'Two decades and a Glory Be for luck.'
They look at each other over the newly dug grave and smile. Ruth feels that she ought to say something but, somehow, silence feels right just then. Geese call, high overhead, and a light rain starts to fall.
'I'd better be going,' says Nelson, but he doesn't move.
Ruth looks at him, the rain falling softly on her hair.
Nelson smiles, an oddly gentle smile. Ruth opens her mouth to speak but the silence is broken by a voice that seems to come from another world, another existence.
'Ruth! What are you doing out here?'
It is Peter.
When Nelson drives away, gruff and professional once more, Ruth makes more coffee and sits at the table with Peter.
He looks good, thinks Ruth. His gingery blond hair is shorter, he is about a stone lighter and he even has a tan, something so unusual (Peter has typical redhead's skin) that it makes him look almost shockingly different.
'You're looking well,' says Peter.
'I'm not,' says Ruth bluntly, aware that she is wearing no make-up and that her hair has gone crinkly from the rain.
There is a short silence.
'Who was that man again?' asks Peter.
'It's a long story,' says Ruth.
Peter is a good audience. He is satisfyingly shocked at the death of Sparky – he did love the cats, she remembers – and properly fascinated by the Iron Age bodies and the causeway. She tells him a little about the police investigations, but not about the letters, and he says that he has read about the Scarlet Henderson case.
'Poor little girl. Terrible for the parents. Do the police really think that the murderer might have killed Sparky as a sort of warning to you?'
'It's a possibility, they think.'
'God, Ruth. You do live, don't you?'
Ruth doesn't reply. She thinks she detects a tinge of envy in Peter's voice for her supposedly exciting life. She wants to tell him that, far from being excited, she actually feels lonely and rather scared. She looks at him, wondering how honest she wants to be.
It is odd to see Peter in the cottage again. He and Ruth had lived here together for a year. Ruth bought the cottage a few years after the henge dig, still drawn to the Saltmarsh and its eerie, desolate beauty. By that time she and Peter had been living together for two years and there was some talk of their buying the place together. Ruth had resisted, at the time she wasn't even sure why, and Peter had given in. The little cottage was hers alone, and she remembers that when Peter moved out, the house didn't even seem to notice. There were a few gaps on the walls and in her bookshelves but, on the whole, the house seemed to close in on her, satisfied. At last they were alone.
'I've missed this place,' says Peter, looking out of the window.
'Have you?'
'Yes, living in London you never get to see the sky.
There's so much sky here.'
Ruth looks out at the expanse of stormy, gunmetal sky where the lowering clouds are chasing each other over the marshes.
'Lots of sky,' she agrees. 'But not much else.'
'I like it,' says Peter, 'I like the loneliness.'
'So do I,' says Ruth.
Peter is looking sadly into his coffee cup. 'Poor little Sparky,' he says. 'I remember when we first brought her home. She was no bigger than that squeaky mouse toy we bought her.'
Ruth can't take much more of this. 'Come on,' she says.
'Let's go for a walk. I'll show you the causeway.'
The wind has grown stronger and, as they walk, they have to lower their heads to stop the sand blowing into their eyes. Ruth would be happy to stomp along in silence but Peter seems keen to chat. He tells her about his work, his recent skiing trip (hence the tan) and his views on the government, which had just been elected that heady summer ten years ago. He doesn't, once, mention Victoria or Daniel. Ruth tells him about her work, her family and the Iron Age bodies.
'What does Erik think?' asks Peter. He is walking fast, striding over the uneven ground. Ruth almost has to jog to keep up with him.
'He thinks they're all connected.'
'Oh yes.' Peter adopts a thick Norwegian accent. 'The sacred site, the power of the landscape, the gateway between life and death.'
Ruth laughs. 'Exactly. Phil, on the other hand, thinks it's all coincidence pending geophysics reports and radiocarbon dating.'
'What do you think?'
Ruth pauses. She realises that Erik never once asked her this question.
'I think they're connected,' she says at last. 'The first Iron Age body marks the beginning of the marsh, the causeway leads almost straight to the henge which marks the point where the marsh became tidal. I don't know about the Spenwell bones but they must mark a boundary of some sort. Boundaries are important. Even now, look how important it is that we keep things in their proper place. 'Keep your distance' people say. I think prehistoric people knew how to keep their distance.'
'You were always keen on your own space,' says Peter, slightly bitterly.
Ruth looks at him. 'This isn't about me.'
'Isn't it?'
They have reached the first buried post.
Peter pats the oak stump meditatively. 'Will you have to uproot the posts?'
'Erik doesn't want to.'
'I remember all that fuss when we dug up the henge. The druids tying themselves to the posts and the police dragging them away.'
'Yes.' Ruth remembers it too. Vividly. 'The only thing is… we did find out a hell of a lot about the henge by excavating. The type of axe used to chop the wood down, for example. We even found some of the rope used to tow it.'
'Honeysuckle rope wasn't it?'
'You've got a good memory.'
'I remember everything about that summer.'
Seeing Peter looking at her intently, Ruth avoids his gaze. She stares at the sea, where the waves are breaking a long way out, white against the grey. A stone skims past her, jumping once, twice, three times.
Ruth turns to look at Peter who grins, flexing his arm.
'You were always good at that,' says Ruth.
'It's a man thing.'
They are silent for a moment, watching the waves come closer and closer to their feet. There is always the temptation, thinks Ruth, to stay just a little bit too long, to stand on the water's edge until the spray actually gets you. And it's not always the wave you expect, the spectacular breakers hurling themselves against the shore. Sometimes it's the sneaky waves, the ones that come from nowhere, sucking the sand away from your feet; sometimes it's these waves that take you by surprise.
'Peter,' says Ruth at last, 'why are you here?'
'I told you, to research my book.'
Ruth continues to look at him. The wind is whipping the sand up into a storm. It flies in their faces, like a fine gritty rain. Ruth rubs her eyes, tasting salt in the air. Peter, too, brushes sand out of his eyes. When he looks back at Ruth, his eyes are red.
'Victoria and I, we've split up. I suppose I… I just wanted to come back.'
