Accidents Happen A Novel

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE



An hour later, Kate walked around the kitchen, clearing plates and checking the clock.

Seven o’clock, and still no text from Jago.

Where was he?

She had actually enjoyed today, and wanted it to continue. Sitting at the table with Jack to eat had been a revelation. For the first time that she could remember, they’d both had second helpings. They talked about his cricket practice, and Jack had mentioned a film he wanted to see, which had given her an idea.

She blew out the candle.

And now, if only Jago would text, this might be the closest she’d had to a normal day in a very long time. This idea of having something to look forward to again was becoming addictive.

She put her and Jack’s dirty dinner plates into the dishwasher. She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Jago all week, and the crazy night in Chumsley Norton. The episode came back to her in waves. Disbelief at what he had done, how she had reacted, and then a guilty thrill at what had happened afterwards. Yet now it looked as if he wasn’t going to text her after all. She wiped her hands. She had a bloody good mind to go to the shed and read his book.

That was funny, she considered, hesitating by the recycling bin. Jago hadn’t mentioned his lost bag, and she’d completely forgotten to tell him the waitress had found it.

Wrapped in thought, Kate threw the cardboard packet from the couscous into the kitchen recycling box, on top of an empty tin of tomatoes, and porridge and nut packets they’d used for the flapjacks and brownies, noting with surprise that the box was already full. She lifted it and felt its weight. That was unusual. They normally only half filled one box a week. She carried it out of the kitchen, vaguely aware of a new strength in her muscles, as if someone had changed her batteries.

Her stomach gurgled at the presence of paprika and turmeric. The food had been so much richer than they usually ate. In fact, Kate thought, opening the front door, she really should have kept Jack at home longer to digest his food before . . .

Pow!

The number came out of nowhere. The one she had every time Jack went to the park with Gabe and Damon.

• A third of sexual crimes are committed against children under 16.

‘Shit,’ Kate murmured, slamming the door and dropping the recycling box in the hall. Where the hell had that come from? She stood against the wall. There had been so few numbers today. Only three major ones instead of the usual ten or twelve.

‘Don’t think about it,’ Kate said to herself. She sat down on the stairs. ‘It’s nonsense. An average of what has happened doesn’t guarantee it will or won’t happen to me or Jack. And if you don’t give him some independence, he’ll never grow up.’

She forced herself to her feet, opened the door and . . .

. . . The swarm inside her head had gone.

She stood on the doorstep, checking cautiously.

No. Really. It was gone. That quickly. Pleased, she stepped forwards to empty the kitchen box into the green recycling bin quickly, before turning to shut the front door behind her.

This was really working, she smiled. Just thinking about Jago and his advice improved things instantly.

And she was thinking about him.

Constantly.

Especially about the kiss on the dark country road, and then in the car.

Kate walked to the mirror. She ran a hand down over the flat front of her new T-shirt, stopping it on her hipbones. She had woken at 3 a.m., in the dark, and found herself imagining Jago lying next to her on the opposite pillow, watching. In the dim light of the moon coming through her curtains, she had thrown back her covers, lain sideways and slipped a hand under her nightshirt, allowing it to rest on the dip in her waist, as if the hand were his. She had explored her body, to see what he would find. What she discovered was a mountain range of jutting hip and clavicle bones, and sharp ribs that made bridges across her chest above the hollow valley of her stomach. Two quiet little mounds of breast in the middle that no longer filled the old bras she couldn’t be bothered to replace. The rough terrain of dry skin on neglected knees and elbows.

What would she see in his eyes if he ever saw all this, she thought again, looking in the mirror? Disgust? Pity?

Hugo had loved it. All of it. Pregnant, ill, stretched, shrunken. From the start, and to the end.

Last night, Kate had turned over onto her stomach and pulled the covers close. She had only kissed Jago. He had made it clear he was not going to expect more unless she wanted to. She still had a choice. She did not need to let him see her this way, so there was no point anticipating her own self-consciousness or his disappointment.

Yet, as she looked now in the hall mirror, she knew that wasn’t really true. Her body was rebelling. She was wearing earrings for the first time in years, bought before she knew what she was doing, this afternoon in Oxford. The small silver hoops hung under her hair, in reopened holes stinging slightly, emphasizing the cut of her cheekbones. A newly fitted lace bra sat under a pretty charcoal top that set off the blackness of her hair and the amber of her eyes. The choice was slipping away from her. Jago’s kisses had jump-started her body out of a five-year slumber, whether she liked it or not.

And now her body was staging its own private coup, waking her up at 3 a.m. to think about him lying opposite her on the pillow, when her mind was telling her to proceed slowly.

You have a child, it said. If this man can help you, fine; if he can bring you and Jack back together, fantastic; but your priority must always be fixing your relationship with Jack not what you want. You need to get to know this man before you think of doing anything serious with him because . . .

Drriiiiinggg.

Kate jumped.

Sass. Please, be Sass.

She walked to the front door and opened it.

‘Oh! Hey!’ said a tall man with glasses standing there, very close to the doorway. His head jerked back as if he were surprised to see her.

‘Oh,’ Kate said, startled, moving back. ‘Hi.’

‘Magnus!’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘Your neighbour.’

‘Oh, hello,’ Kate replied, giving him hers automatically. The man took her hand in large, damp fingers. He grasped it hard. Too hard. He grasped it till the bones squeezed it together and it began to hurt. It was all she could do not to say ‘ow’. She pulled it back off him, and stepped back into the house to give herself more space.

This must be the one Sass was talking about.

‘You know maybe when the bin men come?’ he asked, waving an arm towards the dustbins outside his own house.

‘Oh. Tomorrow,’ she said, putting her hand under her arm to stop him grasping it again. ‘Wednesday.’ How could the students not know that? No wonder there were bloody binbags all over the front of their garden.

