north-east corner of the house, on the landward side, and
the shape of the roof obscured all but a sliver of sea. But the elevation
gave him an interesting vantage point from which to observe
Dreamscape, and a little of the house beyond it.
To his father and his sister, the room was his observatory, and it
was true that for a time he had developed an interest in astronomy.
The box of Kleenex he kept up here told a slightly different story, but
Oliver didn’t much care what they thought. He never had.
Now he mulled over the developments at Dreamscape. As far as
he was aware, his father hadn’t commissioned any building or maintenance
work. So why would the van need to go into the garage?
'Unloading something?’ he murmured to himself.
Plausible. But why close the doors?
'Unloading something . . . fragile? Private?’ The philanderer must
have some sort of scam going, and Oliver wanted to know what it was.
Of course, there was one easy way to find out. Dreamscape still
belonged to his father, after all. There was a set of keys downstairs.
He could simply go next door and let himself in.
Potentially thrilling, and not a little dangerous. But would it be as
much fun as watching, he wondered. So often in life the real pleasure
was to be found in anticipation, in allowing the marvellous fertility
of his imagination to be unleashed, free from the constraints of grim reality.
For now, Oliver decided, it was better to wait.
And watch.
Joe climbed into the driver’s seat, searching for the phrase that summed
up his predicament. Between a rock and a hard place probably said it
best.
He started the engine. Glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw
Valentin and McWhirter retreat inside the house.
'What did he say?’ Cassie asked.
'Nothing much.’
'He must have said something.’
'Just told me to look after you.’
Cassie didn’t push it, but there was a strained quality to the silence
that followed. Joe eased the Shogun through the open gates and turned
onto the road. There was no one in sight in either direction. With
just a single row of houses along the shore, the opposite side of the
road was bordered by Smugglers’ Copse: several acres of boggy woodland,
intersected by a network of overgrown paths. Protected from
development by a covenant, these woods formed a barrier between
the residential area and the training camp.
It was half a mile or so to the bridge, and Joe kept his speed low.
Checking his mirror again, he saw Sofia’s head beginning to droop,
her eyes heavy. Cassie was staring out of her window, perhaps to avoid
conversation.
Just before the bridgehead they passed the entrance to the Ministry
of Defence land: a set of high double gates, plastered with stern warning
signs. Joe checked to his right out of habit, but he hadn’t seen any
activity at the camp for months.
Next up, on the left, was the big dilapidated shed that had once
housed the chain ferry. The bridge was built alongside the route that
the ferry had taken. Barely wide enough for two cars, the bridge was
about a hundred and fifty feet long and elevated above the causeway
by fifteen feet.
Today, unusually, Joe had to pull in and wait for an oncoming car.
It was a black Cadillac limousine, straddling the road as it crossed the
bridge. The driver wore a dark suit and sunglasses. He seemed to be
staring straight ahead, as though no one else on the road mattered a
damn.
It was only when the car drew alongside that Joe caught a glimpse
of the single passenger in the back. His impression was of a large,
bulky figure, a man in his late fifties or early sixties. Completely bald,
with strong, square features and a brooding gaze.
Their eyes met for only a fraction of a second, but Joe felt a jolt
of recognition. His reaction was mirrored in the other man’s face, and
then the Cadillac swept past.
Joe drove onto the bridge, trying to place where he might have
seen him before. He glanced to his left, intending to ask if Cassie
had got a clear look at him, and saw
the shape of the roof obscured all but a sliver of sea. But the elevation
gave him an interesting vantage point from which to observe
Dreamscape, and a little of the house beyond it.
To his father and his sister, the room was his observatory, and it
was true that for a time he had developed an interest in astronomy.
The box of Kleenex he kept up here told a slightly different story, but
Oliver didn’t much care what they thought. He never had.
Now he mulled over the developments at Dreamscape. As far as
he was aware, his father hadn’t commissioned any building or maintenance
work. So why would the van need to go into the garage?
'Unloading something?’ he murmured to himself.
Plausible. But why close the doors?
'Unloading something . . . fragile? Private?’ The philanderer must
have some sort of scam going, and Oliver wanted to know what it was.
Of course, there was one easy way to find out. Dreamscape still
belonged to his father, after all. There was a set of keys downstairs.
He could simply go next door and let himself in.
Potentially thrilling, and not a little dangerous. But would it be as
much fun as watching, he wondered. So often in life the real pleasure
was to be found in anticipation, in allowing the marvellous fertility
of his imagination to be unleashed, free from the constraints of grim reality.
For now, Oliver decided, it was better to wait.
And watch.
Joe climbed into the driver’s seat, searching for the phrase that summed
up his predicament. Between a rock and a hard place probably said it
best.
He started the engine. Glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw
Valentin and McWhirter retreat inside the house.
'What did he say?’ Cassie asked.
'Nothing much.’
'He must have said something.’
'Just told me to look after you.’
Cassie didn’t push it, but there was a strained quality to the silence
that followed. Joe eased the Shogun through the open gates and turned
onto the road. There was no one in sight in either direction. With
just a single row of houses along the shore, the opposite side of the
road was bordered by Smugglers’ Copse: several acres of boggy woodland,
intersected by a network of overgrown paths. Protected from
development by a covenant, these woods formed a barrier between
the residential area and the training camp.
It was half a mile or so to the bridge, and Joe kept his speed low.
Checking his mirror again, he saw Sofia’s head beginning to droop,
her eyes heavy. Cassie was staring out of her window, perhaps to avoid
conversation.
Just before the bridgehead they passed the entrance to the Ministry
of Defence land: a set of high double gates, plastered with stern warning
signs. Joe checked to his right out of habit, but he hadn’t seen any
activity at the camp for months.
Next up, on the left, was the big dilapidated shed that had once
housed the chain ferry. The bridge was built alongside the route that
the ferry had taken. Barely wide enough for two cars, the bridge was
about a hundred and fifty feet long and elevated above the causeway
by fifteen feet.
Today, unusually, Joe had to pull in and wait for an oncoming car.
It was a black Cadillac limousine, straddling the road as it crossed the
bridge. The driver wore a dark suit and sunglasses. He seemed to be
staring straight ahead, as though no one else on the road mattered a
damn.
It was only when the car drew alongside that Joe caught a glimpse
of the single passenger in the back. His impression was of a large,
bulky figure, a man in his late fifties or early sixties. Completely bald,
with strong, square features and a brooding gaze.
Their eyes met for only a fraction of a second, but Joe felt a jolt
of recognition. His reaction was mirrored in the other man’s face, and
then the Cadillac swept past.
Joe drove onto the bridge, trying to place where he might have
seen him before. He glanced to his left, intending to ask if Cassie
had got a clear look at him, and saw
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