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  This fine opportunity has arisen before he even knew he was seeking it.

  Timing is all. Knowing when to leave the party. Dex is in complete control, and it feels good. He lies back in the bubbles, and wonders if he drew this situation to himself, on some sublime level. Naomi believes that if you ask the universe for what you need, it will provide.

  "Like it brought me to you, and so we made Phoenix," she has said, many times.

  She believes the universe knew Lindisfarne needed his leadership, and drew them together, too.

  Before, he thought such talk was nothing more than New Age, faux spirituality, but now he wonders if there is something to it.

  Last night, after Vicky had gone to bed, he learned much. Pliable after too much wine, Barney admitted that the rebuild is facilitated by the US government via the Renova Group, a consortium of mega-wealthy industrialists. Subtle questioning earned him assurance that Barney does not know about Project Renova; Dex doubts many outside the island do. Already, even on Lindisfarne, the story has been labelled a conspiracy theory at best, a sci-fi film-inspired fantasy at worst. It is passed around, altered, embellished. Scott is neither confident nor articulate, and the few he has told about Major Ridgeway's revelations have displayed much scepticism.

  Those who have left Lindisfarne may speak of it to others, the facts moulded to suit the teller's own beliefs; it will evolve into myth, with no more credibility than the many other theories about the virus being released into drinking water, or via the chemtrails that used to cause so much concern.

  Not that it matters now; people are too busy trying to survive, to care.

  Dex is excited about working with the Renova Group. Barney told him that leaders of communities are automatically considered for positions of authority in UK2. Of course, Barney is little more than a thug with a certain gift of the gab that appeals to the common man, but Dex noted the deference with which he spoke about this Alex Verlander who controls the show, and knows his brutish lackey will be a good person to have on side.

  Success, position and privilege is, was and always will be, about who you know, and whose back you scratch; thus, Barney was treated to fine sea bass and prawns barbecued on the terrace, fresh salad vegetables, new bread, and the finest wines to be found in the hotel stores.

  Vicky even managed to smile. But, like Project Renova, Vicky no longer matters.

  His new life awaits him.

  Chapter Eleven

  Lottie and Martin

  August 8th, 2026

  Lottie

  It's D-Day. Dish-the-Dirt-on-Dex Day.

  Martin arrives shortly after eight.

  Flora is packing, buzzing around the house like the busy little worker bee she is. Singing and getting on my nerves. Once, I heard her cry out "Squeeeee!". I will so be glad to see the back of her.

  After yesterday's sunshine it's overcast today, with dark clouds to the east. Feels appropriate. Hope there's a big fuck-off thunderstorm.

  Martin and I walk up to the castle, while Mac walks his bike up, behind us, so they don't hear us coming and in case I need to make a quick getaway, he says.

  I'm sick with nerves. It's like every time I sat outside the headmaster's office waiting for a roasting, all rolled into one.

  "Mum won't leave," I say. "She'd have discussed it with me by now if she was even thinking about it."

  "Of course she would. And she certainly won't be going once she's heard what we have to say." Martin shoves his hands in his pockets. "This isn't going to be easy. Dex doesn't like me much at the best of times."

  I laugh. "Mum says he feels threatened by you."

  His mouth sets in a grim line. "In half an hour, I hope he'll be feeling potentially threatened by everybody."

  The road up to the castle feels like the Green Mile. So long, but in other ways not long enough.

  We arrive, wait for Mac, then the three of us climb the cobbled slope up to the door, and knock.

  Mum opens it and looks so pleased to see me; she reaches forward and hugs me. Will this be the last time she ever smiles at me?

  "Don't look so worried!" she says. "You didn't think I'd be going down south? Come on, you know I'd never leave you."

  I draw back to look at her and have to swallow hard and blow air out of my mouth to stop myself crying.

  "What's up? Sweetheart!" She holds me to her again. "Did you really think I might go? Listen, Dex is going to go down and check the place out, stick around for a couple of months and see if it's a feasible option for us all, long term. Tell you the truth, I'm hoping it won't be."