He still wasn’t moving back. She felt herself withdrawing further. Didn’t they have personal space where he came from?

‘Tomorrow? Hey, great. Thank you.’ He paused and looked at her for a long second. The look made her want to pull even further inside her house. But before she could, the student walked off.

Kate nodded uneasily. ‘You’re welcome.’

Relieved, she shut the door. She walked quickly to the kitchen and washed her hands. Saskia was right. A little strange.

Her phone buzzed on the kitchen table. She dried her hands and grabbed it, praying.

‘Yes!’ she hissed, when she saw Jago’s number.

Blackwell’s at 7.45 pm

Kate’s face broke back into a happy grin. ‘Bit close to the bone there, mate,’ she said.

She walked around, tidying the kitchen, imagining telling Jago about the weird student.

‘Kate, he’s just a student with a nervous handshake who turns into a tosser around women,’ she imagined him saying. ‘Trust me, I have six of him in every class. You’ve got to tell the difference between real danger and imagined danger.’

She looked at the clock. Only half an hour till she saw him.

‘Please, Sass,’ she muttered, before running upstairs to clean her teeth, her thoughts about the odd student next door left downstairs, her mind now fixed on a challenge she’d been planning to set herself all day.

Saskia came just before 7.30 p.m., full of apologies, her fine pale hair even flatter than normal, as if she had spent the day pushing it back. To Kate’s relief, Jack arrived back at the same time, with Gabe and Damon in tow to drop him off, their cheeks all flushed from playing football. Inwardly, Kate congratulated herself for the second time this week. She had managed not to phone Jack in the park to check up on him, and he looked as if he’d had fun.

This was all going even better than she’d hoped. And now she was going to try something she hadn’t done in years. She was going to try to cycle to Broad Street on the road.

Determined, Kate pulled on her denim jacket and, at the last minute, remembered to grab the bag with her ankle boots. She buckled up her new bike helmet firmly, checking the straps twice, and went outside. ‘Jack, show Sass where the dinner is, will you?’ she called, taking her bike out of the sidegate.

Then she saw Jack and the other two boys mumbling at each other, scowling at her under their skater-boy fringes.

‘Jack’s mum?’

The call came from Gabe. She turned as she walked down the drive, to see Jack hitting Gabe’s arm crossly.

She stopped reluctantly, anxious to face the challenge she’d set herself. ‘Hi, Gabe.’

‘Can Jack come to my sleepover on Saturday? My mum’s says he’s got to ask you, and he keeps not asking you because it’s in the garden and he thinks you’ll say no. And if you say no, I’m going to ask Sid. So can he?’

The smile slid off Kate’s face.

In the garden? What was he talking about?

‘Oh, what? Like camping, Gabe, in a tent?’

‘No – on the trampoline. In the sleeping bags.’

He was joking? Three ten- and eleven-year-olds, lying outside at night, alone in a city, with city foxes, and burglars and . . .

The numbers began to buzz annoyingly in her head.

Kate realized everyone was looking at her: Saskia, Jack and his friends. She tried to pull herself together.

Gabe stared curiously at her freshly blow-dried hair, and she lowered her made-up eyes.

‘It’s just my mum thinks you might worry about it . . .’

‘Shut up, Gabe,’ Jack glowered.

‘My mum said yes,’ Damon piped up.

Kate saw Saskia start to open her mouth, probably to tell some irritating story about how her and ‘Hugs’ used to camp in their garden, and shot her a dirty look.

Don’t dare, it said.

Then, to her sorrow, Kate saw Jack jut his jaw tensely as he had in the car the day she’d gone to Sylvia’s. He was embarrassed. In front of his friends.

The buzz of numbers grew louder in Kate’s head. She tried to ignore them, cursing Gill, Gabe’s mum, for putting her in this position.

‘Um, listen, I’m in a hurry, Gabe,’ she said, trying to keep her tone bright. ‘Can you tell your mum I’ll ring her tomorrow? And, Sass, don’t wait up, I might be a bit later tonight,’ she continued, pushing off on her bike before Saskia could interrogate her.

Kate waved at Jack, and pulled into the road, aware of the murmur of astonishment passing between Jack and Saskia as they realized that she was not riding on the pavement. Trying to concentrate, she cycled to the junction and regarded Iffley Road nervously and the long stretch of it that ran right into Oxford.

But it was no good.

Gabe’s request had rattled her. Rattled her good intentions.

She looked up and down Iffley Road. This afternoon, on the way back from Tesco to buy ingredients for the tagine, she’d managed half on the road, the rest on the pavement. Yet now she felt less brave. Kate gripped the handlebars, waiting for a long break in the traffic, then pedalled hard across the road, trying not to think about it. She cycled down Iffley Road as fast as she could, desperate to get this over with.

But the idea of Jack sleeping outside with no adult to protect him was starting to make her feel sick. The other numbers she knew by heart began to bombard her.

• A third of children do not report sexual offences to an adult.

‘Don’t think about it,’ she whispered. A lorry went past, making her swear out loud.

The numbers caught her up again.

• Two-thirds of road accidents happen on 30 mile per hour or less roads.

She tried to ignore it.

• More crime takes place at night than at any other time.

It was no good. Panting, Kate pulled in by the ivy-strewn school on the corner of Magdalen Bridge.

Bloody Gill, and her bloody laid-back, hippy ways.

And this bloody, bloody road.

Kate leaned against a wall, raging at herself. The figures were flying at her so thick and fast now that she suspected she might have to push her bike all the way to Blackwell’s, which would make her late for Jago.

‘Get a grip,’ she told herself. ‘Lots of stats are made up by people to sell things. Jack wouldn’t be on his own in the garden. The others would be there. If you don’t do it, he’ll be left out of the group.

