Not a single word on the way. Even my car radio is voiceless. My throat is dry to the point that it becomes painful. Cay and Figg light up and the smoke stings my eyes. No, I’m not crying. These aren’t real tears. All this is a masquerade.
The ghost of the son of Enoch and Margaret Cay follows us. His presence trapped me and I was never able to escape him.
It’s a long, 6 miles. At the end of the Swale, in the Thames estuary, after the marshes of oyster farmers, lie old huts patched with driftwood and bits of string recovered from here and there. I take a path leading to our hut and park there.
In this off-season and at this late hour, there’s no one. Those living in the neighbourhood will warn the police when they hear the gunshot, but we’ll have time to clear out.
“How do you know abo
