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Authors: Michael Robertson
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but now she saw them—three human figures.
The hotel owner—and his two grandchildren.
Bonnie stepped forward to help.
Mr. Redfern appeared to have already shaken off most of the dust and debris. He ushered the smaller of the two children—the one who had been crying, the five-year-old girl, who was crying still—toward Bonnie.
Bonnie took the girl in her arms, and then briefly paused. At her feet, just a couple of yards away, were two bodies. One had very clearly been struck by the falling table, the other perhaps by something else, but there was no question that those two adult males were dead.
Bonnie covered the little girl’s eyes as she carried her away from the scene.
Bonnie knew the man killed by the fallen snooker table was the girl’s father; the other man was bloodied with severe head trauma, but Bonnie knew from his uniform that he was the American captain.
Now Mr. Redfern walked out with the nine-year-old boy. The boy was still covered in chalk dust and splinters of wood and plaster, but apparently without major injury. Unlike his younger sister, he wasn’t crying. He just stared, in shock, as his grandfather led him out of the rubble.
“He saved me,” said the girl, through sobs, and struggling in Bonnie’s arms. “He pulled me away from it.”
“I know, darling,” said Bonnie, assuming the girl was referring to her father. “I know.” Bonnie cradled the girl’s face and tried to keep her from looking back.
5
CANVEY ISLAND, THAMES ESTUARY—PRESENT DAY, 1998
Lawrence Cheeverton had been running his little boat in the broad estuary of the Thames for more than twenty-five years, and he had fished out many things, but never anything like the catch he’d pulled in one night last autumn from the river proper.
He’d been on his way back home from the farmers’ market at Blackheath, where he sold the eels and sole and sea bass that he had hauled in that morning.
It was night on his way back, because after selling his catch he’d spent several hours, and all of the day’s profit, in the pub at Blackheath before heading home.
This was an indulgence he’d been allowing himself more frequently, and especially on that one night in autumn, because it was just one week before his sixtieth birthday.
It had begun to occur to him that time might be running short.
He no longer felt young. Physically, he felt that he might still be able to run the boat, and throw the nets and haul them in, for another twenty years or so. That is, barring injury, of course.
But in other respects, it had begun to occur to him that time might be running out. And it was the very experience of drinking at the pub that was telling him that.
For the first three or four pints on these evenings when he tarried, there would be good company—other fishermen like himself, and a couple of locals from the market, all tossing darts, or standing at the bar and telling the most entertaining lies they could.
But then the crowd would thin out. One after the other, his drinking companions would announce their last round, because they had to get on home, even though it wasn’t even last call yet. “Why leave so early?” Cheeverton would complain, and he had wondered why he was always the last one standing.
Then he had realized what the difference was—the others all had someone at home to go to.
Not anyone scenic necessarily, mind you—he had seen some of their wives in the pub. But that wasn’t the point. The point was, there was someone.
He had been married once himself, some thirty years ago. He had been young then, at an age when working twelve hours a day on the water made him appear strong and vigorous, rather than old and worn, and at an age when his talk of someday owning a small fleet of boats of his own almost sounded plausible.
So plausible, in fact, that he had once been able to impress a lovely young woman in her early twenties, who had also grown up on the island and could be impressed by such
The hotel owner—and his two grandchildren.
Bonnie stepped forward to help.
Mr. Redfern appeared to have already shaken off most of the dust and debris. He ushered the smaller of the two children—the one who had been crying, the five-year-old girl, who was crying still—toward Bonnie.
Bonnie took the girl in her arms, and then briefly paused. At her feet, just a couple of yards away, were two bodies. One had very clearly been struck by the falling table, the other perhaps by something else, but there was no question that those two adult males were dead.
Bonnie covered the little girl’s eyes as she carried her away from the scene.
Bonnie knew the man killed by the fallen snooker table was the girl’s father; the other man was bloodied with severe head trauma, but Bonnie knew from his uniform that he was the American captain.
Now Mr. Redfern walked out with the nine-year-old boy. The boy was still covered in chalk dust and splinters of wood and plaster, but apparently without major injury. Unlike his younger sister, he wasn’t crying. He just stared, in shock, as his grandfather led him out of the rubble.
“He saved me,” said the girl, through sobs, and struggling in Bonnie’s arms. “He pulled me away from it.”
“I know, darling,” said Bonnie, assuming the girl was referring to her father. “I know.” Bonnie cradled the girl’s face and tried to keep her from looking back.
5
CANVEY ISLAND, THAMES ESTUARY—PRESENT DAY, 1998
Lawrence Cheeverton had been running his little boat in the broad estuary of the Thames for more than twenty-five years, and he had fished out many things, but never anything like the catch he’d pulled in one night last autumn from the river proper.
He’d been on his way back home from the farmers’ market at Blackheath, where he sold the eels and sole and sea bass that he had hauled in that morning.
It was night on his way back, because after selling his catch he’d spent several hours, and all of the day’s profit, in the pub at Blackheath before heading home.
This was an indulgence he’d been allowing himself more frequently, and especially on that one night in autumn, because it was just one week before his sixtieth birthday.
It had begun to occur to him that time might be running short.
He no longer felt young. Physically, he felt that he might still be able to run the boat, and throw the nets and haul them in, for another twenty years or so. That is, barring injury, of course.
But in other respects, it had begun to occur to him that time might be running out. And it was the very experience of drinking at the pub that was telling him that.
For the first three or four pints on these evenings when he tarried, there would be good company—other fishermen like himself, and a couple of locals from the market, all tossing darts, or standing at the bar and telling the most entertaining lies they could.
But then the crowd would thin out. One after the other, his drinking companions would announce their last round, because they had to get on home, even though it wasn’t even last call yet. “Why leave so early?” Cheeverton would complain, and he had wondered why he was always the last one standing.
Then he had realized what the difference was—the others all had someone at home to go to.
Not anyone scenic necessarily, mind you—he had seen some of their wives in the pub. But that wasn’t the point. The point was, there was someone.
He had been married once himself, some thirty years ago. He had been young then, at an age when working twelve hours a day on the water made him appear strong and vigorous, rather than old and worn, and at an age when his talk of someday owning a small fleet of boats of his own almost sounded plausible.
So plausible, in fact, that he had once been able to impress a lovely young woman in her early twenties, who had also grown up on the island and could be impressed by such
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