One thousand.

Two thousand.

Three thousand.

Four . . .

Seconds later, she started to relax. A minute later, she was back to normal. Tentatively, she climbed back on her bike and headed shakily across Magdalen Bridge.

Almost immediately, she found herself in a pack of city cyclists. Mostly students, and a mother, to her alarm, with a toddler in a child’s seat. Kate stayed firmly in the middle, as if the pack would protect her, gritting her teeth. The toddler was laughing, as his mother cheerfully sang ‘The Wheels on the Bike Go Round and Round’. Kate gripped her handlebars as if she was hanging from a trapeze as the road dipped round to Longwall Street, to the quieter turn-off to Hollywell Street.

Eventually, the welcome width of Broad Street loomed ahead.

‘Come on,’ she muttered.

However, her rhythm started to escape her. Her legs felt as if they were jamming down randomly on the pedals now, at risk of slipping off with each push.

Finally, the Sheldonian Theatre came into view, and Blackwell’s.

She was nearly there.

She had done it!

Kate drew up in the central parking area and dismounted. Her hands were trembling, and she shook them.

She looked behind her, amazed. For the first time in five years, she’d cycled the whole journey on the road. It had been horrible, panic-inducing. But she had done it.

All thanks to Jago.

She looked across the road, with a shiver of anticipation. Broad Street was busy, packed with pedestrians on this summer evening. She couldn’t see him. She pushed her bike through a group of Japanese tourists, to the bike rack by Blackwell’s, conscious of a tremor in her leg muscles, too. Locking her bike, she looked around. A ‘ghost walk’ tourist group was gathering on the pavement. A boy cycled past her in college robes, a carrier bag of wine balanced on each handle.

Kate stood by a wall, glancing intermittently towards Balliol. She was a little early. She wandered to Blackwell’s arched windows and peered in at a display. She checked her watch for the fifth time: 7.52 p.m. Oh God, this wasn’t going to be another of Jago’s taxi rides was it? Because . . .

‘Hey. Good timing.’

She turned, to see Jago walking towards her, holding a rucksack. He was wearing a white T-shirt and darker jeans, and looked really pleased to see her.

‘Hi,’ she said demurely, panicking at how to greet him. Jago had no such reservations. He leaned down, smiling, and kissed her confidently on the mouth, the smell and touch of him making her blush a little – then he stepped back and hit himself on the forehead.

‘Shit.’ He held out his rucksack. ‘Can you take this, Kate – my bike’s just there.’ He pointed. ‘I’ve left my jacket in my room.’

Kate nodded, trying to hide her flushed cheeks.

‘You look nice.’ He winked, walking back towards Balliol. Kate pushed her hair behind her ears awkwardly, trying to remember how to behave in this situation. She had met Hugo when she was twenty-one. It hadn’t felt awkward then, but normal. He was the last in a steady succession of teenage and college boyfriends, so she was well practised. She took the rucksack to Jago’s bike, noticing a clinking noise inside.

As she went to put it down, a piercing sound made her jump. It was high pitched and sounded like the rape alarm Dad had made her take to university that had gone off on the coach to London. It came from Jago’s bag.

The tourists from the ghost walk looked over.

Squeallll!!

Leaning down, Kate ran her hand along the front of the bag. She felt a hard lump in the front pocket.

The noise stopped suddenly.

She hesitated, about to stand up . . .

Then it started again.

‘Ooh, shut up,’ she muttered. Customers inside Blackwell’s were coming to the window now. Not knowing what else to do, Kate unzipped the pocket. A phone sat on top of Jago’s wallet.

A phone?

‘Marla ringing’, the screen said.

Kate paused.

Marla?

The siren noise was increasingly desperate with each ring.

What should she do?

She hovered her finger over the answer button.

Then, as quickly as it had started, the noise stopped.

‘You missed a call from Marla.’ A message popped up.

‘Right,’ Jago said, coming up behind her, his jacket over his arm. ‘Let’s go.’

‘Oh,’ Kate exclaimed, jumping up. She glanced at the open zip of his bag.

‘I’m sorry, I was just . . .’

‘Was it going off?’ Jago said, bending down. ‘Sorry. I turned the alarm ring tone full up so I could hear it from the shower. My publisher in London was supposed to ring about the launch. Was that him?’ He picked up the phone.

Kate said nothing.

Jago looked at the screen. A shadow passed over his face as he saw the caller’s name.

He looked at Kate. ‘Did you answer?’

‘No!’ she stuttered. ‘No. I wouldn’t . . . I just . . . I . . . it was just ringing and ringing and . . .’

‘No, don’t worry. I’d better just listen to this, though.’ He pressed the message, and held the mobile to his ear. When it had finished, he changed the ring tone back to the one she’d heard before, an acoustic guitar strumming, lost in thought.

‘Oh. OK then.’ He made a face. ‘Well, that’s unexpected.’ He stood up, zipping up his bag. ‘Marla, my ex-girlfriend. I’m supposed to be seeing her in August in the States, but she’s at a conference in Paris, apparently, and wants to stop off in London some time this week.’

Kate tried to keep her expression unassuming.

Jago looked a little stunned. ‘Sorry. That’s thrown me a bit. We haven’t spoken for three months.’

Kate hesitated. ‘Well, do you need to go and ring her? I mean, we can do this another . . .’ She prayed he wouldn’t accept her offer. ‘I mean, I can go.’

Jago stood up. He punched her gently on the arm. ‘Oi, you’re not getting out of this that easily, mate. No. I’ll ring her back later.’ He leaned over and unlocked his bike. ‘Come on.’

‘But if you two have stuff to . . .’

