Mourners made their way past them. Tom knew very few. There was a wake organised at a local golf club, Tom didn't plan to attend unless Alice specifically asked. There were few children present and given the choice he would take Saffy somewhere else. She'd already been through enough today and under normal circumstances he didn't see funerals as a place for children.
Carol Martins approached. He smiled a polite greeting and she returned it, reaching out a hand and softly stroking Saffy's back. Saffy didn't respond, keeping her head resting on Tom's shoulder. Carol met his eye.
"Ade was right about you."
He wasn't sure how he was supposed to respond to that but figured he didn't need to, so instead he nodded and smiled again.
"Thank you," Carol said, placing a hand on his forearm by way of appreciation before moving on.
Alice came alongside, angling her head so she could see Saffy's face. Saffy reached out with one hand and her mother grasped it gently.
"How are you doing, Monkey?"
"Okay," Saffy said, lifting her head away from Tom. She looked into his eyes. "Are you coming home?"
Tom exchanged a quick look with Alice who watched him expectantly. He smiled at Saffy. "Yes, Sweetheart. I'm coming home."
The next book in the series;
Kill Them Cold
Hidden Norfolk - Book 7
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Kill Them Cold - Preview
Hidden Norfolk - Book 7
For once, it was a relief to escape the chaos. The music, the laughter and the boisterous behaviour, the sound of which, although muted, still carried to her as she walked. The fresh air made her feel dizzy. Had she really drunk that much? The sound of waves in the distance crashing against the beach and insects chirping in the nearby brush was reminiscent of Mediterranean holidays, if not for the lack of dust underfoot she could easily imagine she was in southern France or on a sparsely populated Greek island.
The night was clear; the moon looming large in the sky illuminating the path. A gentle breeze passed over the sea of reeds, whispering to her politely, feeling cool on her skin. Brushing aside the hair clinging to her forehead, still clammy with sweat from the packed pub, she looked back. Movement from within showed the party was in full swing and didn’t look like ending anytime soon. Usually, she would be in the thick of it.
But not tonight. She’d had enough.
There were those who would be pleased she’d ducked out early. The jealous ones. Those who smiled sweetly but would actively savage her the moment she turned her back. It wasn’t her fault they were being ignored. They should look at themselves in the mirror before shooting daggers in her direction. Men were visual creatures. More so when they drink. Even the intellectual ones, not that they’d admit it if asked.
Men were curious beings, so easy to entertain and so quick to convince themselves of their unique qualities. Despite observing the experience of others, their rise and subsequent fall, when it came to themselves they were convinced that this time would be different. They were different. Therefore it followed, as their delusions manifested, that the outcome would also be different.
A quick smile, wide-eyed and welcoming. The occasional flirtatious touch. It didn’t need to be anywhere intimate, just a casual stroke of the back of a hand or forearm and a pulse of electricity would pass between them. This was usually enough. She felt it too. The promise of excitement. The anticipation of something new, intoxicating and rebellious. Their eyes would follow her around the room for the rest of the evening, pretending not to, watching as she interacted with people and silently hoping she would return and make good on her promise. And it would be different. Of course it would be. Other men didn’t possess the same appeal. When she flirted with the others it meant nothing, and when she came back to them it was because they had what she needed. Each man thought he was special. He was the one.
They were all wrong, of course.
The older men were an interesting challenge. Having done a few laps of the track already, they knew the rules of the game far better than the twenty-somethings. Not that they were immune, though. They were easy to draw in, but much harder to convert. They knew better. The risk was greater, for they usually had more to lose than merely a bruising encounter with their pride. But a man’s ego can take on its own mischievous character, whispering plausible narratives in otherwise deaf ears.
The attention was nice and all but, contrary to popular belief, it wasn’t attention that she craved. She wasn’t mistaking male company for the displaced love of her childhood or whatever pop-psychology was thrown at her this time. No, the high came from the feeling of power. The thrill of watching them react to her, male or female, and playing one off against another without making it too obvious. The physical thrill was fun too, most of the