  She's smiling, and I feel even worse. She looks like her old self. Happy.

  And I'm about to shatter everything.

  "Mum, we need to talk to you."

  Until now she hasn't questioned why Martin is with us.

  "We?" She looks at Martin and Mac, and forces out a nervous laugh. "What is this?"

  "Can we come in?"

  "Yes—yes, of course." We follow her into the kitchen. "Do you want tea?"

  "No thanks," Martin says, and smiles at her; his face is so kind. "Where's Dex?"

  "Upstairs, he's taking a bath, packing, writing lists for Phil and Kara—do you want to see him?"

  "No." Martin reaches out and touches Mum's shoulder. "Vicky, would you sit down, please?"

  She doesn't look so happy now, and backs away. "Why?"

  "Please."

  "What's going on?" But she plonks herself down, all the same. She looks scared, and I'm reminded of the night Nicole and Clay turned up at our house and told us they'd found Heath lying dead over at The Heugh. I drag a chair across the stone floor so I'm opposite her, and take her hand in mine.

  "Mum, there's something I should have told you about ages ago, but I didn't think you could face it, because you were so heartbroken about Heath. But not telling you has made it worse, I've talked to Martin and Mac, and—"

  Martin moves so that he's standing by her, with his hand on the back of her chair.

  "You need to just say it, Lottie. You owe your mum that. Just tell her."

  I shut my eyes, breathe in, and I can feel her clutching my hand back. She looks terrified.

  "You're not pregnant, are you?" It's a feeble attempt at a joke.

  "She's not," Mac says.

  This is it. I open my mouth and it comes out. "It's about when Wedge killed Heath—Mum, this is really awful, and please don't be too cross with me, but I found out that—that it was Dex who asked him to do it. Dex bribed him, 'cause he knew you and Heath were in love and were going to leave together." It's like someone else is saying all these words, not me. "So it was, um, Dex who killed him, really."

  She shuts her eyes; her head falls back, just a little, and I wonder if she's going to faint.

  "Mum?"

  "What?" She's seriously frowning, her voice a whisper.

  I say it all over again.

  Her eyes spring open, and they're filled with tears. "What?" She's shaking, really badly. "Who made this up? Where did you get it from?"

  Martin puts his arm around her. "It's true."

  She looks up at him, not at me. "How do you know?"

  Her voice is small, like she can hardly get it out.

  So I tell her everything, every tiny detail I can remember. All about that terrible morning when Jax and I met Bette down in that shed. Everything Bette said. I leave nothing out.

  And she just sits and listens, shaking her head in disbelief, but she doesn't say anything, it's freaking me out, and I don't know what to do so I just carry on talking.

  "For ages it was only Jax and me who knew, before I told Mac, and I only told Martin the other day because I needed some help, I didn't know what to do—you understand why I didn't tell you, don't you?" My face keeps crumpling up, 'cause I'm so scared she'll never be able to forgive me. "I couldn't, Mum, you were in such a state, and Dex was looking after you, and then Kara said that she didn't think you could survive it if it wasn't for Dex, and that was why I made
up my mind to wait until you were feeling a bit stronger, and then every day I didn't tell you it got harder and harder, it was so easy to think, no, I'll do it tomorrow, and it kept building up and—"

  She pushes herself away from me, and the chair screeches across the stone floor. She stands and edges back, lifts her hands to her head, her fingers threading through her hair.

  "You kept this from me?"

  I can't stop the tears falling now, and I don't even try. Somewhere behind me I'm aware of Mac and Martin, I feel a hand on my shoulder, but they shouldn't be comforting me, it's Mum they should be with.

  "I-I didn't know how to tell you, I didn't think you could take it—"

  "I've been with him, all this time." She shakes her head, her mouth hangs open like she's gasping for air, she has one arm round her stomach and the other hand on her forehead, like she's in physical pain and she can't take it in. "I've lived with him, I've shared a bed with him—you let me do that? You knew this, and you didn't say anything?"

