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bottomless pit.
    It seemed like forever, it seemed like there couldn’t be enough stairs in the world, before the stealthy tread reach her attic steps. No tacks, thought Heidi. But these feet weren’t bare, anyway. Just purposeful; measured; and very quiet.
    She lay on her side, her head in shadow, facing the door.
Through her lashes she saw the hand first. It gripped the door frame, sinewy, big; and pale in the light of a torch or candle that was out of sight. Then the face, a white man’s stark, commanding face with deep-set eyes that were just holes under frowning brows. No beard, a gash of a mouth. It looked at her, the man looked at her, and she knew he was making up his mind. She could expect no mercy, no pity. Whatever he wanted, he would do it, he had no limits.
    The face and the hand, disembodied, stayed there motionless: longer than Heidi thought she could bear. She could have heard their owner breathing, if he breathed at all . Then they withdrew, disappeared, and the footsteps sank down into the pit again. Heidi sat up, staring into the dark, her hands pressed to her mouth so hard it hurt.
    What’ll I do? she thought. What’ll I do if he comes back?
    If she caused trouble, Mum would have nobody.
    People like you and your mum are lucky to be alive
    England was supposed to be different now, people like Heidi and her mum and dad were supposed to be safe. But Mum was so helpless. When the cat crept, trembling, back up onto the bed, Heidi just took it her arms, glad of any company. Miraculously, with that warm, smelly, terrified bundle of fur curled beside her, she fell into a dreamless sleep.

5: A Traveller On The May

    The boy called Clancy arrived in the water meadows above Mehilhoc towards sunset.
    He’d been keeping out of sight and hadn’t seen a road sign for a day or two, though he’d passed under roads: but he knew where he was. The river May moved slowly here; a rising tide pushed against his gentle progress. He shipped the oars and trailed his fingers in the water: comparing what he saw to the OS map spread on his knees.
    Once the May had been navigable. Barges had been pulled up and down, carrying loads of brick and coal. You could still see the old banks: topped by bent-elbowed alders, and washed head-height by a high-tide of flood litter. In mediaeval times ships from France had sailed right up to the inland port, where the castle stood.
    Tall trees climbed the slopes on either side of the meadows. To Clancy’s right, they overtopped the wall of the National Trust Gardens. To his left, the Carron-Knowells estate was deer-fenced. Clancy disliked fences and walls, but he could tolerate an old, weathered wall as a neighbour. He licked his fingers.
    â€˜Salt,’ he said to himself, aloud. ‘Close enough.’
    Pulling over to the Gardens bank he disembarked, and made fast to a stout root under a hawthorn. The rain had cleared, the afternoon felt almost spring-like. The valley was very quiet. No grazing livestock. A blackbird sang, far off in the trees. Wood pigeons churled softly, take two cows taffy , take two cows taffy . A chaffinch called in alarm, pink, pink, pink, and followed up with a flurry of hurried music. Clancy watched the May’s quiet flow.
    â€˜No reason why I shouldn’t stay for a while,’ he murmured.
    Tomorrow he’d choose a site and make camp, which was not something to be hurried.
Tonight he’d sleep in the boat. He shifted the rowing bench, spread his sleeping bag on the bottom boards and lashed the tarp into place: completing these tasks with the speed and neatness of long practice. The next hour or so was spent cutting and carrying armfuls of dead bracken from the rusty stands at the foot of the wall, and spreading them over the boat until there was nothing to be seen, for anyone passing: only a heap of winter debris caught against the bank. He didn’t think anyone was going to bother him, but better safe than