Read Online Nightrise by Jim Kelly - Free Book Online

department is involved in this, Philip – just so you know. It all takes time. You know what lawyers are like. But perhaps we can say a bit. I’ll try and get you an interview out at the cemetery – how does that sound?’
    â€˜Who with?’
    â€˜Cemetery warden knows the story – odd bloke. Mad on motorbikes. But he could help you if we give him the green light. Leave it with me.’
    â€˜I’ll ring at nine, David. I’m going to run the letter, plus a story, so if you want anything to balance that out let me have it then. If not, we’ll come back to you next week.’
    â€˜It would be nice to get a balanced story. Like I said, there are legal issues.’
    â€˜We’re a newspaper, not a Christmas annual. Deadline’s noon tomorrow.’
    â€˜Right. It’s just there are issues of taste. Decency. It’s not a . . .’ He pretended to search for the word. ‘Not a pretty story.’
    â€˜So you’re up to speed on it. Why not tell me now.’
    â€˜Like I said – lawyers. And they go home at four thirty sharp. They charge treble rate after that. We’ll talk tomorrow.’
    Dryden cut the line and felt drained, as if the mouthpiece had sucked out what energy he had left for the day. Hadn’t the Yorubas told him the name they’d chosen for the girl? How had he forgotten it?
    A ship’s bell rang from downstairs – one strike, barely audible. He’d taken it with him from the house boat. It was the signal for food.
    Laura had laid a red-and-white checked tablecloth out for two plates of spaghetti vongole. Red wine, decanted into a jug. His wife’s family had run a small café and restaurant in north London. She’d been brought up with the idea that food was part of family life.
    Dryden sat and pushed a piece of paper across the table.
    Laura had her first forkful poised. She scanned it. ‘So. Well done, Philip.’ It was Dryden’s application for the post of editor of
The Crow
. ‘I wondered,’ she said.
    â€˜But you didn’t say.’
    Laura’s own career as an actress had spluttered back into life after her recovery but had now ended. The speech disability refused to improve and she refused to accept bit parts which played to her condition. What she’d do next was something they hadn’t talked about. For all her enthusiasm for the new house, and for being a mother, Dryden was sure she couldn’t face life without a career.
    â€˜Your decision,’ she said. ‘The right decision. I thought – maybe – you’d want to go back to Fleet Street. We could all go. North London, maybe – not a suburb, the city. Hoxton. Hackney. I’m OK with that. I liked cities once.’
    â€˜It’s not just my decision,’ he said, putting his fork down. ‘I like it out here. In the Fens. I want him to grow up here,’ he said. ‘In all this space, all this freedom.’
    â€˜All this sky,’ she said. ‘Me too. I like to see so far. There is a magic here – very good for childhood. For
im-ag-in-a-tion
.’ She pronounced all five syllables to make it clear which word she meant, then picked up her plate. ‘Let’s eat outside.’

EIGHT
Friday
    V ee Hilgay woke up with her head turned to the clock as she always did. It was two minutes to five, and the alarm was set for the hour. She was seventy-four years old and had never yet been woken by an alarm clock. Her life had so far contained more than its fair share of grief. She preferred not to lie awake and stew in the past. And she was aware that she’d had more than her fair share of privilege too. A wealthy childhood, university, health. So before the rhythmic electronic buzz had completed its cycle of six she was on her feet.
    Her bedsit was large and modern: a German galley kitchen in steel, a Habitat desk, a bookcase handmade for the space and neatly filled – each