The Hunter's Prayer (20 page)

She looked at him askance and said, ‘How very presumptuous of you.’ She looked sad as she added, ‘I loved Laurent very much. We miss him terribly.’

‘Then you should understand how I feel.’

‘Oh, please don’t!’

‘Why not? I’m not throwing you a line. I don’t even have the . . .’ Whatever it was he didn’t have, he couldn’t even think of the word for it. ‘You’re the only person I ever loved, and you’re the only person who ever loved me. I don’t expect it to mean anything to you—why should it? But it’s true.’

She smiled a little, and looked almost touched as she said, ‘It means something, and I did love you. It’s how I managed to hate you for so long, for the truth of who you were. That was the truth—who you were.’

‘Who I
was
,’ he said, stressing the past tense. ‘And do you still hate me now?’ She sighed, a sigh that seemed to suggest there was no point anymore, that too much life had happened to her. He wanted to comfort her, put his hand on her shoulder, but he restrained himself and said, ‘Then could we be friends? That’s all I want—to be able to talk to you, be in the same room. God, just to be in the same room as you! To be friends.’

She shook her head for a few seconds, thinking, locked in some internal dialogue, and said finally, ‘I’ll never fall in love with you again. You understand that?’

‘I know.’

She still couldn’t bring herself to give her assent, saying instead, ‘Where are you living now?’

‘Switzerland.’ She laughed. ‘What?’

‘Your whole life, you choose to live in places where they don’t speak English.’

‘I like having a reason not to talk.’ She laughed again, more of a politeness, an awkwardness that was like a first meeting. She brushed a strand of hair from her face and he noticed the wedding ring. ‘What about you? These last few years must have been tough.’

‘Oh, you know.’ She looked at the dashboard and said, ‘Would you turn on the heater? It’s very cold.’

‘It doesn’t work. Rental car—I should have taken it back.’

She looked at the heater like she was annoyed with it, then stared at him, fixing her eyes on his, an air of deliberation about her that put him on edge because he knew what she was thinking.

‘Luke, I won’t ask for more promises, but I couldn’t bear for the children to be hurt again. I couldn’t . . .’ He put his hand up, putting his fingers over her lips, stopping her words and fears, the touch of her mouth careering through his nervous system like it was wired directly into the past, bypassing everything that had come between. He lowered his hand again and she closed her eyes, the deliberation still in progress. Finally she said, ‘Okay, you can come in.’ She still sounded unconvinced that she’d made the right decision, and maybe it would be a long time before she would be convinced.

They got out of the car and walked towards the house, back towards the only sense of home and family he’d ever known. He walked back from the wilderness with the woman he’d loved almost half his life. And he was happy, because as much as this was only a first step, he knew he’d never be alone again, that the person who’d so desperately sought such isolation had that morning finally ceased to exist, no less than if he’d died there.

Chapter Twenty-One

A
s he got closer he could see that his regular news vendor was back behind her stand. She saw him coming and waved, and he said, ‘Where have you been, Wendy? My days haven’t been the same.’

‘Holiday,’ said Wendy, smiling broadly, her teeth all over the place. ‘The Canaries.’

‘Very nice. I’ll have a
Sydney Morning Herald
, please.’

She laughed loudly. It tickled him that the same joke always cracked her up like that.

‘
Evening Standard
or nothing.’

‘
Evening Standard
it is, then. What’s the news?’ She held the front page for him to see before she started reading, long enough for him to see the picture of Ella.

Slow and deliberate, Wendy said, ‘Guide dogs, the homeless and terminal cancer patients will be among the many to benefit from one of the largest charitable bequests ever made. The will of the murdered heiress, Gabriella Hatto, has left her entire estate, thought to be worth hundreds of millions of pounds, to a variety of charities.’ She looked from the paper and up at Dan as she said, ‘What do you think of that?’

It wasn’t clear whether she wanted a view on her reading of it or the actual story and he said, ‘Pretty amazing. They know who did it yet?’

Wendy shrugged as if to suggest it had been a stupid question, saying then, ‘Gotta be the uncle. I mean, where are they? Where have they gone? South America, you mark my words.’ Somebody else leaned across to pick up a paper and she said, ‘Okay, hold your horses.’

Dan gave her the money for the paper and said, ‘See you tomorrow, Wendy.’

‘And you, my love. Take care.’ He walked on. She didn’t know his name, and had never seemed curious. He only knew hers because she had a habit occasionally of talking about herself in the third person.

He walked back to the flat and opened the paper out on the kitchen table, pages four and five where the full story was repeated across the double spread, together with a photo montage illustrating the charities that would benefit from her money.

It was a shame, really, because he’d liked her, and she’d been a nice-looking girl, too. But he’d done the right thing; there was no doubt in his mind about that. He’d done for her what he would have done for a lame horse or any other wounded animal.

He’d even played devil’s advocate with himself, asking who he was to decide that she’d no longer deserved to live. He hadn’t judged her, though, nor had he condemned her. He’d simply seen the point she’d reached, beyond ever redeeming herself. Maybe she hadn’t known it, but before Dan had ever met her she’d been fatally wounded; all he’d done had been to put her out of her misery.

The whole thing had been a weird business anyway. He’d given it a lot of thought, too, amazed at the way an entire family could have been destroyed like that, a destruction so comprehensive it was almost like someone had planned it that way.

Turning his mind to better things, he got up now and went over to the fridge, already excited about the meal he was making. He took out the duck breasts he’d marinated that morning, then methodically placed the other ingredients around them, everything within easy reach.

He opened the wine and poured himself a glass, then looked across the counter at an imaginary camera and said, ‘Nice glass of Moore Farm Shiraz, and here are those duck breasts I prepared earlier.’ He carried on talking through what he was about to do, thinking how there was probably a gap in the TV market for something like that.

He laughed then, thinking for some reason or other how one day there’d be a Mrs. Borowski. He didn’t know what had brought it to mind but it was a nice thought. She was out there right now, probably, and she didn’t know how lucky she was.

Acknowledgments

Thanks, as ever, to Deborah Schneider and the team at Gelfman Schneider/ICM. Thanks to Emilie Marneur, Alan Turkus and all at Thomas & Mercer. And finally, a nod to Rob and Lucia – Budapest, a long time ago!

About the Author

Kevin Wignall is a British writer, born in Brussels in 1967. He spent many years as an army child in different parts of Europe, and went on to study politics and international relations at Lancaster University. He became a full-time writer after the publication of his first book,
People Die
(2001). His other novels are
Among the Dead
(2002);
Who Is Conrad Hirst?
(2007), shortlisted for the Edgar Award and the Barry Award; and
Dark Flag
(2010).
The Hunter’s Prayer
was originally titled
For the Dogs
in the USA. The film
The Hunter’s Prayer
, directed by Jonathan Mostow and starring Sam Worthington and Odeya Rush, will be released worldwide in 2015.