arm and spun me round to face him, his bare chest and his slicked back hair and his cheekbones and his eyes…
“What?”
But I didn’t get any further, because Luke pulled me to him and kissed me, startling and sharp and soft and sweet, and I fell into his arms, feeling his hot skin through my pyjamas. The towel fell away, and then my sweater followed it and Luke started sliding down the straps on my shoulders.
I wrapped my arms around him, needing him as much as wanting him, trying to touch as much of him as I could, all at once, all over. My fingers slid up into his hair, feeling lines and ridges under the wet mass, scars from previous days—
—and then I remembered—
“Would you really look after me if I was really sick?”
“Course I would.” Luke kissed my neck.
“What about if you had a job to do?”
“I’d stay with you.”
Tears were flowing freely down my cheeks. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this.”
“Say what?” Luke looked a little apprehensive. As well he might.
“I wouldn’t do the same for you.”
—and I ripped my head away from his, looking up into his startled eyes.
“Sophie—” he reached for me, naked and hot and wrong .
“I can’t,” I said, backing away, grabbing my sweater and running down the stairs. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
I slammed the door to my room, trying hard not to cry.
That’s it, the reason we broke up. I did it. I pushed him away, because I cared about him too much, and if I was going to do this job with any degree of success then I needed to put it first. Not him. Not Luke. I couldn’t let myself fall for him.
And I hated myself for it. I left him to die so I could catch the person who’d killed him. I didn’t know he was still alive. I didn’t let myself cry until I’d got the vicious creature who’d smashed a spanner into Luke’s face, nearly breaking his jaw, slamming him against a concrete wall until his skull cracked and bled. I did my job and got commended by Karen, and I lost my boyfriend.
So I’m a heartless cow. I’ll never love anyone or be loved. I’ll be alone forever and die alone and get eaten by the army of cats I’ll have amassed to try and prove that someone wants me or needs me. And I’ll be found weeks later, rotten and fleshless, when someone tries to read my gas meter, and I’ll be so unidentifiably decomposed I’ll be buried in an unmarked grave, and no one will ever know or care about me ever again.
I sat there in the middle of the cherub bed, sniffing and crying for ages. Norma Jean padded down the stairs and scratched to be let in, and I let her up on the bed to cuddle her, let her lick my hand, to look up at me with adoring doggy eyes.
“It’s no good, kiddo,” I sniffed. “I can’t love you, either. I’m not allowed.”
I lay back and tried to sleep, but it wouldn’t come. The cherubs annoyed me, Luke’s mouth and his hands haunted me, sense memories imprinted on my face and body, not helped by Norma, who occasionally licked my fingers, trying to comfort me.
Eventually I looked at my watch and saw it was after midnight. I’d never get to sleep. I felt like I’d been here a whole night already.
I made a decision and got up and put my clothes on. Jeans and T-shirt and sweater, and my fleece, hat, scarf, gloves, thick socks and Doc Martens. I went upstairs to wash my face and put some moisturiser on, to make myself feel a bit better, and then I told Norma Jean to be very quiet as I slipped her lead on, grabbed the big, heavy flashlight from the kitchen, and locked the front door behind me.
I’d checked the tide table before I left and knew it was about half an hour to low tide. The causeway that led down one side of the harbour was about a foot above the water level, and the pub cave was high and dry—well, sort of damp really, but drier than it had been this morning when I stood on the harbour wall and looked out with Maria and the young copper.
There was still a bit of police