“Yes, but we can fix it, right?” Sarah asked.
“Not easily. If we had a welding torch, maybe… Anyone got a welding torch?”
Sarah looked at Martin.
“Course not,” he muttered.
“What about at the farm? Is there one up there?” Sarah asked.
“Not that I know of,” said Bill. He eyed Martin. “Shouldn’t you be gone by now?”
“I’m not leaving Sarah here.” He didn’t add with you.
Bill shrugged. “The longer you stay here, the riskier for all of us.”
Martin bristled. He didn’t much care about putting Bill at risk. But Sarah…
“You’re right,” he said.
“No,” said Sarah. She looked at Bill, then at Martin. “I’d rather you stayed. Just till we get this thing working.”
“But what if the police turn up?”
“We’ll hide you,” said Bill.
“We’ll lie,” added Sarah. Her mouth turned up at the corners; he doubted she’d contemplated lying to the police before.
“Thanks. So, what about this boat?”
“I don’t know,” said Bill.
“Maybe you should come with me,” said Martin. “You can’t stay here.”
She shook her head. “I want to go home.”
He understood that. During the early weeks of his flight from the floodwater, he’d thought time and again about turning back for home, seeing his mum again. Not his dad. He’d promised her he’d return with help, that he’d get her rescued. He’d carried through on his promise; at the nearest town, he’d spoken to the guy co-ordinating the boats heading out across the flood-stricken Norfolk Broads and given them directions. But he’d been too scared of his dad to go back himself.
He’d spent six years haunted by the guilt at leaving his mum. He wasn’t sure what was worse; leaving her to the floods, or leaving her to his dad.
“Well, you’re not getting there in that,” he said, gesturing at the boat.
“I could walk.”
“You’re not walking. It’s forty miles.”
“I could walk with you,” said Bill.
“No,” said Sarah. She shifted away from him, her eyes on the boat. “You sure you haven’t got anything at the farm you can use to fix it?”
Bill fingered his chin. “We might have. Martin, do you know your way around a tractor engine?”
“I grew up on a farm.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“My dad’s tractor was older than he was. We were constantly fixing it.”
“Maybe you can work out some way to use the parts from one we’ve got in the barn.”
“A tractor engine?”
“A whole bloody tractor. Hasn’t moved for years. Pitted with rust, and the floor’s gone. But there’s an engine in there. It might have usable parts.”
“What about fuel?”
“Robert was prepared on that score. He stole gallons of the stuff from a petrol station not long after we first got here. Enough to drive the farm’s generator. And besides, there’s still fuel in the boat. Isn’t there?”
“Yes. Of course.”
Sarah’s face had brightened and she was looking from one man to the other. Martin thought she might burst with excitement. “I’ll help,” she said. “Fetching and carrying. Anything.”
Martin smiled at her. “Come on. We’ve got work to do.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Martin was at the beach, fiddling with the parts he’d extracted from the tractor. Sarah had been struck by its bulk, the way it loomed at them in the empty barn. There’d been a family of mice nesting under the front seat and the bitter smell of droppings. There was also an acrid, nose-piercing smell that reminded her of her cat Snowy when he sprayed his territory.
She felt her chest tighten. Was Snowy being looked after? Would her mother remember him?
“We’ll get this thing fixed soon, don’t you worry,” said Bill. He’d had a swing in his step since they’d started working on the engine, a lightness in his voice. He was enjoying it. She wondered what he’d do when they were gone. Then she remembered she didn’t care. As long as he stayed away from her.
“I hope so,” she said.
She was carrying a jagged piece of metal that looked like nothing useful to her, but it was one of the things Martin needed brought to him. He’d gone quiet since starting on the boat, not wanting to be disturbed.
Bill carried a toolbox he’d fished out from under the kitchen cupboard. The tools in it were rusted together, but they were all he had.
“I need to tell you something,” he said. She shook her head; she didn’t need his confession.
“You’ve already said sorry.”
“It’s not that.”
They reached the edge of the grass. Martin was a few feet away, lying on his back next to the boat. He and Bill had overturned it so its keel was upwards. It looked vulnerable, like a pale marine creature stranded on land.
They handed him their prizes.
“Thanks.” He yanked open the toolbox and picked out a spanner. “Is there a wire brush or something? I need to clean this stuff up.”
“Maybe,” said Bill. He looked at Sarah. “Come on.”
She frowned at him but followed nonetheless, keeping her distance.
When they were in the middle of the tall grass, Bill called back to her.
“In the kitchen, when I had hold of Martin.”
“You’d tied him up. With twine.”
“I feel bad about that. But he seems to have forgiven me, so I hope you can too.”
She continued walking.
He put a hand on her arm and she yanked it away.
“I let him go deliberately,” he said.
She turned to face him. “He pulled himself away. He caught you unawares.”
“I saw him looking at the knives. I knew what he was thinking. I loosened my grip, in all the confusion when your dad burst in.”