‘Kate, let’s go,’ he said, climbing on his bike. ‘If I’m not mistaken, you and me have business,’ he added, looking back with a heavy-lidded look laden with an ambiguity that sent a shiver through her.

‘OK,’ said Kate, climbing back on her bike. The plastic bag on her handlebars swung against her. ‘Though, Jago. Just a sec. I need to hand this in to that heel bar on the corner first.’ She pointed to the end of Broad Street. ‘It’s open till eight.’

Jago pointed where she now saw steel shutters across the door. ‘It’s five past. You’ve just missed it.’ He put out a hand without hesitation. ‘Give them to me – I’ll drop them in tomorrow.’

‘Oh . . .’ she said, surprised, holding onto them. ‘No, you don’t have to, I mean, I . . .’

Jago kept his hand outstretched. ‘It’s no problem. Really. It’ll take me two seconds in the morning.’

Yet Kate couldn’t let go of her grip on the bag. It was so long since anyone had done anything kind or thoughtful for her, she realized she didn’t know how to respond. A painful rush of memories flashed through her mind: of Hugo, bringing her a coffee when she was working, without her asking. Of sticking her running clothes in the washing machine when she was out, because he knew she’d need them later for the gym, and had forgotten to do them herself.

Kate looked up at Jago and saw him examining her with his blue eyes. In his expression she saw understanding, as if he had guessed what she was thinking.

‘Come on,’ he said gently, prising the bag from her fingers. ‘Let me do this for you. I’d like to help.’

Their fingers touched as he took the bag, sending a tiny thrill through her. He hung it on his handlebars and headed off Broad Street towards town, waving a hand behind him for her to follow. Kate pulled uneasily back out into Broad Street.

‘Hey. Look at you. You’re cycling on the road,’ he called back, picking up speed.

Her mouth twisted into a pleased smile.

Jago went in front, turning right at the top of Broad Street, then on up Woodstock Road. Kate followed, feeling like a new colt, skinny, unsure legs, pushing awkwardly against the pedals as two lorries thundered past her.

• Lorries are involved in nearly a third of all road accidents where people are injured or killed.

Kate shook her head to force the number away. Luckily, a minute later Jago turned left and free-wheeled past rows of mews houses in Jericho. As the traffic died away, he beckoned Kate forwards to cycle side by side.

‘So how’ve you been after Saturday? No after-effects.’

‘No. How are you? You looked a bit surprised back there.’

He shrugged. ‘Sorry I didn’t expect to hear from her again. I’m only going back to North Carolina to pick up my stuff. The last time we spoke she slammed the phone down on me shortly after calling me a “mother-f*cking piece of shit”, if I remember correctly.’

Kate sat back a little more comfortably on her saddle.

‘So, why do you think she’s coming over to London?’

‘I really don’t know. Anyway, it’s not important. What is important . . .’he said, turning onto a bridge across the river, ‘is this. Right. So Step Three: Jump-Start Kate’s Survival Instincts by Completely Terrifying her in an Oxfordshire Village and Nearly Get Brick on Head for Trouble,’ he said. And tonight . . . Step Four: Kate F*cks with the Statistics and Shows them who’s Boss.’

‘Oh God,’ Kate muttered as Jago sped ahead of her with a grin. She picked up her speed to stay with him. At the point in the path where she had veered right towards Sylvia’s last week, Jago forked left. Quickly, the path emptied of joggers and pedestrians. It was narrower, darker, overshadowed by the hanging branches of willow trees.

They passed a fisherman packing down a small red tent as he finished up for the day. With a start, she remembered Jack’s sleepover in Gabe’s garden. Kate’s chest tightened again, and she tried to breathe it away. She could deal with that tomorrow. Now, she needed to concentrate on tonight.

The lights of the last houses started to disappear behind her. It was amazing how in Oxford, just a few hundred yards from the High Street, you could feel you were in the countryside. As the sun began to set, Kate fixed her eye on the reflective spot on Jago’s rear mudguard. They cycled for five more minutes.

Then Jago stopped.

Kate braked and put her feet down. Jago held up a hand as if listening to something. He turned, put his finger over his mouth and climbed off his bike.

‘What?’

He jerked his head towards an opening in a hedge. They pushed their bikes into it, laid them down and emerged on the other side in a meadow. Kate heard her feet squelch and looked down. This was wetland. Her nostrils filled with the potent smell of wild grasses and water mint.

‘OK?’ Jago whispered.

‘Er, no, but go on,’ she replied, glancing around nervously. He took her hand without asking. ‘Come on.’ They set off across the soggy grass, Kate feeling her fingers stiffening in his grip. He was so unselfconscious about these things. Why couldn’t she be? With Hugo, she supposed, there had been no boundaries between their bodies, but this was a new country with Jago. A new hand, a new size, a new grip. Strange and foreign.

Two minutes later they arrived at a gap further along the hedge. Jago peered through it back onto the towpath.

‘Come here.’

He put a hand around her waist and guided her forwards, so she was nestled between his arms, with her back against his chest. She tried to concentrate on what he was showing her.

A small canal boat sat alone, chained to the path. She could just make out its name – Honeydew – in faded yellow paint. Piles of logs sat on its deck. Plant pots were scattered across the top, some of them cracked, full of herbs and flowers. A dim light shone inside.

‘What?’

Jago lifted his finger to his lips. A figure passed the window. Kate drew back.

‘Someone’s in there.’

‘Sssssh . . .’

He was a man in his sixties, wearing a navy cowl-neck potter’s top. He had waist-length grey hair matted into dreadlocks, streaked with nicotine, and a crumpled, round, red face.

Kate watched the man walk along his boat, shutting each pair of curtains. A murmur of a radio started up from within.

‘What are we doing?’ she mouthed.

‘You are going to steal his boat,’ he said, with the same deadly serious voice he’d used when he told her to steal the dog.

