She ran. Christopher sat by the feet of St Michael and marvelled how clean they were. Then turned his eyes to the sky and the comforting presence of buildings. For a minute or more, before he failed to resist the temptation to spy. They would not notice.
He could see Theodore Calvert. A very small man, the way he had always imagined Christ and St Christopher to be, small and determined, perhaps a touch aggressive. A little like a rude Italian restaurant owner who knew his food was better than anyone else’s.
Anna stood a few feet away from her father. They examined each other, warily. She was not going to be fooled by the tears, which almost made her speechless. Almost. He could not speak. She spoke first.
‘So where have you been, all this time?’
‘Somewhere like hell,’ he said.
‘And what’s that like?’
He sighed, stumbled on words.
‘I think you know. I think you’ve been there.You carry it with you. A crown of thorns.’
She crossed the room to him then, a small, almost ugly man, instantly familiar with his dome of a forehead and a face as creased and vibrant as an old hound and tears on his chin. She grabbed at his jacket and tugged his hair to prove he was real, and then held on, tightly. They swayed in a clumsy embrace, holding each other upright.
‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered into her shoulder. ‘I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have . . . shouldn’t . . .’
‘Stop saying that. We’re neither of us going to say that. Don’t, don’t, don’t.’
He had a deep, broken voice.
‘Oh, thank God. Thank God.’
They stood in silence. The fire crackled. Barbara had spared no expense.
Her own voice sounded small from the depths of his jacket.
‘Did you really say that?’
‘What did I say? Oh, thank God you’re alive . . . Thank God.’
‘Did you hear yourself, Dad? Did you hear yourself say that? Will you listen to yourself? Shame on you.You never thanked God for anything.’
He had a fine-tuned laugh, remarkably like her own. The sound of their gulping laughter reached the roof, until Anna detached herself from him, still holding his hands at arm’s length, to look at him again from head to toe, still crying.
‘Oh, Dad, what am I going to do with you?’ she wailed. ‘I’ve told everyone you were a big man. A giant. How am I going to take you anywhere?’
He had a wide smile, like hers.
‘I’ll just stay sitting down.’
Christopher Goodwin thought he had never heard anything more beautiful than laughter. Except, perhaps, the roar of a crowd. In a minute, the two of them might be arguing and that would be fine, too, entirely natural, in fact. He had told Theodore Calvert not to have any illusions about reclaiming his daughters’ lives. Or imagining he could tell them what to do.
He blew his nose and considered the next problem. It would be a little harder to persuade Kay McQuaid that her boy had done some good. Because, as rumour had it, when you did good, you were supposed to mean it.
About the Author
FRANCES FYFIELD has spent much of her professional life practicing as a criminal lawyer, work which has informed her highly acclaimed novels. She has been the recipient of both the Gold and Silver Crime Writers’ Association Daggers. She is also a regular broadcaster on Radio 4, most recently as the presenter of the series Tales from the Stave. She lives in London and in Deal, overlooking the sea, which is her passion.
www.francesfyfield.co.uk
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Also by Frances Fyfield
A QUESTION OF GUILT
SHADOWS ON THE MIRROR
TRIAL BY FIRE
SHADOW PLAY
PERFECTLY PURE AND GOOD
A CLEAR CONSCIENCE
WITHOUT CONSENT
BLIND DATE
STARING AT THE LIGHT
UNDERCURRENTS
THE NATURE OF THE BEAST
LOOKING DOWN
THE PLAYROOM
HALF LIGHT
SAFER THAN HOUSES
LET’S DANCE
THE ART OF DROWNING
BLOOD FROM STONE
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This book was originally published in Great Britain in 2003 by Little, Brown Book Group and as a Time Warner Paperback in 2004.
SEEKING SANCTUARY. Copyright © 2003 by Frances Fyfield. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition OCTOBER 2014 ISBN: 9780062301208
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062301215
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