“Heath,” I say gravely to the beanie, “I apologise. The wellness retreat has suffered a minor predatory interruption.”
Mark chuckles and shakes his head.
Heath remains hidden.
Reasonable.
I glance at the patio door where the seagull had been and shudder.
“I nearly watched a murder over cod.”
Mark’s mouth twitches.
“He survived.”
I look at the beanie tucked safely against his chest, Heath hidden somewhere inside it.
Then at Mark.
And there it is again.
That same stupid, dangerous certainty that has been stalking me all day.
Safe.
He feels safe.
Which is not at all the kind of thought one should be having about a man with an expiry date attached.
I decide immediately to ignore that.
With the same success rate as all my other excellent decisions this weekend.
Chapter 13
Mark
Sunday mornings always feelquieter in Whitstable.
Even when there’s noise.
The kettle boiling.
The low murmur of the radio Philip has turned on again.
The scrape of a chair over the kitchen floor.
Everything still carries that strange, muted quality, like the sea has pressed a hand over the whole house and told it to keep its voice down.
I stand at the foot of the stairs for a second and watch him.
He’s at the counter in my T-shirt again, barefoot, making breakfast with the easy confidence of someone who has apparently decided my kitchen belongs to him on weekends.
Heath’s cage sits on the island.
The hamster himself is still buried inside the beanie, recovering from yesterday’s brush with aerial death.
Philip glances over his shoulder.