Kate pulled away, shaking her head.

‘Sssssh.’ Jago laughed, pulling her tight against him. He pointed. A rowing boat with a small outboard engine sat bobbing on the river. One end was tied to the canal boat, the other to a hook on the riverbank.

‘No way,’ she whispered. ‘The dog was bad enough, Jago.’

He squeezed her tight, his breath ticking her cheek. ‘It’s just an exercise.’

She turned her mouth to his ear, feeling his bristle brush her cheek. ‘In robbery?’

‘No. About you taking control of the numbers. You let these stats bully you. If you steal this boat, you change the crime statistics for Oxford tonight. I want you to f*ck with them, like they’re f*cking with you. See what it feels like.’

His breath tickled her ear.

Kate tried not to be distracted. She shook her head again.

He continued. ‘Kate. Have you felt any different since the other night? You’re on the road. That has to be good, yes? Trusting your instincts to keep you safe?’

She shrugged. The small physical action pushed her body back into his chest a tiny bit. In response, he hugged her closer. It was all she could do not to turn round and lift her lips to his again.

Jago kept talking in her ear. ‘So, come on. Let’s do it. If he sees you, we’ll run back to the bikes behind the hedge. But, honestly, he looks so stoned, we could probably take his canal boat and he wouldn’t notice.’

It was a funny joke, but she didn’t feel like smiling.

‘Kate. Do it. We’re on the right track here.’

He stroked his hand down the side of her arm, easily, comfortably. She stood watching the boat through the gap.

To her surprise she found herself, just for a second, intrigued at the unpredictability of the situation. At what might happen.

‘Just do it, don’t think about it,’ Jago said.

They waited until darkness began to fall. The man was whistling. Kate could hear him, walking around inside, clattering some pans. She crouched down in the hedge. Checking that Jago was watching, she crawled out onto the path as the dim light from the canal boat, diffused through red curtains, reached her body.

The rowing boat bobbed on the current. Painstakingly, Kate moved one hand and one knee together at a time in tandem, till she reached the metal rope cleat on the bank.

This was crazy.

She fumbled her fingers, undoing the rope, trying not to think how deep the water was. The first knot came undone easily and she dropped the rope into the rowing boat. The freed end of the boat gave a buck of excitement, and glided away.

It was too late now. Kate sized up the other knot, at the canal boat end. She crawled forwards, wanting to get this over and done with as quickly as possible. But when she reached it, she saw it was a different type of knot. Tighter.

‘Halfway,’ Jago whispered.

Kate glanced up at the canal boat, to check. It was a such strange concept. That the owner had no idea she was out here. That she was the bad person in the shadows.

She began to unpick the second knot, using one finger and thumb on each hand. Luckily, it came away more easily than she expected and . . .

A loud bang exploded above her. A light burst onto the deck.

Kate’s heart began to pound so heavily that it felt it had dropped into her stomach.

The man with the grey dreadlocks walked onto the deck. He coughed, and the faint smell of something curried mixed with incense drifted towards her.

Kate crouched, holding the loose rope. The urge to run overwhelmed her. But if she stood up, he’d see her. He’d be able to leap off the canal boat and grab her.

She lowered herself as flat as possible into the shadows, glancing in panic to her right, convinced her heart was pounding so loudly that the man would hear it. ‘Stay there,’ Jago mouthed.

The man doesn’t know you’re here, she tried to tell herself to calm her growing panic. Just like the teenagers in the village. You are in control. If you jump up now, he’d be more scared than you.

Kate began to count to calm herself.

One thousand. Two thousand. Three thousand . . .

She listened to the man picking wood off the woodpile, praying for him to finish and go back inside. Radio Four blared from somewhere.

Then there was a movement. Kate peeked up and saw, to her dismay, that the freed end of the rowing boat was moving further away from the bank, like a toddler pulling wilfully from its mother.

She shrank back down. If the boat owner looked up and focused his eyes in the dark, he would see it. He would . . .

‘Oi!’

The man’s yell burst into the night.

‘What the f*ck are you doing?’

Kate’s heart jumped inside her chest so hard it felt as if someone had defibrillated her.

‘What are you doing to my f*cking boat?’

‘I . . . I . . .’ she began to stutter.

But before he could say another word, a dark figure came out of the hedge and ran straight up to the man.

‘What the . . . get off . . .’ She heard the man growl.

She saw Jago reach the side of the little fibreglass canal boat and shove it hard. It moved about a foot away from the river-bank, but enough to catch the man off balance. He staggered one way, then the other, then flew over the side with a splash.

‘Get in the rowing boat,’ Jago yelled to Kate.

‘What? No! He’s in the water!’

‘It’s shallow. Get in the f*cking boat,’ Jago said, running towards her.

Shakily, she did what he asked, putting in one foot, and gasping as the boat rocked underneath her.

‘F*ck,’ Jago hissed, jumping in beside her. He grabbed her waist to steady her, sat her firmly on the bench, then reached for the outboard engine cord, still standing up. ‘That went a bit tits-up.’

‘Jago. Stop . . .’ she hissed, as the boat roared into life.

‘Get off my f*cking boat!’ the man shouted from the water.

Jago leaned over expertly, and shoved them off the side. Quickly, he manoeuvred the boat into the middle of the river, ignoring the impassioned yells.

Kate looked around frantically. ‘Jago. There’s no life jackets.’

‘Kate?’ he shouted above the engine. ‘Can you swim?’

Kate rolled her eyes.

‘Well, there you go, then,’ he shouted. He sat down and accelerated the boat back up the river towards Oxford. Frantically, Kate looked back. The boat owner was pulling himself up onto the bank, his dreadlocks flattened around his ruddy face.

He looked like a tree monster.

