  there’s a market for everything

  She’s your daughter. She’s your daughter. She’s

  Sits up gasping for breath, had dozed and not even noticed it, sweat and terror and

  lies back to sleep, and does not dare close his eyes, and is scared to dream.

  Chapter 34

  Fifteen years before, in a pub in Oxford:

  The duellists’ insurance papers required witnesses.

  The boy witnessed Theo’s; the real Theo, the one who actually believed in something. Anything.
r />   Simon Fardell witnessed Philip Arnslade’s. They signed it at a pub round the corner from St. John’s on a drizzling afternoon. The rugby club were in, and had trained most triumphantly and roared and cheered and clawed at the backside of any creature that passed, sex, age or willingness unimportant.

  After they had signed, the boy sat with Simon Fardell to discuss details.

  “The indemnity gives each party five shots. We have to make sure that the terms aren’t violated. I have these guns from home which I think would be appropriate, we can guarantee they fire true and of course the indemnity doesn’t cover us so I’ve drawn up a formal letter of protest requesting both parties to cease which we can sign and file in case the police attempt to give us an accessory charge, and the lawyer assures me that—”

  “I haven’t seen the letter …”

  “Don’t worry about that it’s really an irrelevance, the police won’t actually bother—and the discretion clause means that if it did go to court both parties would be subject to litigation regardless of who survives and I’m training to be a lawyer you know are you …”

  “Maths.”

  “Really? Who’s your sponsor? There’s a whole section of index-based market leveraging which is—”

  “I don’t have a sponsor.”

  “Oh. I just thought … I mean you seem so …”

  “I self-funded.”

  “Really? Never would have guessed. Anyway, as I was saying the discretion clause so neither family can sue in open civil court or defame litigate or libel the surviving party of the …”

  At sunset, by the river, in the far-off half-dream of the past, the boy stood with Simon Fardell by the thin, reedy banks of the Thames and held a gun between two fingertips, and had never held a gun before, no not even with his dad doing all the things they said his dad had done, and Simon tutted and exclaimed:

  “The safety here, you see, you take a grip, two hands underneath—have you never really done this before? Now sight down here, two points see two on the barrel that’s it now we’re at thirty paces which is how far they will be and—shoot!”

  The boy shot, and missed by a mile.

  “For goodness’ sake, squeeze the trigger just squeeze it, breathe out and …”

  “Are we allowed to do this, I mean the noise, won’t the police come, isn’t it …”

  “I know the chap who owns this land. Don’t worry about it, the farmers around here, the people, it’s fine so now deep breath and exhale and …”

  The boy fired, and this time he hit the edge of the target tacked to a high-packed hay bale.

  “Good! Better! Now, fire a few, get a feel for it, don’t lock the arms, don’t fight the recoil that’s how you—excellent! Would you say that this weapon fires straight?”

  “I … yes. I suppose I would.”

  “You’ll need to sign the release here for the documents it’s—good good good so here’s your copy and here’s mine and I’ll just test my gun and of course we’ll lock the weapons up afterwards, two boxes two keys, prevent tampering, photo evidence all part of protecting ourselves against—God that’s a great gun, the kick of it it’s just so …”

  “Does it have to be these guns?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It seems … you said it was a .45 and I thought maybe they’d use a lower calibre, maybe .22 I mean that way they could …”

  “What a curious idea!”

  “This duel, I mean forgetting that it’s illegal for a moment, forgetting that it’s …”

  “Illegal but affordable.”

  “… illegal it seems to me that the cause of the fight is so I mean it’s just so ridiculous isn’t it fundamentally it’s …”

  “Philip doesn’t feel it’s ridiculous. Nor does your man Theo.”

  “But it is; it is you and I can both see that it is can’t we? You seem … very smart I don’t mean that in a—but very smart and I mean don’t we have a responsibility, a civic responsibility, a responsibility as friends I mean for God’s sake we’re talking about one of them dying!”

  “We’re committed now. The papers are signed.”

  “What if we swapped the bullets?”

  “For .22s?”

  “For blanks.”

  In Shawford the sea rolls against the shingle, the chalk cliffs crumble, Dani Cumali sits on a bench dedicated to D.WRIGHT, 1944–1999, HE LOVED THE SKIES, and stares across the water and cannot remember why she sat down, and does not wish to stand.

  In a time yet to come, Neila threw another log onto the stove, and closed the door as it began to hiss, two parts steam to one part smoke.

  In the dreams of the man called Theo, he hears his daughter, roaring.

  And in a field outside Oxford, two boys stood holding loaded guns before a wall of hay bales, waiting at the centre of the universe.