  She's got that totally destroyed look in her eyes, like when Heath died—oh God, this is exactly what I was dreading, that she'd be right back at square one, except it's worse, because I've betrayed her.

  "And Bette—we were friends, why didn't she tell me? Is that why she went?"

  "She didn't think it was her place to—"

  She reaches for the back of a chair, pulls it back and sits down.

  "Lottie, please, just go."

  I'm blubbing like a twat. "I knew you'd be angry with me, but I was so scared, and I made it worse by not telling you, then every single day it got harder, and until I told Mac I was all on my own with it, I didn't know what to do!" Shit, shit, shit, I knew this would all go wrong. "It was too much for me, I didn't know what to do!"

  "Lottie, please." She's sort of swaying, like she's going to totally lose it, but she doesn't sound angry now. "Just go. I can't—"

  I glance at Martin and he nods at me; I step backwards and open the door.

  "Please go. Mac, you too." Tears are running down her cheeks, and she just sounds tired, like it's an effort to even talk. I edge out, and as Mac follows me I hear footsteps and the banging of a door from somewhere else in the castle, and Dex shouting what the hell's going on down there, and then the door slams shut behind us, shutting me out, and it's started to rain, and I don't know what the fuck to do next.

  Martin

  I stay.

  I move towards Vicky and put my arm around her shoulders just as Dex storms into the room, demanding to know what all this racket is about.

  I expect her to crumple, but she doesn't.

  She pushes my arm off and puts a hand up, but I think she's fine with me; it's like she's saying, I'm okay. I can do this on my own.

  Some detached part of my brain clocks how pretty she is, even with pink eyes and a distraught expression. And she smells good; Shalimar, I believe.

  She stands straight, arms hugging herself, and fixes Dex with an icy stare.

  "Is it true?"

  He's tall, this man who is a danger to us. Long limbs, all physical strength and sharp angles. My loathing of him knows no bounds, and I feel a quiet desperation to remove him from all of our lives. I do not want to hit him because I know I would come off worst, but if I had a gun I would shoot him. Right now.

  He shoves his evil, long-fingered hands into the pockets of his jeans, and icy-stares her back. "Is what true?"

  "If it is, you know what I'm talking about."

  And I see the look on his face, just for a moment, that tells me yes, he knows. I wonder if Vicky sees it, too; I believe she does.

  He takes one step back, but it's enough for me to be sure he's guilty, and, for the first time, I notice the packed bags by the door.

  "What do you think I know, Vick?" His voice is cautious, playing for time.

  She says it.

  "You murdered Heath. It was you."

  He fakes bewilderment. "What? Come on, it was Wedge, we all know that—"

  "He was acting on your instructions."

  Then she's across the room, flying at him, socking him round the head and calling him all sorts, and I'm leaping behind her, grabbing her around the waist, and he's fending her off and edging back, nursing his imagined wounds—for all her fury, she's not very strong.

  I stand close until she calms down.

  "It was you. I know it was. I know it's true."

  He does this ridiculous, pseudo-bemused laugh. "Who's been feeding you this?" He points at me. "Was it this idiot? Is that why he's here? Jesus, some men will sink to any depths to get into a woman's pants!"

  "It wasn't Martin." She launches into a slightly muddled version of Lottie's explanation, but she's holding up fine and he must know the game's up.

  A flash of panic crosses his face, but his mind works quickly.

  "So this is based on some bullshit fairy tale that old lush told Lottie? You'll take her word over mine? For Christ's sake, Vick, how long have you known me? How long have I taken care of you?"

  "I don't need taking care of."

  He throws back his head and laughs. "No? What about when you were all alone, a single mum in a grotty flat with a delinquent daughter—"

  "The flat wasn't grotty, and Lottie's no delinquent."

  "—who'd be even more out of control than she is now if I hadn't stepped in. I bought you the house you wanted, I abandoned the mother of my son to be with you—"

  "Yes, well, that's another matter, isn't it? Naomi. You're a good liar, aren't you?"

