was such a sucker, he chided himself grimly, pressing down on the mattress and getting a little unsteadily to his feet. Sometimes he had the feeling he’d never make it, never recover even the belief in himself he’d once enjoyed. Perhaps it would be kinder all round if other people realised it, too.
Nevertheless, he’d had to give it a try. And, to that end, he’d bought this house in a village far enough from London and the life he and Diane had had there before he’d been sent to Abuqara to cover the civil war.
Diane didn’t approve of his decision. Mallon’s End was the village where she’d grown up and where her parents still lived. She thought he was crazy wanting to leave the exciting opportunities London presented behind. He’d already been offered his old job with a commercial television station back again and she couldn’t understand why he’d turned it down. He didn’t honestly know himself. But, thanks to the legacy his grandmother had left him, money wasn’t a problem, and there was always that offer of a book deal if he should choose to write about his experiences as a prisoner of the rebel forces in Abuqara.
He crossed the floor to the windows, shivering a little in the cooler air. The polished boards beneath his feet were cold, too, but he didn’t notice them. He was used to going barefoot. The first thing his captors had done was take his shoes away from him. And although initially his feet had blistered and been agony to walk on, gradually they’d hardened up.
All the same, he was used to temperatures that usually hovered near forty degrees Celsius in daylight hours, and although England was supposed to be enjoying a heatwave at the moment, he hadn’t noticed.
Pulling the curtain aside, he peered out. Outside the long windows, the gardens of the house stretched in all directions, lush with colour. To someone used to bare walls or stark packed-earth streets stripped of any sign of civilisation, it was an amazing view. Even the months he’d spent since his return in his comfortable apartment in Belsize Park hadn’t prepared him for so much beauty. This was what he needed, he told himself, what he’d dreamed of while he was in prison. It was a humanising experience.
Beyond the grounds of the house, the churchyard offered its own kind of absolution. He could see cottages through the swaying branches of the elms and yews that guarded the lych-gate, and an occasional car passing the bottom of his drive on its way into the village proper.
It was all so—yes, that word again—civilised. But he was still isolated from the people and places that had once been so familiar to him. It was strange but while he was a prisoner, he’d longed for company, for someone who spoke his own language.
He’d had some conversations with the captain of the rebel forces. Fortunately, he’d known a little of his language, and the man had been surprisingly intelligent and well read.
Yet now he was home, he found himself shunning company, avoiding conversation. He was a mess, he thought ruefully. Diane was right. He wouldn’t blame her if she got sick of trying to get through to him.
Even so, he thought as he moved away from the windows, given the hassle of the last few months, surely he had a right to some peace, some tranquillity. God knew he hadn’t been prepared for the amount of interest his return had engendered, but what with interviews, phone-ins, online question-and-answer sessions, he’d begun to feel persecuted all over again. He’d wanted out, not just out of London, but out of that way of life. His old way of life, he acknowledged. And if that meant he was cuckoo, then so be it.
A shower removed a few more of the cobwebs that were clouding his system, and after towelling himself dry, he dressed in drawstring sweat pants and a black cotton T-shirt. He pulled a rueful face at his roughening jawline and decided he liked not having to use a hair-dryer. In North Africa his head had been shaved, and since his return he’d kept his hair barely long enough to cover his scalp. Diane said it suited him, but then, she’d say anything to boost his self-esteem. She was worried about him, worried about their relationship. And he couldn’t say he blamed her.
The house felt chilly as he went downstairs. It was barely seven o’clock, after all, and until he’d worked out how the central heating operated, he’d have to live with it.
But at least the place had central heating, he mused gratefully. These old houses often didn’t, but the previous owner had apparently demanded that comfort and he was glad.
Nevertheless, he would have to see about getting some decorating done. The heavy flock wallpaper on the stairs and the crimson damask in the main reception room would definitely have to go, and he needed a lot more furniture than the bed and the couple of armchairs he’d brought with him. The rest of his furniture was still in his London apartment and, until he’d definitely decided he was going to stay here, it would be staying there.
But this place was big enough for several living and bedroom suites and he couldn’t exist with what he had. He would have to visit a saleroom; an auction saleroom, perhaps. These rooms would not take kindly to modern furniture.
Thankfully, the kitchen faced east and already it was warm and bathed in sunlight. Like the rest of the house, it could do with some updating, but he decided he rather liked the rich mahogany units and the dark green porcelain of the Aga.
However, the Aga presented another problem and, rather than try to figure it out this morning, he started a pot of coffee filtering through the strong Brazilian grains he preferred and turned with some relief to the gas hob.
Pretty soon, the kitchen was filled with the appetising scents of hot coffee and frying bacon and he was glad his mother had suggested taking a box of groceries with him. Left to himself, he would probably have had to go out for breakfast and that was definitely not part of his plan.
The kitchen windows overlooked the gardens at the back of the property and he stood staring out at an overgrown vegetable plot as he drank his first cup of coffee of the day. There was such a lot to do, he reflected with a twinge of apprehension. Had he bitten off more than he could chew?
But, no. The whole idea was that he should be able to fill his days to the exclusion of all else. He didn’t want time to relax, time to think. Until he’d figured out whether he was ever going to feel normal again, simple manual labour was what he needed.
The sound of footsteps clattering across the paved patio outside brought his brows together in a frown. Dammit, he thought. No one was supposed to know he was here yet. He’d deliberately stowed the four-by-four in the garage to disguise his presence. Who the hell had discovered he’d moved in?
He moved closer to the windows and looked out. He couldn’t see anyone and that bothered him, too. He had heard the footsteps, hadn’t he? He couldn’t be starting having hallucinations. God, that would be the last straw!
He drew back, setting his coffee down on the pine-blocked table behind him. But as he moved to check on the bacon, he heard the footsteps again and a sick feeling of apprehension invaded his stomach.
There was no one there. He would have seen a shadow cross the window if anyone had really walked past. Which meant? Which meant what?
Swearing, he moved to the door and, flicking the lock, he yanked it open, all in one fluid motion. And disturbed a young girl who was squatting down beside what looked like a rabbit hutch, feeding dandelion leaves into the cage.
He must have frightened her, he thought, his own feelings of relief flooding his system with adrenalin. But it was good to know he wasn’t losing his mind as well as his—
He severed that thought and forced a rueful smile to his lips as the girl got hurriedly to her feet. Sufficient unto the day,