She felt a weight descend onto her shoulders at the mention of her father.
“You thought he was going to hurt you. You were saving yourself,” she said.
“No. I saw the look on his face. The hatred. The love.”
“Don’t.”
“Sorry. But it’s true. The boy adores you.”
“That’s irrelevant.”
“He’d do anything for you. Look at him, fixing up that boat so you can go home. The longer he stays here, the greater the chance of the police finding him. He knows that, but he’s still here.”
Her face felt hot. “He doesn’t want to leave me alone with you.”
“Maybe. But that’s not why he’s doing it. If that was his only motive, then surely he’d make you go with him.”
“He can’t make me do anything.”
“He won’t. He knows you’ve had enough of that. What with your dad, and what we did to you. He knows you need to make your own decisions.”
“Good for him.” She didn’t see why Bill was so interested in this.
“All I’m saying is cut him some slack.”
“Whatever.”
They were at the road now. Dusk was descending; they weren’t going to get the damn boat running tonight. And even if they did, maybe Bill was right about going out there on her own, at night.
“He loves you, Sarah,” Bill said as he pushed open the farmhouse door. “And I think you love him too.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Martin’s hands ached. His fingers were numb from fiddling with the boat engine in the cold. Luckily the rain had held off, but the damp air meant that his hands were red and swollen.
He stuffed them between his knees as he sat at the kitchen table. It was almost dark now and the night outside was still. No animals stirring, or at least none he could hear. And no police.
Bill put a plate of food in front of him; potatoes and carrots, steaming.
“Is this it?”
“Don’t grumble. Without young Sammy, we�
��ve lost our hunter.”
“Hunter?” asked Sarah. She was tucking into her potatoes, blowing on each and then placing it in her mouth as if it was a delicacy.
“Yeah,” said Bill. He wiped his hands on his trousers and sat at the head of the table, between them. Martin wished he hadn’t picked a chair opposite Sarah; she refused to meet his eye, and it made him nervous.
“He hunted rabbits for us,” Bill continued. “Brought back a sheep once, God knows how he got that home. Only way of getting meat.”
“And he disappeared with the others?” Sarah asked. She sounded casual, as if at a suburban dinner party discussing share prices, not the means of getting food when you were half-starved.
“Yep,” said Bill. “They all buggered off at the same time. You not eating your veg, Martin?”
Martin pushed his plate away. “Not hungry.”
“You need your strength, if you’re planning on walking any distance.”
Martin shrugged. He heard Sarah breathe out, a long whistling breath that spoke of irritation. That was all he was to her now. An irritation.
Well, if that was how she felt about him, she could sort the boat out herself.
“I’m heading out in the morning,” he said.
Sarah dropped her knife. Bill placed his on his plate.
“You’re what?” he asked.
Martin met his gaze. “You heard. You both keep telling me I need to get moving. Well, maybe you’re right.”
Sarah opened her mouth but then said nothing. Bill picked up his fork and shovelled a heap of potatoes into his mouth.
Martin stared at his plate, wishing now that he hadn’t pushed it away. He couldn’t pull it back now; he was too proud.
“You don’t want this?” Bill asked. Martin shook his head.
Bill pulled the plate towards him. He shovelled half of its contents onto his plate and the other half onto Sarah’s. It wouldn’t be long before she was back at home, eating proper meals. He wandered what Dawn managed to cook with their rations. Better than carrots and potatoes.
Bill cleared his plate and pushed his chair back. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked between Martin and Sarah. Sarah was staring at her empty plate. So was Martin.
Bill picked up the plates and clattered to the sink.
Sarah stood up. “I’ll do that.”
“No,” said Bill. “That’s not right, after last time.”
Sarah and the other women had been forced to do chores, when they were locked up here. Martin had supervised Ruth planting potatoes.
She pushed him to one side. Since when had she and Bill got so friendly?
“I know you’re not forcing me to,” she said. “And it doesn’t matter what happened before. You cooked, I’m washing up.”
Bill stepped back and gave her a tight smile. “Thanks.” He looked at Martin. “In that case, I’m turning in. I want to be up at first light, try and get the boat running before you have to leave us, Martin.”
Martin shrugged. It wasn’t right that he was behaving like this. Bill had been good to him. And Sarah… well, Sarah was Sarah. He shouldn’t abandon her.
“Night,” he muttered.
He listened to Bill climbing the stairs. Sarah swilled water around the sink, intent on her task. It was taking longer than it should.
“I’d best be off to bed too,” he said.
She turned round. “It can’t be past eight. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“But Bill—”
“Bill nothing. I need to ask you something.”
He sat down again. “Go on.” He felt his stomach quiver.
She stacked the plates to dry and wiped her hands on her jeans – Robert’s jeans. They were stained with rust and dried sand.
“Why can’t you get the boat to work?” she said.
He frowned. “I told you. The engine…”
“You’ve been fiddling with it for hours. And it’s just the propeller. I don’t see why it won’t run.”
