It was almost midnight and the Thames was rolling along, black as tar, wrinkling and smoothing itself beneath the starlit sky. The houseboats were shadowy shapes at their moorings as frost scattered icy glitter across rooftops and railings, silvering each trembling blade of grass. High above, a crescent moon gleamed, as lustrous as wedding satin.
A man walked unsteadily down the river path, hands shoved in his pockets, head bowed. His world seemed to have tilted on its axis and he wasn’t sure how to right himself again. First there had been the breathless phone call that afternoon – I’ve got something to tell you – leaving him with the prickling sense that luck was slipping between his fingers, that maybe the charm he’d always relied upon might not be enough to rescue him this time. Then, feeling cornered, he had lashed out needlessly, hurting people he loved with his words. Now he was left with a rising tide of dread that he couldn’t shake off.
What was he going to do? Had he blown everything?
A scouring wind skimmed off the river against his face and somewhere in the distance a fox shrieked, as high-pitched and unnerving as a child’s scream. The man hunched deeper into the collar of his coat, wishing he was already at home, the front door bolted, warm and safe in bed, the heating pipes cooling with their soft clicks and creaks. But did he even deserve to be there any more, after what he had done?
Suddenly there were footsteps scuffling behind him. A shout. ‘Oi! Mate.’
He turned. And then—