Doing his best to hold Luke steady, Fleet turned his head from side to side. They were right in the center of the waterway, a twenty-meter swim to either bank. With all his strength gone, and knowing it was probably useless, Fleet began kicking with his legs. His rib cage screamed at him, and when his body convulsed, his head whipped back and he found himself breathing in a mouthful of water. He coughed, kicked again, blind now, and kept on kicking until exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him. By the end, he couldn’t be sure his legs were moving at all anymore, or whether he and Luke hadn’t been turned back around and were being carried by the river straight out to sea.
But then he heard a voice, and felt something latch on to his arm. “I’ve got you,” said the voice, over and over, and Fleet would have sworn in that moment that it was Jeannie’s. His little sister, a ghost in the river, come to bear him back to shore. Luke, he tried to say, but he found himself gasping. And then the weight Fleet was bearing suddenly lifted, and after that he was aware of nothing more.
DAY TEN
HE SPOTTED HER the moment he stepped outside. She had on her raincoat, even though the weather was finally lifting. The rain had stopped, anyway, and a gentle breeze was stirring the puddles on the pavement. On the horizon there was even a streak of blue, approximately the color of Holly’s eyes. On a good day, that is. When she was cross, or upset, her eyes turned darker, more like the clouds that still dominated the sky.
Fleet descended the steps, and checked quickly in both directions before crossing the road.
“I figured you must have left,” he said, as he drew near. He hadn’t seen Holly since he’d woken up to the sight of her the day before—the morning after his altercation with Stephen Payne. In the time since, and following his little swim in the river, Fleet had spent the night at the local hospital, before discharging himself first thing that morning and heading directly to the station. It was now late afternoon, and the investigation was as good as over, though the repercussions of what Fleet had uncovered were only just beginning to unfold.
“I’ve been spending some time with Anne,” Holly said to him. “She gave me a tour of the local sights.”
In all their years together, Holly had never seen the town in which Fleet had grown up. His choice, obviously—not hers.
Fleet looked at his watch. “I can’t imagine that would have taken very long. What have you been doing for the other thirty-five and a half hours?”
“Shopping,” said Holly, and she reached into her pocket. “Here. After what you’ve been through, I imagine you feel like you need them. And I felt bad for throwing yours away.” She held out a ten-pack of cigarettes. “I couldn’t bring myself to buy you twenty. You can think of these as being like a countdown. Ten more, and then you stop. Agreed?”
Fleet narrowed his eyes at her. He took the packet from her hand, then shook out a cigarette and planted it between his lips. “Thanks,” he mumbled. He patted his jacket. “I don’t suppose you brought a—”
“Agreed?” Holly repeated. This time she held out a box of matches, just out of Fleet’s reach. She gave it a rattle.
Fleet smiled. He plucked the cigarette from his mouth, and fed it back into the packet. “In which case,” he said, “I suppose I’d better make them count.” He tucked both the cigarettes and the matches into his pocket. The truth was, he didn’t feel much like smoking right now anyway. His lungs felt as though the insides had been scrubbed with sandpaper, and his throat was equally as raw. And with his ribs the way they were, it was hard enough breathing as it was, without adding carbon monoxide into the mix.
There was a low brick wall at the edge of the pavement, and Fleet moved to sit down. Holly propped herself beside him, so that together they faced the police station. As they watched, the building’s doors opened, and one by one they began to file out. Abigail Marshall. Cora Briggs. Fareed Hussein. And finally, tentatively, as though he were expecting to walk into an ambush, Mason Payne. He was right to be wary, Fleet thought, although by now the press would most likely have lost interest in him. The story had moved on. And anyway, the hacks were for the most part otherwise engaged. Inside the building, Superintendent Burton was finally hosting the press conference he’d been obliged to delay, though Christ knew what the man was saying. Fleet made a mental note to avoid the evening news. Now that he knew the truth, he had no interest in how the superintendent chose to spin it.
“Is that them?” said Holly.
Even as she spoke, the kids spotted Fleet across the road from them. There were mutterings, Fleet sensed—and then Cora raised her middle finger.
“Yeah,” said Fleet. “That’s them.” He returned Cora’s salute with a nod.
“What’s going to happen to them?” Holly asked him.
As he watched the kids walk off—Fash in front, Cora and Abi side by side, and Mason dragging his feet just behind—Fleet