“I’m sorry, Sarah. I’m trying my best.’
“Are you?”
“What? Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I?”
She didn’t answer his question. Instead, she turned back to the dishes. She drained the sink and fished around in its depths, pulling out scraps and tossing them onto the newspaper that held food for the pigs. It seemed they, unlike the men, had stuck around.
He approached her. “Sarah, do you think I’m deliberately sabotaging the boat?”
“I didn’t say that.”
He stood behind her, close enough to smell the mustiness of Robert’s aftershave on her shirt. It made him gag.
“I’m trying my best,” he whispered. “I don’t know anything about boats, that’s all. It doesn’t help.”
She turned, making him back away. He almost toppled onto the table behind him then had a moment’s light-headedness as he remembered when he’d last thrown himself onto that table, lunging at Robert, knife in hand.
“You don’t want me to go,” she said.
He swallowed down the dryness in his throat. “No. But that doesn’t mean I’ll stop you.”
“Really?”
“We’re not all like Ted.”
She slapped him on the cheek. He threw his fingers up to it, suddenly delirious.
“You hit me!”
“I’ll do it again, if you don’t help me get that boat working.”
“I heard about your dad, you know. When I was on the road. I didn’t know it was him then, but I worked it out.”
“You’re lying.”
He shook his head, remembering the long walk north. He’d encountered plenty of people on his way here, some friendly, others not so much. Robert had saved him from two lads who’d beaten him up and stolen his rucksack.
“I’m not,” he said. “There were stories of a man with his wife and daughter, around the time I met Robert. What he did to people who crossed them.”
She paled. “You told me that was near Lincoln.”
He frowned. “Yeah.”
“We passed that way too.”
“I know. That’s what I was saying. Your dad…”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He was right, he could tell. They’d been near each other, on the road. He wondered what would have happened if they’d met.
She clenched her fists. “I need you to help me with the boat. In the morning.”
“But you told me yourself. I need to get away from here. The police…”
“It’s been two days. They’re not coming.”
She did have a point. He’d been wondering the same thing himself; it had been two days now since Ruth’s arrest. This farm was less than an hour from Filey by car. Where were they?
Was he, maybe, safe?
“Don’t talk like that about my dad,” she snapped. Her voice was high, shaking. “You don’t know him.”
“I know he hit you.” He struggled to keep his own voice steady. “I know the fear I saw on your face when you jumped into the boat. I understand, Sarah. My dad used to beat me.”
A shadow crossed her face. “That’s not— it’s not— it’s not what you think!”
She pushed past him towards the door. He wondered if Bill had heard them. Bill’s room was at the far end of a corridor, possibly too far away.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just wanted to help you.”
“Well don’t,” she snapped as she threw the door closed behind her.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Sarah stared up at the ceiling of Robert’s bedroom. Her body felt numb, and her mind full of concrete.
Had she been too hard on Martin? He wasn’t really trying to sabotage the boat, surely. Everything he’d done since leaving this farm last time, he’d been acting in her best interests.
And had he been right, about them being close to each other on the road? Could they have met? Could he have been one of the men who…?
No. He wasn’t like that.
>
But he’d taken her from the village. He’d let Robert bring him along on his mission, taken advantage of Ruth’s kindness.
Ruth, who was probably lying awake in a police cell.
She heaved her sore legs out of bed. Her feet throbbed from walking between the farm and the boat in ill-fitting shoes. She felt that if she did manage to sleep, she might never wake up. Her neck ached and her hands were raw and pink.
But maybe he was right about her father, when he’d said that Ted was no better than him; worse in fact. No better than Robert.
She thought back to the look on Ted’s face when he’d chased her down the beach, into the sea. The look when he’d hit her.
How was she going to face going home?
The thin blue curtains were torn and a draft made them shiver from time to time. She pulled them to one side to stare into the yard behind the farm. The outhouses, beyond it, were where they’d held her. Where she’d first encountered Martin. He’d been brought to her, shoved in by Robert, and told to get on with it.
But he hadn’t. Instead, he’d told her where she was. He’d helped her escape.
She went to the bedroom door and turned the key. Outside, the house was still. She strained to hear Martin and Bill’s breathing, but there was nothing, just the rhythmic tap tap of a tree hitting the window at the end of the corridor.
She turned towards the window, peering into each room in turn. They were dishevelled, clearly abandoned. Mattresses upended, curtains torn off their rails. No clothes, no valuables. The men had had time to pack up their belongings, then. If they had any.
She came to a door that was almost closed. She leaned towards it, listening. She could hear breathing.
Was it Martin, or Bill?
She pushed the door very slightly, holding her breath. It creaked. She stopped pushing, and counted to ten. There was no sound.
She gave the door another push, more gently this time. It gave way in silence.
The room was dark. She squinted to adjust her vision and a mattress came into focus, a pale rectangular shape in the centre of a dark floor. On it was a single figure. Tall, thin.
Martin.
The figure moved. He was sitting up, reaching for something.
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