She turned and saw Jago watching the man. He transferred his eyes to Kate and made the face of a child who’d done something very naughty.

To her horror, a snort of laughter burst from Kate’s mouth. Appalled with herself, she tried to stifle it with a hand, but it was too late. Jago had seen it.

‘I knew this innocent nice girl thing was all a front,’ he called out, kicking her leg.

She shook her head, fighting back the smile but failing, and guiltily checked back again to ensure the poor canal boat man had made it out of the water safely.

It was an odd sensation, though, she thought, to be fighting back a smile, instead of tears.

They turned a bend, and the boat carried on, its cheap engine spitting and growling into the night. At a safe distance, Jago pulled into the bank to retrieve their bikes, then carried on, the bikes balanced in the middle of the boat.

When they were further away from the canal boat, he cut the noisy engine and pulled out the oars.

‘Er, OK. Sorry about that,’ he deadpanned.

‘I can’t believe you, Jago,’ Kate exclaimed, checking behind them. ‘We’re going to get arrested.’

‘No, we’re not,’ he said, pulling back on the oars. ‘I could smell his bong from behind the hedge. He won’t call the police. Lie back and enjoy it. He’ll be fine. He’ll think we’re drunk students and go looking for his boat in the morning.’

Kate made an unconvinced face at him; then, having no choice, stuck in the middle of the river, did what she was told, resting her head back and watching the thin blood-red stripe across the horizon to the west, as the last of the day’s sky collapsed into embers. Jago rowed on.

She’d never met anyone like him, Kate thought. While her conscience was telling her that stealing this boat was wrong, for some reason she trusted him. There was something maverick about him that fascinated her. Maverick but fun. Kind at heart. After all, he’d only run at the man with the dreadlocks to protect her, and he hadn’t hurt him.

As Jago turned to check the man wasn’t following on the bank, she cast her eyes surreptitiously over the neat shape of his close-cropped skull and the sharp cheekbones that always softened when he smiled, surprising her. She didn’t know why, but instinctively she knew that being around someone who was not scared of boundaries and rules was exactly what she needed.

The ebb and flow of the oars through the reeds rocked her gently.

The boat moved on under the arriving moonlight. The hard knot in her chest, as she thought about the man with the dreadlocks, started to relax. There was no point dwelling on it, or she would ruin the point of this evening. The man had climbed out of the river. He’d be shaken but not hurt. She made herself concentrate instead on the sky above and the rich smell of foliage. It was so unusual for her to be out at night, she’d forgotten how water and trees shape-shifted and became charged with new meaning and atmosphere in the dark, displayed a different type of beauty.

She realized she had no idea where they were going and, for the first time since she could remember, that was OK.

As they passed the spot where she’d seen the fisherman’s tent, the thought of Jack and his night-time sleepover pushed its way uneasily into her mind again.

So she tried something different. She concentrated on seeing Jack’s sleepover from the perspective of tonight. Jago rowed them to a fork in the river. They took the right turn, down a lane of water she didn’t recognize. Kate told herself that if she denied Jack the chance to go to Gabe’s and to do something exciting and different, he would never have what she had now.

An adventure under the stars.

Jago rowed them for another five minutes. The air was lush with wet plants.

‘Do you know why night smells different to day?’ he murmured.

Kate held up her hand. ‘Jago, I’m still mad at you for pushing that man in the water.’

‘But do you?’

‘No.’

‘Well, it’s to do with convection. Heat moves molecules around in fluid. So when the sun’s shining it stirs it all up, and the smells are diluted in the air. Then when night comes, the heat goes, and things stop moving. Smells becomes more intense.’

‘Really?’ She nodded, impressed. ‘It’s a shame.’

‘What?’

‘That when we stop this boat how much useful stuff’s going to be lost when we get on to dry land and I kill you for making me do this.’

Jago snorted. She threw her head back, pleased that she had made him laugh.

She opened her mouth to speak, then stopped.

‘What?’ Jago asked.

‘I was just wondering, how did you get into academia?’

Jago carried on rowing steadily. She glanced at his arms, as they tensed with each stroke. Her hand moved to her own upper arm, and she rested it there, trying to remember how different the texture and density of a man’s arms were.

‘Well, my dad says that my brain just seemed to understand numbers from early on. I made him set me sums all the time. And I suppose I get the teaching thing from him – he teaches English, so do my sisters – and the maths stuff is probably from my mum’s side. They’re all doctors.’

She tried not to give away that she already knew this. ‘And you didn’t want to be a doctor?’

He shook his head. ‘No. I like working in a university. You get the freedom to explore areas you’re interested in. Paid to go abroad. Long holidays. I’m sure that sounds very selfish, compared to my mum. She’s amazing. She works with geriatric patients.’

‘No. But you do work for new governments in post-war countries – that’s not selfish.’

Jago shot her a curious look.

Damn. Kate kicked herself. What had she just said?

‘Did I tell you that?’

She pretended to look back at something in the water. ‘I don’t know. Didn’t you say you flew to developing countries, or something. I just thought that . . .?’

‘Oh. Yes. No, you’re right. So I did,’ he nodded.

Silence descended on the boat.

‘And you Googled me, didn’t you?’ he said after a second.

‘No!’

‘Yeah, you bloody did. Don’t worry. I’d probably Google me too. Scottish skin-head with a penchant for dog-rustling.’ He wiped a fly from his face. ‘I’m going to do you later. Find embarrassing photos of you at school.’

‘F*ck off,’ Kate giggled, savouring the word. It felt good to swear at some one in a bantering way again without it holding any menace.

There was a small lane of water up to the right.

‘That’s it, I think,’ Jago said.

Kate saw a white jetty in the moonlight, up ahead of them. It sat at the bottom of the garden of an Oxford college whose name she couldn’t remember.

