Page 68 of Secret Paths

“You know,” Hunter says, looking back at me, “for a man supposedly savouring flapjack, you look extremely solemn.”

“I am surrounded by natural beauty.”

“You are staring at a sheep trough.”

“It has character.”

“It has algae.”

“Character.”

Hunter leans back on his hands. The wind ruffles his hair, and he squints towards the path where two women, tourists by the look of it, are taking photographs of the view. They passed us earlier with bright waterproofs, cheerful smiles and the mild confusion of people who thought a village walk would involve less mud.

One of them looks over and smiles.

Out of habit, I almost smile back properly.

Almost.

Then I remember Mandy’s hand on my jaw and look down at the flapjack instead.

Hunter makes a small noise.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

“That noise was not nothing.”

“It was observational.”

“Since when do you make observational noises?”

“Since you started behaving strangely.”

“I am eating a flapjack.”

“You are holding a flapjack.” Hunter nods towards the two tourists. “You have also ignored at least three opportunities to flirt today.”

“It is a Ramblers walk, not a singles night.”

“That has never troubled you before.”

“I have other things on my mind.”

“The bank?”

“Yes.”

“Monday?”

“Yes.”

“The cottage?”

I look towards the quarry.

Below us, rainwater has gathered in the old workings, dark and still except where the wind wrinkles the surface. Moss clings to the exposed stone, stubborn and bright in the cracks.