the varnish properly to the inside of the boat. After checking we know what we’re doing, he wanders outside,
saying he’ll be back in half an hour. Kit and I are alone.
It’s nice inside the boathouse: cool and shady, but with the sun shining brightly on the water outside. A gull squawks overhead. We work for a few minutes in silence, then Kit clears his
throat.
‘I wasn’t sucking up earlier,’ he says. ‘I just don’t see the point in making a big fuss about everything like Josh and Pepper do.’
‘Right.’ I don’t quite know what to say. On the one hand, he’s right about there not being much point in moaning. On the other, you can’t just let grown-ups walk
all over you.
There’s a long pause.
‘What were you talking to Mr Lomax about earlier?’ Kit asks. ‘Is everything OK?’
I chew on my lip, stumped again. Here in the light of day it seems silly to even consider the possibility of ghosts, but the coincidences still remain. I’m torn between explaining
everything to Kit and keeping quiet about my suspicions. In the end, I just tell him that the figure I’m sure I saw in the woods resembles the woman described in the newspaper article who, in
turn, sounds like my real mum.
‘So it’s all seems a bit weird . . . that they look alike, you know . . . blonde, dying on the same day . . .?’
I’m hoping Kit will nod and agree with me. Instead, he frowns. ‘Yeah, I can see it’s a bit weird, but as a coincidence it doesn’t really add up, does it?’
‘Oh?’ I say, feeling thrown. I keep my voice carefully light: ‘Why is that?’
‘Well, I don’t mean to be nosy, but how was your mum supposed to have died?’
‘Everything I’ve been told or read says she was in a traffic accident in Nottingham, a hit-and-run.’
‘Right.’ Kit frowns again. ‘ So if your mum
was
the woman pushed into the sea, why would anyone go to the trouble to retrieve her body and leave it on a road hundreds
of miles away?’
‘Presumably so that no one would connect her death with Lightsea,’ I say.
‘OK . . . but how would they make it look like a hit-and-run? I mean she wouldn’t have the right injuries on her body.’
I wince. ‘The rocks in the sea could leave bruises that might look the same as those from a lorry.’
‘What about the fact that there would be water in her lungs?’ Kit persists. ‘You wouldn’t expect to find that if someone had been run over in a road accident. And all
those details would be in the post-mortem.’
‘Maybe,’ I concede, my face flushing. ‘But post-mortems can be faked, can’t they?’
‘I guess, but it seems
really
unlikely.’ Kit turns to face me, varnish brush in hand. ‘Look, I’m just saying it’s strange and . . . and don’t take
this the wrong way – but . . . well, does it make all that much difference? Your birth mum is gone, which is very, very sad, but knowing exactly how she died isn’t going to change
anything.’
I focus on the patch of wood I’m slathering with varnish, pretending I’m brushing it carefully. Inside I turn over what Kit has said. Like Mr Lomax, he sounds cool, logical and
rational. But like Mr Lomax he’s wrong. It
does
matter how Irina died. And I can’t discount the possibility that her death happened here, just because it can’t be
explained rationally.
We work on in silence for a few more minutes.
‘Evie?’ I look up to find Kit shuffling along the boat towards me. He stops about an arm’s length away, then puts his hand on an unvarnished bit of wood next to mine so our
fingers are almost touching. My heart gives another little skip.
‘There’s something else,’ he says.
My pulse thunders in my ears. Kit looks self-conscious, his cheeks flushing bright red. I hold my breath. What is coming next?
Fourteen
Kit and I carry on looking at each other, the brushes in our hands forgotten. I’m still holding my breath, waiting for him to speak. I could count every freckle on his
nose,
saying he’ll be back in half an hour. Kit and I are alone.
It’s nice inside the boathouse: cool and shady, but with the sun shining brightly on the water outside. A gull squawks overhead. We work for a few minutes in silence, then Kit clears his
throat.
‘I wasn’t sucking up earlier,’ he says. ‘I just don’t see the point in making a big fuss about everything like Josh and Pepper do.’
‘Right.’ I don’t quite know what to say. On the one hand, he’s right about there not being much point in moaning. On the other, you can’t just let grown-ups walk
all over you.
There’s a long pause.
‘What were you talking to Mr Lomax about earlier?’ Kit asks. ‘Is everything OK?’
I chew on my lip, stumped again. Here in the light of day it seems silly to even consider the possibility of ghosts, but the coincidences still remain. I’m torn between explaining
everything to Kit and keeping quiet about my suspicions. In the end, I just tell him that the figure I’m sure I saw in the woods resembles the woman described in the newspaper article who, in
turn, sounds like my real mum.
‘So it’s all seems a bit weird . . . that they look alike, you know . . . blonde, dying on the same day . . .?’
I’m hoping Kit will nod and agree with me. Instead, he frowns. ‘Yeah, I can see it’s a bit weird, but as a coincidence it doesn’t really add up, does it?’
‘Oh?’ I say, feeling thrown. I keep my voice carefully light: ‘Why is that?’
‘Well, I don’t mean to be nosy, but how was your mum supposed to have died?’
‘Everything I’ve been told or read says she was in a traffic accident in Nottingham, a hit-and-run.’
‘Right.’ Kit frowns again. ‘ So if your mum
was
the woman pushed into the sea, why would anyone go to the trouble to retrieve her body and leave it on a road hundreds
of miles away?’
‘Presumably so that no one would connect her death with Lightsea,’ I say.
‘OK . . . but how would they make it look like a hit-and-run? I mean she wouldn’t have the right injuries on her body.’
I wince. ‘The rocks in the sea could leave bruises that might look the same as those from a lorry.’
‘What about the fact that there would be water in her lungs?’ Kit persists. ‘You wouldn’t expect to find that if someone had been run over in a road accident. And all
those details would be in the post-mortem.’
‘Maybe,’ I concede, my face flushing. ‘But post-mortems can be faked, can’t they?’
‘I guess, but it seems
really
unlikely.’ Kit turns to face me, varnish brush in hand. ‘Look, I’m just saying it’s strange and . . . and don’t take
this the wrong way – but . . . well, does it make all that much difference? Your birth mum is gone, which is very, very sad, but knowing exactly how she died isn’t going to change
anything.’
I focus on the patch of wood I’m slathering with varnish, pretending I’m brushing it carefully. Inside I turn over what Kit has said. Like Mr Lomax, he sounds cool, logical and
rational. But like Mr Lomax he’s wrong. It
does
matter how Irina died. And I can’t discount the possibility that her death happened here, just because it can’t be
explained rationally.
We work on in silence for a few more minutes.
‘Evie?’ I look up to find Kit shuffling along the boat towards me. He stops about an arm’s length away, then puts his hand on an unvarnished bit of wood next to mine so our
fingers are almost touching. My heart gives another little skip.
‘There’s something else,’ he says.
My pulse thunders in my ears. Kit looks self-conscious, his cheeks flushing bright red. I hold my breath. What is coming next?
Fourteen
Kit and I carry on looking at each other, the brushes in our hands forgotten. I’m still holding my breath, waiting for him to speak. I could count every freckle on his
nose,
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