  He's stumped for a moment. Then he shakes his head, as if in sad disbelief. "You'd trust that drunk slapper over me? Really? I can see why she had Lottie fooled, she'd believe anything for a bit of drama and intrigue, but—come on, Vick, can't you see that's what this is? Why would I do this?"

  "Because you knew I loved Heath and he loved me. Because you knew I was going to leave with him, and you didn't want to be made a fool of."

  The expression changes back to bewildered amusement. "This is so stupid it's laughable. You can't prove it, and nor can Lottie. Come on, think it through—"

  She collapses onto a chair. "You don't have to say any more. You've just told me everything."

  "What?" Then he looks at me. Stops in his tracks. "Er, hang on a minute, excuse me, but what are you doing here? Will you just fuck off, please?"

  "It's up to Vicky." I'm not leaving her alone with him.

  "Martin, stay." She takes my hand, clings to it. "It's true. I know it is. If I had any doubt before, I haven't now."

  He opens his eyes wide, mockingly. "Do tell."

  "It was when I said 'you knew I loved Heath and he loved me'. You didn't show any surprise at all. You knew. You knew I was in love with Heath."

  Nice one, Vicky. Beat that, you psycho.

  He puts his hands in his pockets. "Of course I knew. It happens; we'd been together a long time, women get these crushes. Call it a seven-year itch—"

  "He loved me, too. I was going to leave you for him. But you had him killed, not because you love me, but because you didn't want to look like a loser."

  In my experience, a person unjustly accused will do everything in their power to prove their innocence. They're outraged. My wife used to flip her lid if I wrongly suggested she'd so much as eaten the last of the cheese (it was always me, when I'd had a few, and forgotten). But being accused of murder—well, you'd scream, shout and holler from the rooftops.

  Dex does none of this.

  He picks up his bag and opens the door, then turns around. "You know what?" he says. "Fuck you. Think what you like. I'm done with your whining and your moods. I've been done with you for a long time, if the truth be known." He looks up at the rain, now falling in relentless sheets from the dark clouds. "I'm going to pick up my son and his mother, and get the fuck away from here."

  He storms out, and she goes to run after him, but I hold her back.

  "Don't," I say. "He's never going to admit it. Let him go."

  She tu
rns on me, all angry eyes and flushed cheeks. "Let him go? He killed Heath, and we let him swan off like nothing's happened?" She looks and sounds just like her daughter.

  "So what's the alternative?"

  She shuts her eyes, frowns. "I don't know. Something. He doesn't get to just walk away, does he?"

  I place my hands on the tops of her arms and hold her, firmly. I hope not too firmly. "What do you want to do? Put him in stocks on the village green, and throw rotten vegetables at him? Erect a scaffold, string him up? If you don't want to let him go, what else is there?"

  She doesn't answer.

  I drop my arms to my sides.

  "We don't have a justice system, Vicky. Rules of the old world don't apply."

  "Shut up," she says, hand at her forehead. "You sound like him."

  "I'm sorry about that, but it's true. And you never know; life has a way of exacting its own revenge, even if we don't get to see it."

  She's not listening.

  Dex is sitting in his car, starting it up.

  "Naomi," Vicky says. "I need to tell Naomi—"

  I take her hand. "Do you think she'll believe you?"

  Lottie

  Mum ignores me. Dex walks out to his car, shoves his bag in the boot, then gets into the driving seat, ignoring all of us.

  I can't help it. I rap on his window and scream, "Murdering bastard!" at him. He just looks at me and laughs.

  Mum and Martin are arguing.

  I catch Martin's eye, and he comes over, pulls me away from the car.

  "He's going to Naomi's," he says, and shivers; the downpour has made the temperature drop. "Your mum thinks she needs to be told. I don't think there's any point, but—"

  "Nor do I, but I'll go after him if that's what Mum wants."

  Mac's waiting for me on the bike.

  Dex zooms past us, staring straight ahead.

  I jump on the back, and put my arms around Mac's waist. I'm shivering, too, but his body feels warm against mine.

  Martin's right, it's pointless. Naomi's never going to believe her darling Dex is capable of any such evil.