Where Are You Now?

First published in Great Britain in 2023 byThe Book Guild LtdUnit E2 Airfield Business Park,Harrison Road, Market Harborough,Leicestershire. LE16 7ULTel: 0116 2792299www.bookguild.co.ukEmail: [email protected]: @bookguild Copyright © 2023 Sarah Connell The right of Sarah Connell to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. This work is entirely fictitious and bears no resemblance to any persons living or dead. ISBN 978 1915853 660 British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. For Paul, Katie and Hannah The number of refugees and migrants making the Mediterranean Sea crossing fell in 2018 but it is likely that reductions to search and rescue capacity coupled with an uncoordinated and unpredictable response to disembarkation led to an increased death rate as people continued to flee their countries due to conflict, human rights violations, persecution, and poverty. UNCHR Dec 2018 CONTENTSPart IOneTwoThreeFourFiveSixSevenEightNineTenElevenTwelveThirteenFourteenFifteen Part IIOneTwoThreeFourFiveSixSevenEightNineTen Part IIIOneTwoThreeFourFiveSixSevenEightNineTen Part IV The smell of sickness and oldness – it is so disgusting and it’s sticking to his skin. His grandfather has been mumbling again; he can’t make out the words. Why did his mother expect him to sit here for so long? When is she coming to be the deathbed watcher? The bone claws wave above the sheet. The boy leans forward just enough.The blue of Walter’s eyes has washed away with everything else. He is not frightened now. He wants to know only one thing. Did he do enough? He fixes the boy with the question.‘Was it enough? Could I have done more? Why didn’t I do more?’That is three questions, he knows.The boy cannot answer, of course. ‘Mum is coming. She won’t be long.’‘Where is he now?’ This is the urgent matter.‘The doctor? Shall I get the doctor?’ The boy’s voice has risen to a squeak.The rest of them, his mother, his aunt and Lily should be here. He doesn’t know how to help. They have left him alone.The old man tries to turn in the bed.‘Where is he now?’ PART I ONEThe fox stopped a few yards away. Its tail frayed, its fur faded, a shabby old man of a fox. It looked directly at him, amber eyes unwavering until it sauntered across the path, picked past the onions lain out to dry and was gone.Walter let out the breath he had been holding in his chest. Stealthily, as if the fox were watching, he felt into the pocket of his gardening shirt for the little notebook he always shoved in there. The pen was in his back pocket. Flipping the pad open, under the day’s entry “Salad crop cleared. Two bolted little gems only good for soup” he wrote “Fox – 7.40am”.In his mind he asked, Is it you, Mr Reynard, who has been rooting behind my shed, disturbing the pea sticks newly tidied and tied? Could you find anything to eat, any small creatures? You are welcome to any you find. What about windfall apples? There’s plenty of them.He pushed the pad back in his pocket and went back to his digging. Awake too early again, Walter had come to work off the ache along his limbs with only a hasty cup of tea to sustain him. The list of tasks was long at this time of year. It was satisfying to tick another one off, although his back complained that he had done too much. The soil was heavy from the long drought, difficult to turn; dandelions and chickweed had colonised the patch, unaffected by the lack of rain. The joy was in the sky, minute by minute the darkness giving up its grip, new light seeping over the brambles and the fruit trees. He relished the fresh taste of the air, the turn of the season bringing both fruition and necessary decay. He stood to listen to the blackbird calling from the crab apple tree, more birds joining in with their songs. ‘Good morning, all,’ he said, his voice loud in the air. No one to hear a foolish old man.What was that? The figure was a shock, a dark human shape moving out of his sight line. Cautiously, Walter put his fork down, started up the path quietly. There was a man, he was sure of it – it must be an intruder. He had been on his own for an hour or more. It was much too early for any of the other plot holders. Here, only a lonely one who could not sleep. He walked further, acting out as if he was strolling, taking an interest, not focused on the plot ahead. Quietly, swinging his arms, he turned down along Sue’s patch, moved slowly back towards the widow’s shed.There was no sign. Whoever it was had gone. Walter walked briskly up the path now, his heart loud in his chest. Towards the back fence, where the new plots had been started, there were fewer obstacles, less cover. But there was no sign of movement. To get out the man must have climbed over the fence, must have run behind the bramble hedges, bent so that his head was unseen. Walter stood, confounded. There had been no thefts since the council finally fitted a new lock on the main gate after many weeks of gardeners’ anger and protest. But now someone was getting in at the back.He started to go back to his clearing, cleaning for winter, ending summer. But his peace had ended. His back was sore. His stomach made noises. He leant on the fork handle, looking around. The plot at