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Read the first chapter:
Sunday
Jude stared down the hill at the glint on
the water and then across to the fields baked hard by weeks of sun. He’d
followed the directions to the letter, so this was the right place. But where
was Hewhay Hall?
A row of swallows balanced on a wire
stretching overhead, each facing the same way as Jude, who rested against a
five-bar gate. They too seemed to be eyeing the fallen tree trunks that
littered the overgrown path down the rocky hillside. They were lucky—they could
fly, but Jude had to hobble.
The air moved on the other side of the
marshland. He didn’t imagine it. A definite ripple, the kind that alters your
vision when a migraine’s about to start. Although the shift was fleeting, he
had the idea something was down there after all, very faint and hard to
describe. The outline of a building? Or maybe just heat haze. Whatever, he’d
come this far—he’d go and investigate.
The latch and hinges on the gate were so
rusted, Jude couldn’t open it. Nothing for it, then, but to climb over. He
propped his crutches against the wooden bars, placed his hands on the top, and
hauled himself up so his right leg got a footing on a lower rung. Now he could
sit on the top. He bent down, picked up what was left of his other leg, and
maneuvered it over until he straddled the gate. It creaked under his weight. As
he swung his right leg over, he teetered, tried to grab the top bar but lost
his balance and fell headlong into a bramble patch.
Prickles stabbed him as he lay on his
back, his whirling gaze locked on a wiggly jet trail in the cloudless sky. Once
the world righted itself, he pushed himself up on his elbows and extracted some
of the more painful brambles before rolling onto his right knee. His bum in the
air, he hoped no one was looking and that he retained a shred of dignity as he
balanced on his right leg and wobbled his way upright. As he tried to stand,
his knee locked. He was a second away from landing back on the ground but he
grabbed an oak tree trunk for support.
Bloody hell. Wasn’t it about time they
gave him a prosthesis? He bent to rub his stump, still raw after all this time.
Why wasn’t he healing?
The thought was barely out of his head
when the gate clicked and glided open behind him as if the latch and hinges had
been well-oiled. He scratched his head and glared down the valley at the space
where he thought he’d seen the outline of a house a moment ago. Was someone
having a laugh at him here? Watch the ugly cripple struggle over the gate then
open it on remote control? I tell you, he silently told the marshes, if I find
out who did that, I’m going to nail him to this oak tree by his ears.
Fat chance. Even if the culprit were five
years old, he’d still be stronger than Jude—and able to run faster.
A rifle shot resounded, the boom echoing
off the hillside. Jude dove into the tall grass, his arms over his head, his chest
bruised by the stony ground. When his heartbeat slowed, he lowered his arms and
parted the weeds he was lying in to check out his surroundings. Of course it
was only a local farmer scaring crows. God dammit, why did every little noise
set him off?
Post traumatic stress disorder, the
shrink had told him. Having experienced a bomb blast, you’re bound to get
flashbacks.
I’m
an idiot, he wanted to shout at the now-darting swallows, but
until he got his trembling under control, he was speechless. Anyway, he had to
find the strength to get back on his feet, or rather, foot.
Maybe he’d better just sit a moment, catch
his breath and get his thoughts in order. Up to his chest in seed-grass, he
wondered why the place called Hewhay Hall wasn’t here. The leaflet had said to follow the track as far as it goes, then to
park when you got to the gate leading to
Hewhay Hall because you could go no farther.
He reached over and grabbed his fallen
crutches. With their help, he clambered upright, fitted his arms in, and
squinted against the glare of the light. Even his damned eyesight seemed to be
going these days. Anyone would think he was ninety, not thirty. What a wuss.
He scrubbed his hands over his face.
Christ, he was tired. He’d lain awake for most of last night, tossing and
turning, wondering if coming here was the right thing to do.
“It looks all wrong to me,” Tess, his wife, had said when he’d
said good-bye to her this morning at home. And she’d thrown him that look—the
one she’d acquired over the past year that had pity written all through it
Now he had two choices: go down and look
for this Hewhay Hall or head back and admit his failure to assess a
situation—again.
Another shot rang out, scattering a flock
of crows. Jude swayed like a wind-blown sapling but kept his balance, even
though his mind was thrown back to his final call-out…
“Jude,
code 10-79.”
Code 79. For a moment he’d forgotten what
a 79 was—he had been on duty at the fire station for twenty-four hours, it was
a wonder he remembered his own name. Oh yes: bomb threat. Imminent. Needing
senior officer, on scene, stat. Hostage situation.
“OK,” he’d told his divisional officer,
reaching for his white helmet. “Let’s hit the road. Who are the hostages?”
“A family at the top of the building.
Woman—mother—has a bomb attached to her.”
“She’s a suicide bomber?”
“No, it was a break-in. The perp held the husband
at gunpoint—heavy weaponry—and forced the woman to put on a waistcoat with the
armed device.”
“Jesus. What is the guy? An octopus?”
“Nope, typical fucking terrorist.”
“Where is he now?”
“He lit outta there somehow. Bloody cops.
Sheer incompetence, if you want my opinion. But he evaporated into thin air.”
Now, standing on the wasteland, Jude
pictured the children who’d been held hostage with their parents. Kids he’d
seen and heard crying before they were blown to smithereens.
He clasped his hands together to stop them
from trembling as he relived the blanket of dust, the earsplitting crack as the
ceiling gave way, and the rubble falling on him, tons, crashing down from
above. It hadn’t hurt at the time—pain and repercussions had come later. Maybe
it hadn’t been his job as a firefighter to go in like he had, maybe he had been
disobeying orders. But he’d been driven by an overwhelming instinct to help.
