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Prologue
Miranda knew she was dreaming, at one level of her mind, and tried to wake up, but was held too deeply by the dream. Her body was heavy, as if she were paralysed.
A tumult of dark green, marbled, foam-flecked water carried her along, turning her this way and that, upside down, then right side up, weightless, flotsam crashing helplessly along. The sea, she thought, smelling salt. She was in the sea.
She could hear someone else, nearby, gasping, choking.
He called out to her. ‘Miranda! Where are you? Miranda! Help me!’
He had never been a strong swimmer, whereas it had always been her favourite sport.
Her heart leapt in dread and anguish.
‘Tom, I’m coming, hang on!’ Fear for him made her fight harder. She struggled against the waves but she couldn’t see him.
‘Tom, where are you?’ she screamed, and with a final effort surfaced.
But not in the sea. Awake now, she realised she was in bed, in a strange room – a narrow, boxlike little room. Her body was damp with sweat. The sheets stuck to her. Blankly, she stared around. Where on earth was she?
There was very little furniture; just the bed she lay in, a low cupboard next to it, on which stood a jug of water and a glass, and against the wall a wooden chair. The walls were white. Beige blinds covered the small window. There was a lamp on a table by the door, casting a veiled light, and somewhere she heard muffled footsteps. Her nose wrinkled – there was that familiar institutional scent of wax polish she remembered from school, from public libraries, but mingled with a pungent, antiseptic smell. Disinfectant? Was she in a hospital?
What was she doing here? How had she got here?
Panic rose up inside her. The sea. She remembered the dream, or had it just been a dream? She had been in the sea. How long ago? Tom. Where was Tom?
She had fought to reach him, then someone else had appeared, had grabbed her by the shoulders to turn her over on to her back.
‘Leave me alone,’ she had yelled, trying to break free of him. ‘I’ll be OK. My husband. Save Tom. He’s in trouble. He isn’t a good swimmer, he needs help.’
He didn’t answer, and she couldn’t hear Tom any more. Fear made her desperate, but the powerful hands wouldn’t release her. He began towing her through the water. When she screamed at him water sloshed into her mouth, half-choking her.
He seemed tireless, breasting the waves while he dragged her behind him, up on to a beach. At last he let go of her and she lay, face down, salt water spewing out of her, hurting her throat, her body shuddering and heaving. Rough sand had grazed her frozen skin, she saw blood smears on her legs.
The man who had saved her knelt, massaging her back and shoulders with firm fingers. He raised her and put his arms round her to keep her warm against his body. She tried to push him away, but he would not let go. She was too tired to fight. She sat rigid in the circle of his grasp, hearing his body, his breathing, his heartbeat.
She hated him. He was alive. Tom was dead.
She turned her head to look down the beach at the dark, devouring sea. There was no sign of the yacht. It must have gone to the bottom.
Her eyes closed to shut out the sight. Images of Tom’s blond hair filled her head. It was so alive; it moved constantly, curling strands spread out in the water, floating away from the face with its closed, blind eyes, and she saw little blue and silver fish darting in and out of the curls.
Shuddering, she refused to think any more about that and drifted away like Tom on a remorseless tide.
How long had it been before rescue arrived? By the time it did, she must have been unconscious. She could remember nothing of what happened next.
All she knew was that she was here, in this silent little room. Alive and alone. Tears filled her eyes. Oh, Tom, Tom – how could she go on living, without him?
A sob broke out of her. She wished she were dead, too. She should have drowned out there, with him. She would have done if that man had not dragged her away.
In the corner of the room something moved. Her heart seemed to stop. Her head swung in shock.
‘Who’s there?’ she whispered.
He got up from a chair and came towards her. She recognised him at once. All in black, as usual – tieless shirt, trousers, jacket. His hair almost the same colour, springing back from a widow’s peak, short at the side, the back curling into his nape.
He stood beside the bed and she looked up with dread into his pale, cold face. His eyes were the colour of a grey winter’s day.
‘I was afraid of you the minute I first saw you,’ she said. ‘Now I know why. You’re the angel of death, aren’t you? You took Tom. Have you come for me now?’
He put a hand out towards her, long, tapering fingers curling to take her and she shrank away.
‘Don’t touch me! I couldn’t bear it if you touched
me!’ she screamed.
