Page 187 of Slack Tide Kill

"Officers are with them both. He's OK, Sally. Mayhew's still trapped, the water's high, but fire are almost here. They'll cut her loose."

Her eyes roved the storm above, seeking patterns in the endless flow. "And the reactor?"

"As far as I know, secure. Nothing in, nothing out. Whatever bomb Mercer wanted to trigger, he failed."

Sally gulped. That was the last thing, her final message to deliver. "It's not a bomb. It's … pipes. Process water connected … to the Boils outflow. Just plumbing."

Confusion flashed over Gemmell's face, but he set his jaw. "We'll do it. I swear, Sally. We have this. You need to rest."

They reached the ambulance. Her eyes kept working, searching for anything she'd missed, but that seemed like the final piece of the puzzle.

It was done.

She let out a breath as paramedics lifted her into the back of the wagon. Was one of them John Logan? She couldn't tell. Soft words, gentle touches, and she finally released her grasp on consciousness

FRIDAY FEBRUARY 9

77 CLEAN

In dreams, Sally suffocated.

The dirt. The bodies. The water. She couldn't get free, until a hand reached down. A sun-weathered face watched over her, at once stern and amused.

Arthur Bledd.

She took his arm and pulled herself free.

"Nice move with the phone," he said. "Nothing's ever what it seems."

Then his body disintegrated into droplets of rain, which fell to the dark earth and became a river. Never-ending, never beginning, but always circling. This time it did not smother or drown her. It gathered her, buoyed her and carried her away.

She woke into the half-light cast by hospital equipment. Red, green and blue lights blinked, illuminating her left arm strapped and elevated. Her right knee was braced and swollen beneath a blanket. A cannula tugged at her wrist. Machines beeped intermittently beside the bed.

Immobile, but strangely not panicked.

Calm.

A window lay with the curtains open, looking out to a dark horizon. Clear, black skies peppered with stars. The storm had ended. Order had returned.

She heard breathing. Twisting her neck hurt. The devices on her arm and leg prevented her shifting too far, but still, it was enough.

There was a bed beside hers, the dividing screen pulled back, with a figure lying atop it, one arm elevated. He looked so frail with an oxygen mask over his face.

Liam O'Connell. Asleep. Breathing in, breathing out.

The sight steadied Sally's heart. Her partner. Maybe her friend. She wanted to reach out, but the gap was too large, and she couldn't budge. She wondered idly how many bones she'd fractured. How many ribs. How big this new scar on her scalp would be.

The cost of living.

She smiled, and settled, and sank back, this time into a dreamless sleep.

She woke to light, fresh air and all the myriad pains of the last few days coming home to roost in her body and head. There was a throb, and a burn, and an ache, but she no longer felt so loose.

Liam was still asleep on her right. Beyond him the window revealed blue skies over the Channel. The sun was rising, and events filtered back to her like a story told by Edwin Pike in his museum.

"Hey, you're awake?"

The voice was familiar. She twisted, barely a few degrees, but enough to make out his face. John Logan.