Aftermath

kissed him again, a gentle peck on his unshaven cheek this time. He felt her breasts brush against him and he thought he might be about to pass out from the sudden strength of the previously supressed emotions which washed over him. She turned her back on him and bent over. Was she being deliberately provocative for his benefit? He studied the curves of her body, buried for so long under all those layers. She reached down into a narrow gap between two work units where she and Caron had stashed several bottles of drink earlier in the week.
    “Hope you like red,” she said.
    “I’m not bothered,” Ainsworth replied quickly, a definite and unexpected vulnerability evident in his voice. Lorna wrapped the fingers of her outstretched hand around the neck of the closest bottle and gripped it tight.
    Moving with sudden, unexpected speed, she stood up, swung around, and smacked him across the face. Ainsworth fell at her feet. She looked down at him sprawled out over the floor, and nudged him with her foot. Nothing. Whether she’d just knocked him out or killed him, she didn’t have time to care. She took his keys, locked him in the kitchen, then disappeared back out into the shadows.

 
     
    40
     
    Harte, who’d been waiting just outside the unguarded caravan for Lorna to return, saw that she was running back toward him. He immediately opened the door and began to usher the other people who’d been in there over to the truck. There was another seven of them crammed in there. Five emerged immediately and without question: Bob, Zoe, Phil Kent, Charlie Moorehouse, and Driver, quickly followed by young Aiden, holding on to Sue’s hand as they ran together across the gravel courtyard.
    “There’s room for a couple of you up front with me,” Harry hissed at them as they reached the truck.
    “Are they going to be all right in there?” Harte asked, watching as the last of them disappeared into the back.
    “They’re going to have to be.”
    “There are more people up in one of the other caravans,” Lorna explained. “I’m going to get them out.”
    “I’ll go with her,” Harte told him. “Michael’s waiting up by the gate. He’ll open it as soon as you start the engine.”
    *   *   *
     
    Michael std by the gate, squinting into the gloom, trying to make sense of everything he couldn’t see. He pressed himself up against the wall, doing all he could to melt into the shadows. Once he was satisfied the coast was clear, he reached up and ran his hands across the heavy wooden barrier until he found the crossbar Harte had told him about. It didn’t seem to be secured at all—just resting in a pair of metal brackets, one at either end. After checking again that he wasn’t being watched, he lifted it up and moved it away. He then grabbed one of the ropes on either side of the gate and pulled it gently, just to see if it would open. The bottom of the gate moved slightly, scraping along the gravel. He cringed at the noise it made and froze again until he was sure he hadn’t been heard. Nothing. No sign of any movement. He looked back across the courtyard toward the caravans. The ends of the long white metal boxes were clearly visible in the moonlight, and he could just about see a couple of figures moving between them.
    But then the fragile silence of the night was shattered.
    A sudden burst of noise came from one of the buildings close to where he was standing: someone hammering on the door to be let out, screaming with anger. The door of another of the caravans flew open almost instantly, and several men sprinted out into the open, illuminated by the light flooding out from behind them. They ran toward the source of the noise. Michael stood his ground and remained perfectly still, watching as Lorna and Harte slipped into the open van.
    *   *   *
     
    “What’s going on?” Caron demanded as Harte shook her shoulder. “Harte, is that you? I thought you’d gone again…”
    He dragged her up but she lolled back onto the sofa where she’d been sleeping, an empty bottle of wine rolling around on the floor below her. Howard, by contrast, was immediately up and ready.
    “What’s happening?” he asked.
    “We’re going.”
    “Where?”
    “Day trip to Blackpool,” Harte answered sarcastically. “Where d’you think we’re going? This bloody island we’ve been hearing about, I hope.” He leaned out the door, hoping to see either Michael or the headlights of the truck, but he quickly pulled