20
‘I’m ex-army,’ Slim said, handing back Celia’s shoe as she sat up on the grass and wiped dirt off her blouse. ‘It’s been nearly twenty years, but they drilled us pretty well. Muscle memory. If you’d tried that with a g*n, I’d have broken your arm.’
‘Do you want me to say thanks?’
Slim fell quiet. He looked at a clump of fresh daffodil leaves—the flowers still a few days off—as they swayed in the evening breeze.
‘I don’t know what I want,’ he said. ‘I don’t know why I’m here really, if I’m honest about it.’
‘Then why are you?’
Slim frowned. ‘It’s an addiction, isn’t it? It’s no different to the booze. Once I start, I can’t stop. I have to see it out, for better or … worse.’
‘And my father is your pet project? Your little holiday mystery? Honestly, most people just go to the beach.
