That said, it wasn’t a fort. The outer wall ended a few hundred yards from the main gate, melding with a row of stables before giving way to a wooded area, separated from the road by a ditch and coloured wire, which looked designed to deter foxes or badgers rather than marauding humans, some of whom would probably have the nous to step over it. And she’d seen from her window that part of the estate’s boundary was a lake, which she doubted was croc-infested. The San might not invite casual wanderers, but if you had a mind to leave—or arrive—there wasn’t a lot to prevent you. She could walk out, make her way to the nearest station, steal a ride and be in London in however long the train took: couple of days, maximum. She’d be back in the clubs before her buzz cut lost its edge.
And then what?
Last night, she’d tried to remember the precise details of Monday evening, and found most of it shrouded in blurry matter. There’d been argy-bargy with Roddy Ho—had he thrown a computer at her?—and then they’d been in a car in Wimbledon, she couldn’t recall why, except that it had something to do with Louisa and Lech. And then the fight with the bus; she’d had a damn good reason for that, but attempts to recall it broke into a welter of shattered plastic and changing lights. Nothing stayed still long enough for Shirley to get a fix on. But that was what happened with memories: more memories piled on top of them, and it got so you couldn’t tell one from the other.
People keep getting hurt. People keep dying. We have to look out for one another.
Catherine’s words, but what did she know? She hadn’t even been there for most of Shirley’s deaths.
You’re doing lots of things, Shirley. But trust me, “fine” is not among them.
Whatever.
But it was true things hadn’t been great lately. She could remember that much: things hadn’t been great.
She was in the stableyard now, if you still called it that when the horses had bolted. It felt like an empty room. Four stables either side, with those wooden half-door arrangements, all hanging open. She looked inside one. It was dark and damp. The wooden shutters on its far wall, which presumably opened onto the road, were closed. She wondered what it must have been like for the horse, stuck in here, looking out on passing cars, but didn’t wonder long. It was a little too familiar.
For some unfathomable reason, she wanted to cry.
A staircase ran alongside the outer side-wall of the farthermost stable, leading to a hayloft or tack room or something—a tack room was a thing, wasn’t it? Whatever it was its door was locked, but she sat on the thigh-high wall of the landing a while, gazing down the road. No traffic. A wind was scuffling about in the woods to her right. She couldn’t actually see it, but she could see what it was doing.
And when that got old she descended the stairs and wandered into the wood. Tears weren’t her thing: she hadn’t cried when Marcus was shot. The night River took that toxic payload, she’d gone dancing. Why would stuff catch up with her now? You’re doing lots of things. It hadn’t rained lately; the ground was snappy with twigs. But “fine” is not among them. Maybe Catherine had a point. Maybe she had a stupid point. Maybe Shirley should stay here a while, keep her head down, wait for the bad shit to pass. It wouldn’t take forever. Who knew: she might get to like it. Few weeks’ R&R, and if she kept up with the exercise regime, she’d go home fit as a star’s body double.
Besides, medical staff on the premises, there was bound to be someone she could score off.
“Ms. Dander?”
She turned. Speaking of staff: the woman addressing her was one of those who’d annoyed her the first afternoon. Snappy twigs or not, she’d got pretty close pretty quietly.
“What?”
“You’ll be late for your session.”
Happy-clappy crap, more like.
A moment hung there, during which Shirley could have gone either way. But it passed; drifted into the wood like smoke. “Yeah,” she said. “Okay.”
The woman knew enough not to speak as they walked out of the trees, past the stables, towards the house. Or maybe she was listening, as Shirley was, to a car on the nearby road, stretching its approach out to a long thin whine. By the time it faded, they were almost at the door.
One thing about this place, she thought. You’d know when you had visitors.
Not that you would. There was a reason they put the San in the middle of nowhere. Out-of-sight meant forgotten about.
The San was the last place on anybody’s mind.
The San, thought Claude Whelan.