  Simon Fardell, even aged twenty, looked like the man he would grow into. His place had been sponsored by a company that would soon be simply the Company. He went to lectures in a three-piece suit because he knew he needed to stand out, to make an impression. It was all about thinking ahead; he had his three-year plan, his seven-year plan and his twenty-year objectives he was …

  … in many ways a very handsome boy who would grow into a handsome man. He didn’t play any team sports but worked out three times a week, kept his fair hair cut short at the sides and back, had a tiny, slightly beakish nose above a small, tight smile that flashed and faded like lightning, a notch in his chin and blue eyes which he knew were unusually dark, unusually beautiful.

  “Blanks?” he mused, and the boy who would be Theo, crooked and small, smiled uneasily and realised that he knew nothing about people, or human nature, and was actually really bad at remembering faces and he should try and learn some sort of method for dealing with that.

  Simon laughed, and slapped the boy on the shoulder and exclaimed, “You do have the funniest ideas! Blanks! What an incredible idea. Let them fire their five and then … well blanks! Yes I suppose I see how we could …”

  That night the boy slept with the gun under his pillow and it was really uncomfortable so in the end he put it in the drawer by his bed.

  And in the morning, before the sun was up, he borrowed a bicycle and pedalled out to the field by the river, with Theo Miller by his side, and they didn’t speak, and they did not go to the open-faced barn with the hay bales but stood before a line of beech trees as the sun rose and the dew melted through their shoes, and it was remarkably cold for the time of year and Theo wished he’d brought more clothes but as the sun rose higher it became hotter and hotter and he realised he was sweating a waterfall and …

  Simon and Philip came on foot from up the drive, their car left, engine running, by the gate, this wouldn’t take long, and as they went to load the guns the boy looked into Simon’s eyes and saw him smile and nod and understood that to be an agreement, a confirmation of the pact they had made, and he nodded back and loaded the gun.

  Can it be a bullet if there is no lead? A casing to be ejected, gunpowder but no death, he loaded blanks, five shots in total, and took the weapon to Theo and said, “Good luck,” and Theo did not smile and did not flinch and did not nod and looked like he might be sick.

  And the boys stood back to back, in the traditional way, and at the command of Simon, they walked fifteen paces apart in opposite directions, and at a word

  “Go!”

  They turned and fired.

  Theo was slightly faster, he saw Philip flinch, but then Philip shot and missed, and Theo fired again, and Philip did not fall, and they fired again, and again, and on the fourth shot

  Theo staggered.

  He staggers and the engine of the passing barge goes chunk chunk chunk chugger chugger chugger chugger and the man who is called Theo feels the tear in his side sewn together with cornflower-blue thread and hears gunfire in the engine chugger chugger BANG

  in a field beneath the shadowed light of the rising sun Theo Miller staggers, raises his g
un, fires once more, but he has had his five shots, and still Philip comes, he has one shot left now he comes closer and closer stands over Theo and the boy shouts

  … sounds without words or meaning …

  and Philip lowers the gun and pulls the trigger.

  Theo Miller died in the ambulance.

  The boy rode with him, held his hand until the paramedics pulled him away, cried and shivered and at last sat in silence.

  The paramedic said, “Nothing you could have done. It took out his lung then the abdomen; he was bleeding heavily I think there was nothing it wasn’t your fault …”

  Time is

  days are

  passing and yet the winter is

  time is frozen and it is the nature of time that sometimes

  The boy sat outside the morgue, and called Theo Miller’s parents.

  His parents were away, out of the country. They were always out of the country. No, the maid didn’t know when they’d be back. No, she couldn’t contact them immediately. Yes, she’d pass on his message, ask them to call. Was it … was everything … was young Mr. Miller was he …

  The boy hung up and sat in a white corridor outside an unnamed door, locked, a vending machine at the bottom of the hall offering sugary drinks and dried fruit snacks, a couple of porters gossiping as their patients drooped and slumbered in wheelchairs, saline bags suspended above their heads. Oh I know she’s just the worst she’s just the …

  The boy waited and didn’t know what he was waiting for.

  When Theo’s parents called back, it was a bad line from far away.

  “Hello! Hello? Yes, I’m Mrs. Miller. I was given this number and told to call it—who are you?”

  “I’ve got bad news.”

  “What? Speak up it’s a terrible line hold on I’ll just go outside and … yes, that’s better, what did you say?”

  “Mrs. Miller, I’ve … got some bad news. Earlier this morning Theo was … there was an accident and Theo is …”

  “What? Is he in hospital? What?”

  “Mrs. Miller, Theo is dead.”

  “Say again? What was that? Listen this line is terrible is it your end can you …”

  “Theo is dead.”

  Behind the silence someone is laughing. Mrs. Miller is outside a restaurant, there’s music playing, there’s gossip and life and a car revving a very expensive engine vroom they make the sounds different for different nations the Italians you see they like to know that their engines are powerful vroom it’s all part of the