terraces, a crabbed, dark shape, dividing the water like a body.
A roaring filled Kieran’s ears. He couldn’t tell if the sound came from within his head or without.
The dogs stayed on the footpath, their pattern tighter now, their tails moving with increased energy. Beyond the weir, the still-turbulent water swirled and eddied into a stand of partially submerged trees and the brush that had collected against them.
Both dogs now homed in on the bank itself. Tosh sniffed the edge, then lowered herself until her muzzle was just level with the water’s surface. She looked as if she were lapping the water, delicately, like a dog at a tea party, but Kieran knew she was taking in scent molecules with her tongue. Finn whined and danced beside her.
Tosh backed up and woofed, looking to Tavie for direction. Tavie knelt, a hand on the dog’s harness. The current was still strong—she wouldn’t want Tosh going in if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.
Tavie shielded her eyes from the glare on the water, leaning forward perilously as she peered into the nest of tree trunks and debris. When she stiffened, Kieran dropped to his knees beside her.
Tavie turned to him, pushing him back as if she could keep him from seeing what she had seen. But it was too late.
Beneath the surface, tendrils of dark hair moved like moss, and white fingers, slightly curled, drifted back and forth as if waving, signaling for help.
“No,” said Kieran. “No.” And the roaring overtook him.
Chapter Four
Depending on the season, the Thames flows between (for the most part) wild and unwalled riverbanks hurriedly and muddily, or peacefully and translucently. On certain days its waters resemble a fine mass of shimmering, metallic, luminous blue. On some evenings it looks like a mirror reflecting the sky from which it seems to issue.
—Rory Ross with Tim Foster
Four Men in a Boat: The Inside Story of the Sydney 2000 Coxless Four
“A n Astra,” said Kit. “An Astra Estate. And green. What could possibly be worse?”
Duncan Kincaid glanced at his son sitting beside him in the passenger seat, long legs sprawled into the foot well, and bit his tongue on old adages about horses and gifts. He reminded himself that he had hated being patronized when he was Kit’s age. He also remembered what it was like to be fourteen, when nothing mattered more than what others thought.
Kit had been unusually quiet as they drove up through Somerset and Wiltshire, concentrating on his iPod Touch rather than the beautiful autumnal scenery. It was only now, when they had joined the M4 and passed through the unexciting edges of Swindon, that he’d stirred and removed his earphones.
“That’s a bit ungracious, don’t you think?” Kincaid said moderately.
“I’m not being seen getting out of it at school.” Kit’s expression was mulish. “And I’m certainly not going to drive it.”
Kincaid was beginning to lose patience. “You’ve got a few years before you even need to think about driving, so let’s worry about that one when we get to it,” he said, although he was sure his mum and dad had been thinking exactly that when they had offered Duncan and Gemma their old car. The Astra Estate was old, solid, comfortable, and supremely safe—all things anathema to a fourteen-year-old boy.
His dad had presented the car with all the glee of a first-time parent playing at Father Christmas. Kincaid suspected that if it hadn’t been for the rain, he might actually have wrapped it in ribbon. “Your mother wants something greener,” he’d said, then chuckled at his own inadvertent humor. “More ecologically correct, that is. Not that the Astra’s bad, mind you. But we thought you could use the extra carrying space, now that you have Charlotte with you.”
Kincaid had to admit he was right. The three kids had been stuffed into the back of Gemma’s Escort on the journey down to Somerset, and there had been tears and tantrums aplenty. They did need a bigger
A roaring filled Kieran’s ears. He couldn’t tell if the sound came from within his head or without.
The dogs stayed on the footpath, their pattern tighter now, their tails moving with increased energy. Beyond the weir, the still-turbulent water swirled and eddied into a stand of partially submerged trees and the brush that had collected against them.
Both dogs now homed in on the bank itself. Tosh sniffed the edge, then lowered herself until her muzzle was just level with the water’s surface. She looked as if she were lapping the water, delicately, like a dog at a tea party, but Kieran knew she was taking in scent molecules with her tongue. Finn whined and danced beside her.
Tosh backed up and woofed, looking to Tavie for direction. Tavie knelt, a hand on the dog’s harness. The current was still strong—she wouldn’t want Tosh going in if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.
Tavie shielded her eyes from the glare on the water, leaning forward perilously as she peered into the nest of tree trunks and debris. When she stiffened, Kieran dropped to his knees beside her.
Tavie turned to him, pushing him back as if she could keep him from seeing what she had seen. But it was too late.
Beneath the surface, tendrils of dark hair moved like moss, and white fingers, slightly curled, drifted back and forth as if waving, signaling for help.
“No,” said Kieran. “No.” And the roaring overtook him.
Chapter Four
Depending on the season, the Thames flows between (for the most part) wild and unwalled riverbanks hurriedly and muddily, or peacefully and translucently. On certain days its waters resemble a fine mass of shimmering, metallic, luminous blue. On some evenings it looks like a mirror reflecting the sky from which it seems to issue.
—Rory Ross with Tim Foster
Four Men in a Boat: The Inside Story of the Sydney 2000 Coxless Four
“A n Astra,” said Kit. “An Astra Estate. And green. What could possibly be worse?”
Duncan Kincaid glanced at his son sitting beside him in the passenger seat, long legs sprawled into the foot well, and bit his tongue on old adages about horses and gifts. He reminded himself that he had hated being patronized when he was Kit’s age. He also remembered what it was like to be fourteen, when nothing mattered more than what others thought.
Kit had been unusually quiet as they drove up through Somerset and Wiltshire, concentrating on his iPod Touch rather than the beautiful autumnal scenery. It was only now, when they had joined the M4 and passed through the unexciting edges of Swindon, that he’d stirred and removed his earphones.
“That’s a bit ungracious, don’t you think?” Kincaid said moderately.
“I’m not being seen getting out of it at school.” Kit’s expression was mulish. “And I’m certainly not going to drive it.”
Kincaid was beginning to lose patience. “You’ve got a few years before you even need to think about driving, so let’s worry about that one when we get to it,” he said, although he was sure his mum and dad had been thinking exactly that when they had offered Duncan and Gemma their old car. The Astra Estate was old, solid, comfortable, and supremely safe—all things anathema to a fourteen-year-old boy.
His dad had presented the car with all the glee of a first-time parent playing at Father Christmas. Kincaid suspected that if it hadn’t been for the rain, he might actually have wrapped it in ribbon. “Your mother wants something greener,” he’d said, then chuckled at his own inadvertent humor. “More ecologically correct, that is. Not that the Astra’s bad, mind you. But we thought you could use the extra carrying space, now that you have Charlotte with you.”
Kincaid had to admit he was right. The three kids had been stuffed into the back of Gemma’s Escort on the journey down to Somerset, and there had been tears and tantrums aplenty. They did need a bigger
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