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Brenda lifted the canvas, and after a moment of blindly feeling for the nail, lined up the string. Following a slight adjustment, she stood back, gauging its level. Friday, 2.16pm And you escaped. Rosie leans up to fetch something from a high shelf in the sombre yellow light she takes on the likeness of a painting by Vermeer– an apple-cheeked serving girl with a glow that speaks of glowing embers; a rose-lipped embrace. He feels a vibration in his pocket. It takes him a moment to realise its his phone. Embarrassed, he apologises and fumbles for the phone. Its a message from Matti, his half Finnish, half Jamaican agent, for whom a love of literature has not blunted his use of superfluous exclamation marks. Pain lanced up his leg again, and he felt the barb of the arrow deep inside the soft flesh. Only his own kind could help him. If he didnt find someone to get the arrow out, it would kill him. He listens to her happy life. Manages a smile.Yeah, he grumbles. “That would be the work of a fucking idiot. Illusions. That was what the Fellna were all about. Illusions and lies. Thats Catherine, says Serendipity, leaning over. Youre in luck Aye, quite literally. Her lips tore at him, teeth scraping his skin until blood flowed. Shan gasped as her hands continued to explore, as the other Fellna pressed in against them, murmuring their joy, their pleasure and pain combined. Keep going, he repeats. You wont think theres a house there, but there is…, Rowan is under doctors orders to keep his skin covered. The wounds upon his palms have twice become infected. For a time he seemed to be more blisters than flesh: mottled strips of epidermis hanging from his palm like popped bubble-gum; pus and pain in every line and whorl. Two weeks ago he was admitted to A&E - the doctors concerned he was developing sepsis and pumping him so full of antibiotics that his blood could have healed the sick. He ran a fever that turned his skin a shade of green; steam rising from his forehead while shivering so violently that the nurses feared he would break his teeth. There was talk of an induced coma. His sister was called. Rowan spent five whole days in hospital before boredom and the absence of a bar persuaded him he would be best served by discharging himself. He didnt get very far. The pain in his hands reached all the way up to his shoulders. He couldnt steer his car or change gear without weeping. They found him in the car park, trying to reverse out of a parking space using his elbows. His sister had made the decision for him. He was coming to stay with her. There would be no arguments. She would give him space. She’d just had the byre done up and although it was pretty basic and the toilet was outdoors, it would be perfect for his convalescence. He could take it easy. He could write, or at the very least he could dictate into a recording device. He could walk on the fells or skim stones, however inexpertly, on the silver-grey surface of the mountain tarns. He could meet new people, drink real ales and decide what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. He could get to know his niece, Serendipity. They would take care of him. Dont try, Shan told her. He reached up and his hand trembled as he pressed it against her cheek to brush away tears she didnt know she shed. Not cooking, thats for sure. Karen laughed. But I can wash vegetables and potatoes. She glanced around the kitchen. “Ooh, you made coffee. I could kiss you.” Warren shook his head.I never said that. We should leave them. Her only reply was a gentle nod and they slipped away in silence, hand in hand, to leave Indarin and Lara together at last. Through the archway that led into the lounge, Samara noticed her father remained in his chair watching a rugby match. Mums order obviously didnt apply to him. Hanging her head to form a black curtain of hair to hide behind, Samara placed her pad and charcoal on the table and sat opposite her sister. While she hated the seating arrangements, this is how it had always been, and how it always must be. Looking at the same two pictures on the wall beyond Kellys face brought comfort in their familiarity. On one side, the sisters aged three and seven, arranged in the photographer’s studio not unlike the boy band on Kelly’s magazine. Both children grinned up at the camera, Samara missing her two top teeth.Their dad liked to joke to visitors how glad they are to have the picture, asit’s the last time Samara smiled. On the other side was the man himself, younger and slimmer, sporting a curly black mullet and leaning proudly against his first car. A blazing summer day in the early eighties. He removes his gloves and plunges his hand into the pocket of his coat. His hands close on metal. He grips the Zippo lighter. Pulls it free and spins the wheel. There is a tiny spark but the flame is swallowed by the wind. He curse and cups the lighter with his hand, trying to shield it from the gusts that seem to be growing stronger, whisking the detritus of the night. The flame catches but disappears again when he takes his hand away..