‘Come on.’ Jago took the boat in, tied it up loosely, and climbed out. ‘We can hide out here for a while just in case he decides to come looking tonight.’

She passed out the bikes and the rucksack to him, then he held out a hand. She took it, glad to be back on dry land.

Jago took a rug out his rucksack and laid it down, then pulled out a bottle of red wine and two plastic glasses. Kate glanced at the wine, surprised. It was a good one. A French one that she and Hugo used to buy in the old days. She glanced at him, registering something she had only vaguely noticed before, that Jago’s T-shirt and jeans were always good makes. Expensive brands. Book deals in America and Britain, she suspected, sipping her wine, probably meant that he was far from being an impoverished lecturer. Relieved, she realized that would make things simpler.

‘You really think he might be looking for us?’ she said, sitting down.

‘Nah. Probably still drying his hair.’

‘Don’t,’ she said, feeling mean as she smiled.

‘So,’ he said. ‘You did well. How do you feel?’

How did she feel? ‘Er . . . I’m not sure.’

‘Like a terrible person?’

‘Would it be bad to say, Not really?’

‘Not at all,’ Jago said, looking at the bottle with appreciation. She liked the way he did that; it was what Hugo would have done. She sipped her own wine, watching him. He was so like Hugo in some ways. They were both people who created fun out of the most mundane moment. But Jago had an edge – an edge of adventure that Hugo had never had. Hugo would not have stolen someone’s boat. He would have bought them a boat if they needed it.

Jago put down the bottle. ‘No. I think it’s interesting,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘Because I think normally you’d feel bad about doing something like that. You’d worry about the old guy, because you’re a kind person, but, in the context of what we’re trying to do . . .’

Kate interrupted him, blurting out: ‘It feels . . .’

She stopped.

Jago waited.

She tried again. ‘I do feel bad for him. I really do, and I’m worrying about him right now. But I do kind of understand what you’re getting at – why we did this. And I suppose, just for once, it feels comforting. For it not to be me who the bad thing is happening to.’ She picked up a flat stone and turned it in her hand. She hesitated, then knew she would. ‘Can I tell you something?’

‘Hmm,’ Jago said. He sat closer to her, then lay back so they were touching side by side, looking at the stars.

‘All evening, I’ve been worrying about Jack going on a sleepover in someone’s garden. Worrying about the bad things that might happen to him outside at night.’

She cringed as she heard her inner fears voiced for someone else to hear.

But Jago looked genuinely interested. ‘Ahah! And now you are that bad thing, outside at night? For someone else?’

She nodded and took another sip. It followed the last one to the back of her throat and gave her a little flame of courage. She turned the stone, over and over.

‘And how does that feel?’

‘Empowering, I suppose. In a very weird way.’

‘Did you ever feel like this before your parents died, too – anxious about things?’ He rubbed his hand over his head, and she remembered the feel of it, the soft stubble under her fingers, and wanted to do it again.

‘Oh God, no. No. I didn’t worry about anything then. Who does when they’re a teenager?’

‘Like?’

‘Well, I don’t know. We lived in the countryside. I rode horses – jumped five-bar gates, that kind of thing. Went on school skiing trips. Spent my teenage years bombing around country roads in Minis at ninety miles per hour with drunk farmer boys, feeling invincible.’

‘Seriously?’ Jago sat up to check her glass. There was a gentlemanly politeness about him that reminded her of her own dad.

‘Yeah. And that’s just the start of it,’ she said. ‘Me and Hugo were going to go travelling after uni but he stayed in London to set up the business and I went with some friends. I did all sorts of stuff I can’t even imagine now. Hitched through Vietnam. Bungee jumped in Thailand. I even worked at a parachute centre in New Zealand for three months as a receptionist. Learned how to skydive on my days off.’

Jago’s mouth fell open. ‘You’re f*cking joking?’

She giggled at his face. ‘No, I’m a qualified skydiver – got my international licence and everything, believe it or not.’

Jago’s mouth dropped open. ‘I’ve always wanted to do that. Kate, I’m impressed. So you weren’t always such a wimp.’

‘Oi.’ She sat up and sipped her wine. ‘It’s funny. I’ve been thinking a lot about that recently. How it felt.’

‘You haven’t done it since?’

She shook her head. ‘I nearly did. For my thirtieth birthday – a sort of symbolic re-entry into the world after losing my parents – but it didn’t happen.’

‘Why?’ Jago shifted towards her so that his leg brushed against hers.

She tried to make hers relax against it, unfamiliar with the physical contact. ‘Well, I did a refresher course and went up in the plane. But the weather changed, and we couldn’t jump. Hugo was watching me down below. Jack was with him. I think something rattled Hugo. The day he died, he was trying to persuade me not to rearrange the jump.’ She lay back. ‘I sometimes think he’d had a premonition of death when I was up there. Only it wasn’t mine. It was his.’

A crack came into her voice. She bit the soft part of her cheek, cross with herself.

That time was over now.

Tears were not allowed in the future.

Jago gave her a moment, then banged her gently on the leg, as if he sensed that she was struggling.

‘What’s it like?’

‘What?’

‘Jumping out a plane.’

How long was it since she’d spoken about normal things? About times before? Like tonight with Jack about Hugo, and Mr Sausage Fingers.

‘Oh, it’s unbelievable. Like nothing else. There’s all this noise of the plane engine, and you’re sitting at the edge, feeling more scared than you ever will in your life. Then you step out and throw yourself into this vast open space. You count slowly, and your parachute opens, and you’ve survived. You’re flying. And then there’s this sense of total euphoria.’ She shook her head wryly. ‘Honestly, I can’t even get on a bloody aeroplane to go to Spain now. Feels as if it was someone else.’

