40

Kat

The gust almost knocks Kat off her feet. She steadies by squeezing her core muscles tight and cautiously leans over the edge of The Drop. A sprinkling of rare Cornish snow has replaced the hail, light as volcanic ash, blown into a frenzy by the wind. Still no sign of Lauren and Raff.

She’s quite sure that Lauren – slight but strong, knowledgeable about this landscape – will keep Raff safe. Flora doesn’t share this confidence. And there’s no lift to the airport – the last flight to London – until they’re back. Or at least until they get through on Lauren’s phone, currently bumping straight to voicemail.

Kat has tried every local taxi number, and none is available for hours: she’s begged, offered to pay double. A signalling problem and snow further up the line has screwed the trains. Angie, who never was in any hurry to leave, hasn’t got her car fixed. Her father’s sunk a saucepan of mulled wine and, despite insisting otherwise, is unfit to drive.

Worse, Scarlett has just emailed: the meeting has been rescheduled – to a breakfast meeting in E1 tomorrow bloody morning! The board members have done this on purpose, Kat’s sure of it. Knowing she’s stuck in Cornwall, a good chance she won’t make it back in time. And if she doesn’t swagger into that meeting, polished, on form, it’ll be much easier to offer a scalp – hers – to the shareholders: change at the top, they’ll be able to say, saving their own skins. She can picture them now, edgy from the deprivations of detox January, maxed up on their credit cards after Christmas, petrified of losing their posts. All the ‘yes’ people switching sides. Kat’s loved Spring, given it everything, and is starting to realize it doesn’t love her back. But she’ll be damned if she makes her dispatch easy.

There’s still time.

The coast path is a gum of mud, rock and snow. But she reaches the hermit’s hut, the best vantage point, like a royal box over the auditorium of cove and cliffs. As she stands by its ruined walls, memories of the eclipse summer blow through her: she and Flora running, laughing, towards the sound system on the beach that day; in her peripheral vision, an incongruous splash of brilliant yellow, giddily free, lost on an Atlantic gust. When another budgie flew past, she’d known – in the highly sensitized part of her tuned by Blythe’s blotto binges to sense danger – that something was wrong, very wrong.

And she feels it again at a lower level, a dull warning buzz. A second later, her mobile rings in her pocket. ‘Found them?’

‘No. I’ve got a bad feeling, Kat. I shouldn’t have trusted …’ The line keeps cutting, and Kat has to redial three times. Flora’s anxiety pours out in staccato bursts. ‘Scott keeps calling too.’ A sob racks her voice. ‘What do I tell him?’

‘Nothing. Not yet.’ Kat hunkers down on a stone, talking into the crook of her arm, trying to keep out the roaring wind. ‘It’s snowing, but not heavily, and they’ve not even been gone that long. Where are you now?’

‘Pub car park.’

‘Right. Here’s the plan. You drive back to Rock Point. Wait for them there. I’m on my way down to the cove. Tide’s out. I’ll check the cave too.’

‘Christ. The cave! Yes, yes, check. They could be sheltering there. Thank you, thank you.’

‘And as soon as we find them, you’ll drive me to the airport?’ She hates herself for mentioning it. Sounding so self-absorbed. ‘It’s just I’m toast if I don’t make –’

‘Oh, bugger, yes. Sorry. I know Spring’s your baby, Kat.’

‘Raff is far more important. I’ll find him and Lauren. Hang in there.’

The hail has drilled holes on the dry upper beach. Sloshing over the shallow ribbons of water that pour down from the cliff walls to the sea, she steps into the cave. It’s darker and deeper than she remembers. ‘Lauren?’ she’s shouting, when something wet and warm – alive – licks her hand and she gasps.

‘Rocket!’ A man runs across the beach. ‘I’m so sorry. She’s in training. Sit, Rocket. No, sit.’

‘Don’t worry.’ She strokes the dog, who pants moist meaty breath. ‘Listen, I’m looking for a woman – early thirties, smallish – and a little boy? He’s about this high. You haven’t seen them, have you?’ she asks, and he shakes his head. ‘Oh, and the woman, my sister, she’s got this blue streak in her fringe.’

His expression immediately changes. ‘Lauren,’ he says quietly. Reading her surprise, he explains they’ve already met. Says his name is Jonah.

Kat scrutinizes him more closely. Tall. Black dog. Check, check. And yet there are lots of lone male walkers. Even more black Labs. The notes have made them all slightly paranoid. She’s not a paranoid person. And she refuses to be intimidated. But she stands a little taller all the same.

‘You wouldn’t happen to be Kat?’ Jonah asks cautiously. ‘The wild swimmer? Lauren mentioned you.’

‘That’s me.’ Odd Lauren hasn’t mentioned him, though. He’s not unattractive. ‘Lauren took Raff for a walk,’ she says, answering his unformed question, impatient to get on. ‘The hailstorm blew in. I was hoping they might be sheltering in the cave.’ Her mobile rings. Keeping a wary eye on Jonah, she takes the call. ‘Flora. Any news?’

‘Oh, Kat, Kat, I just got back and rushed to Lauren’s room, thinking they might be there – Dad and Angie are out looking too now – and … and …’ Her voice cracks, the line shredding again. ‘She’s unstable, Kat! She’s a total fruitcake –’ Flora cuts out.

Kat stares at her phone with a sinking feeling. She redials, mouths ‘Sorry’ at Jonah, who is doing a very bad job of pretending he’s not listening. Even his dog is staring, her tail sweeping a fan in the sand. ‘What? Flora, you’re seriously saying the letters Lauren’s been writing the last few days are to Gemma? Christ.’

‘I’m sorry to butt in,’ Jonah says. It’s the gravity in his voice that grabs her attention. A glint of alarm in his eyes. ‘I’ve just had an idea where they might be.’

‘One sec, Flo,’ she says, pressing the phone to the shoulder of her coat – Flora’s voice faint: ‘Is someone with you?’ – and following Jonah’s intense gaze to the cliff top and beyond, where frozen sky meets cold, cold earth.