out if he tried to do it that way. Try and flap his way to the bank or call for help. He was a fucking coward. That’s why he was here in the middle of the night.
Shutting his eyes to squeeze out a final tear, he backed off from the water and walked up to the bridge, checking to make sure he wasn’t looking down at land. He was too close still: his body might spin as it fell and he’d land on the bank. He took five sideways steps, climbed up onto the railing, thought of Vhari wearing a summer dress and touching her hair, and toppled off the bridge.
He wasn’t frightened as he fell. He knew the water would be piercingly cold, that he was falling from high enough for the landing contact to break bones, but he convinced himself that he would land on a bed of cushions and his body relaxed into the fall, expecting softness. He fell happily.
A second before he hit the rush of greedy black water, Mark Thillingly realized that he had learned the trick of being brave.
SEVEN
THE SAD FATE OF THE LATE AND THE LOST
I
Kate awoke with a start. She had been dreaming that a giant insect was sitting on her throat, its hollow proboscis burrowing into the soft skin on her forehead, sucking out a blackhead that turned into a reservoir of pus. She woke up slapping at herself, her elbows rattling noisily against the wooden floor of the boathouse, frightened and bewildered as to where she was and who had put her there. She sat up against the orange box, looking around in the near dark and realizing how cold it was. She was lucky not to have frozen to death in the damp. She could see her breath and had nothing on but a linen suit and a blouse. She was missing a shoe.
Her eyes adjusted to the light and she realized she was in her grandfather’s boathouse. Loch Lomond, for God’s sake. She reached blindly up over her head, feeling on top of the box, and smiled as her hand felt the cold of the snuffbox kissing her fingertips. But then she heard the engines and froze.
Two cars, quiet, good engines, good motion. Driving slowly along the road, looking, definitely looking, for something. One set of wheels coming off the smooth black tarmac and crunching over the dirt drive in front of the cottage. Only one set, though. If it was them they’d both want to be off the road in case she was there, so that they would be less visible to a passerby. The second set of wheels crunched slowly in a turn. She stood up unsteadily, shedding her one shoe, and looked out of the crack again.
Two BMWs parked side by side. It was getting dark outside but she knew him from the shape of his head. She could have recognized him from part of an ear, a shoulder, a toe because she’d spent so long watching him sleep and eat and make love. She remembered every corner of him. From the second car came two men, neds, one wearing a sheepskin. Cheap gangster look. He was letting himself down being seen with men like that. He didn’t need to employ cheap-looking men. There had to be well-dressed gophers, surely.
He’d have laughed if he heard her say that. Once upon a time he’d have laughed, but maybe not now.
She had left the cottage door unlocked and they didn’t knock, just pushed it open and walked in. She watched as the light went on in the hall, a bright yellow light radiating out into the cold night. She should be sitting inside the door in her underwear, waiting to greet him.
She thought of the two men coming in through the door and giggled, imagining them embarrassed, overwhelmed by her sexiness. God, he’d say, you are stunning, and look at her with the shining-eyed, hungry admiration he had that night in Venice.
She looked fondly toward the house, thinking of him in there, looking for her. She almost went to him but a small window of insight opened up in her coke-scrambled head, and she remembered that Vhari was dead, murdered.
Kate watched the house through the boathouse window and wondered what she had done wrong. She stumbled noiselessly over to the
Shutting his eyes to squeeze out a final tear, he backed off from the water and walked up to the bridge, checking to make sure he wasn’t looking down at land. He was too close still: his body might spin as it fell and he’d land on the bank. He took five sideways steps, climbed up onto the railing, thought of Vhari wearing a summer dress and touching her hair, and toppled off the bridge.
He wasn’t frightened as he fell. He knew the water would be piercingly cold, that he was falling from high enough for the landing contact to break bones, but he convinced himself that he would land on a bed of cushions and his body relaxed into the fall, expecting softness. He fell happily.
A second before he hit the rush of greedy black water, Mark Thillingly realized that he had learned the trick of being brave.
SEVEN
THE SAD FATE OF THE LATE AND THE LOST
I
Kate awoke with a start. She had been dreaming that a giant insect was sitting on her throat, its hollow proboscis burrowing into the soft skin on her forehead, sucking out a blackhead that turned into a reservoir of pus. She woke up slapping at herself, her elbows rattling noisily against the wooden floor of the boathouse, frightened and bewildered as to where she was and who had put her there. She sat up against the orange box, looking around in the near dark and realizing how cold it was. She was lucky not to have frozen to death in the damp. She could see her breath and had nothing on but a linen suit and a blouse. She was missing a shoe.
Her eyes adjusted to the light and she realized she was in her grandfather’s boathouse. Loch Lomond, for God’s sake. She reached blindly up over her head, feeling on top of the box, and smiled as her hand felt the cold of the snuffbox kissing her fingertips. But then she heard the engines and froze.
Two cars, quiet, good engines, good motion. Driving slowly along the road, looking, definitely looking, for something. One set of wheels coming off the smooth black tarmac and crunching over the dirt drive in front of the cottage. Only one set, though. If it was them they’d both want to be off the road in case she was there, so that they would be less visible to a passerby. The second set of wheels crunched slowly in a turn. She stood up unsteadily, shedding her one shoe, and looked out of the crack again.
Two BMWs parked side by side. It was getting dark outside but she knew him from the shape of his head. She could have recognized him from part of an ear, a shoulder, a toe because she’d spent so long watching him sleep and eat and make love. She remembered every corner of him. From the second car came two men, neds, one wearing a sheepskin. Cheap gangster look. He was letting himself down being seen with men like that. He didn’t need to employ cheap-looking men. There had to be well-dressed gophers, surely.
He’d have laughed if he heard her say that. Once upon a time he’d have laughed, but maybe not now.
She had left the cottage door unlocked and they didn’t knock, just pushed it open and walked in. She watched as the light went on in the hall, a bright yellow light radiating out into the cold night. She should be sitting inside the door in her underwear, waiting to greet him.
She thought of the two men coming in through the door and giggled, imagining them embarrassed, overwhelmed by her sexiness. God, he’d say, you are stunning, and look at her with the shining-eyed, hungry admiration he had that night in Venice.
She looked fondly toward the house, thinking of him in there, looking for her. She almost went to him but a small window of insight opened up in her coke-scrambled head, and she remembered that Vhari was dead, murdered.
Kate watched the house through the boathouse window and wondered what she had done wrong. She stumbled noiselessly over to the
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