The light was a torch.
The person shouting her name was Sabina.
Had Blue lost her way or been led here by some unearthly fate?
The wind blew cold on Blue’s wet hair, rippled over the water and sent up its stink of leaf rot and dead animal.
Sabina waded towards her, called Blue and called, the water halfway up her shin. On this side of the stream, Blue was submerged to the knee. How was she here?
‘Make your way to the bridge!’ Sabina alternated her torchlight between Blue and the mire ahead of her. ‘Don’t try and walk through the stream; it’s too deep. Go to the bridge!’
Blue’s hands felt tender where they had scraped Joshua Park’s stubbled neck. She hated the trees but wanted them too, the prison-bar closeness of their trunks, the certainty that in there no one would read on her face what she had done.
Wind moved the branches, creaked the boughs, made the trunks sway in the last of the light, and Blue couldn’t see a break in their line.
Sabina came closer, called behind her to Mrs Park, and another flash of torchlight speared the darkness.
Blue’s pulse throbs in her fingertips. How could she face Mrs Park?
How could she say I killed your husband, a ghost told me to do it, a dead girl who looked a little like the girl in your photograph, a little like Sabina’s watercolour, a little like the imagined form of an eleven-year-old Arlo, a little like the generic blonde child on a thousand TV adverts? How could she say she did it because she had, when she didn’t have to? When the only immediate danger had been from her own strangled thoughts?
‘She’s OK, I’m nearly there, she— Jesus.’ Sabina landed thigh-deep in the water on Blue’s side of the bridge, lost her balance, dropped her torch. Blue heard the splash, heard Sabina swear, but she couldn’t move to help, sure that if she did, Sabina would know what Blue had done. That if they touched, Sabina would feel Blue’s sin as Blue had felt that of so many others.
Then something worse clawed its way to the surface of her thoughts.
Mr Park would come for her. His spirit would rise from his death pool and slouch through the trees to find her. Blue would never escape. She would never be free. How terrible had Bodhi been? How much worse would a grown man be?
As Sabina reached her, Blue’s knees gave way. Sabina caught Blue, forced Blue’s arm around her shoulder, held her up and held her tight.
‘Molly! Molly, I’ve found her, come … come and help me!’ She pulled and dragged Blue to the bridge, and Blue stumbled beside her, tried to right herself but had nothing left. Above the dank soupy smell of the river was the vanilla and honey of Sabina’s skin. She could smell the clean laundry scent of her collar beneath the waxy waterproof coat. She felt Sabina’s strong hands grip her torso and Sabina’s shoulder dig into her armpit.
They crossed the bridge, step by lugging step and down the other side. The water was shallower here. Blue felt it drop from thigh to shin with a rush of ice-cold lightness. The wind beat her wet body. Clouds cracked open and more rain fell. Mrs Park met them and took the other half of Blue’s weight, and together they stumbled to the house. The driveway was submerged. Water licked the doorstep, rushed into the flooded boot room when Mrs Park pushed open the door.
A pile of towels lay ready on the farmhouse table. Milton stood by the side, weight balanced on his walking frame. ‘Thank God,’ the old man said. ‘Thank Christ.’
Blue undid her coat zip with cold-numbed fingers. Sabina eased Blue into a chair, and Mrs Park wrapped a towel around her so it covered her hair, back and shoulders.
The room was bright and swam before her. Eyes closed, she saw what she had done; eyes open, she felt at sea. Shivering and teeth chattering, she tried her best to undo the zips on the waterproof trousers, but Mrs Park stilled her hands and did it for her. She pulled off the boots, took off the socks.
‘I’m sorry.’ Blue felt waited on, felt useless.
‘Hush now; we’ll get you right as rain in a moment. Once these wet clothes are off, you’ll feel much better. You need some dry things on, a cup of something hot inside you, and you’ll soon feel better. Is Joshua coming behind you?’
Milton had turned away so as not to see Blue’s body, muttered thank Gods under his breath. The old man trembled; if the walking frame moved, he would fall.
‘I’m sorry,’ Blue said again, and her jaws clashed so much she couldn’t say more if she’d wanted to. She didn’t want to. Didn’t know what she would say if she could.
‘I’ve put towels down on the sofa – we should let her lie down; she needs to rest.’ Sabina peeled off Blue’s hoody, and her shivers turned into body-wracking shakes as the fresh air rushed over her. ‘Jesus, you’re wet through, every bit of you. I’m sorry, we’re going to have to take this off, too.’ Sabina’s hands were gentle, but the touch of the wet cotton T-shirt being pulled off her damp, tender flesh was agony.
Mrs Park rushed off; Sabina dabbed Blue’s skin and hair with the towel. She lifted her arms to help but was weak and overwrought. Mrs Park returned and put a warm, dry sweater over Blue’s head, eased her hands through its sleeves.
‘It’s Joshua’s,’ she said. ‘He’ll not mind you borrowing it. He was worried about you, went after you, but I don’t suppose you saw him? Did you? You came from the bridge, and he went in the opposite direction, the way we saw you leave earlier. I tried his mobile, but it won’t connect. I expect he’ll come back soon, don’t you think? Yes, he’ll come back soon. He’ll be pleased you’re safe when he gets back. You didn’t see him?’
Blue was cold as tombstone but felt herself sweat, felt the dead man’s jumper stick to her skin. She tried to lift it, but her arms were so heavy, tried to wriggle free, but Sabina pushed her gently back on the sofa. She felt the soft towel touch her cheek, the blanket thrown over her body, the warm lick of heat from the fire, the events of the day ready to pounce on her dreams.