Jago rubbed her arm. ‘No, it was you.’

‘One in a million.’

‘Hmm?’

Kate looked up at the sky. ‘Your chances of both your chutes not opening. Well, actually one in ten thousand of each chute not opening, so one in a million of both chutes not opening. And knowing my luck, Mrs Seven Times Hit by Lightning. Well, it has to be someone, doesn’t it. . .?’

Jago sighed. ‘Your luck is more or less the same as anyone else’s, Kate, I keep telling you. The same as that old guy on his canal boat right now, thinking, “Why me? Why my rowing boat and no one else’s?” You and I both know that our decision was random. It wasn’t about him, in particular. But tonight you f*cked with the crime statistics. Thefts in Oxford have just gone up, reported or not. It’s that simple.’

Jago lay back.

Kate realized she didn’t want to talk any more.

They lay there for a while, side by side, as they had done in the secret garden a week ago, but this time touching. Gradually, she became aware of a small patch of warmth on her skin. Glancing down, she saw that Jago’s hand, which was resting on her stomach, was located just where her jumper had ridden up, exposing an inch of skin.

She shut her eyes, listening to the distant sounds of traffic and chatter in the nearby High Street, savouring the sensation.

Willing his finger to move.

She wasn’t even sure how it happened, when it did. Whether he moved his finger or she breathed deeply, pushing it slightly with the motion.

But there was friction.

A tiny movement of skin on skin.

Kate heard her own breathing deepen into the warm night.

And this time, when his finger moved, there was no confusion about its intention. Kate kept her eyes closed as Jago, slowly and quietly, trailed the edge of his nail across her side. She heard his weight shift. Knew he was now watching her.

His finger moved further, tracing tiny distances back and forward under her jumper, his own breathing becoming louder close to her ear. This is strange for him, too, she reminded herself. His first time, possibly, with someone new since Marla. Tracing new maps on a new body. Exploring.

Either way, he wasn’t in a hurry. As if he sensed her self-consciousness at being touched after so long, he trailed his fingernail lightly and slowly across her stomach, giving her a chance to stop him at each border, his breathing gentle beside her ear. Higher and higher his finger moved, circling her belly button, tracing across the mild stretch marks left by Jack, up the sides of her torso, making her shiver, till she felt it find its way across the bottom of her bra strap and wait there a while.

He kept her gaze, watching, as he slowly lifted the cup of her new bra with his finger, pulled it down. He waited for her to stop him. When she didn’t, it moved inside.

Where his fingertip came, gently, to rest.

Kate inhaled deeply and lifted her head, seeking out his lips with hers. His lips met hers and . . .

Suddenly, a guitar began to play right beside them. They both opened their eyes and looked at each other confused.

‘Phone.’ Jago sat up, scrabbling around, letting Kate go.

‘Quick, in case that bloke hears it,’ Kate whispered, looking behind her into the meadow.

‘Shit. F*ck,’ Jago swore, pressing buttons in the dark.

The screen went bright. ‘F*ck,’ he mouthed at Kate, holding up a hand. Jago jumped to his feet.

‘Hello?’ There was a pause. ‘Oh, hi. How are you? . . .’

Kate sat up, straightening up her bra and jumper. He rolled his eyes at her. ‘No, I did get it. I’m just . . . busy . . .’

Kate felt her heart sink. Marla.

‘Well, what do you mean, you’re going to . . .?’ Jago’s voice took on a stern tone. ‘That’s not what we said . . . I mean. Look. Marla. Can I call you back in half an hour? I’m in the . . . library.’

He shrugged a ‘sorry’ at Kate.

‘OK. Ring me then.’

He put the phone down and sighed.

‘Shit, shit, shit. Sorry!’ he groaned. ‘I didn’t mean to answer it. I pressed the wrong button.’ He looked at Kate apologetically, leaned down with a small groan and hugged her tightly in her arms. He looked around at the bikes. ‘I’m going to have to go and sort this out. She’s a bit . . .’

Kate waved a hand. ‘Look. Don’t worry. It sounds complicated.’

‘Trust me, it was. We spent last year flying back and forwards across the Atlantic for the weekends to sort it out, then just arguing when we got there. But, listen, I do need to sort this out, Kate.’ He dropped his hand onto her cheek. ‘She wants to come to London tomorrow. There’s no rush here, is there? We have plenty of time, yes?’

Tomorrow? Kate tried not to show her disquiet at the news.

Instead, she made herself nod and he pulled her up, and hugged her again. ‘She’s not going to let this go, so I need to sort it, so you and I can get on with what we’re doing, OK?’ She nodded against his chest, realizing she was becoming more familiar with the shape, the wide, neat boxer’s shoulders, the flat muscular wall of his chest.

She had to trust him.

Both their lives were complicated. Jago’s eyes drifted. ‘Hey, look,’ he murmured, jerking his head.

The rowing boat was drifting in the current.

‘We can still take it back. Do you want to?’

She thought of the poor man with his wet dreadlocks, and the truth was that she really did want to take it back. But this exercise was about making a leap of faith. And Jago had taken a risk himself to help her, however mad it might seem, by stealing the boat. The least she could do was to try to let him help her.

So she shook her head, realizing she didn’t want to laugh any more.

‘OK, then, well done,’ Jago said, packing up quickly and climbing on his bike. She followed. He leaned over and looked at her intently.

‘You have amazing eyes, you know?’ he said. ‘I know it sounds cheesy, but I have to say it. I was trying to think what they remind me of. It was this lake I saw in India once in a sunset. Looked like the water was made of liquid gold.’

He hugged her again. Kate stayed in his embrace for a second, her anxiety about lifejackets and being arrested and drowning and lorries and sleepovers all put away for a little while. Replaced by one single thought.

Marla.