Ziggy ran down to the shore and barked half-heartedly at a clutch of geese. The birds ignored the dog. They were resident here all year; their marbled olive-green and white guano decorated the banks and the paths. Further along Fiona saw fishermen, hunkering down for the night, with their green tents and paraphernalia, rods already baited and propped on stays.
Fiona and Ziggy passed a man and a woman with a golden retriever. Strangers: smiles and nods exchanged. When the path left the lakeside, she took the turn up to the river. The banks had been raised for flood defences, and the broken bricks and chunks of concrete peeked through the grass here and there. A path ran along the top and another had been carved out halfway down. Fiona took the lower route, which was punctuated by heaps of debris – kindling and plastic waste – left by the storms. As they neared the bridge again, she was tiring. She stopped and stared into the river, following the ripple where some obstacle altered the current. Ziggy ran ahead then back, waited unsettled, head cocked on one side. They turned for home. The air was cooling now, the sun lost behind the tiled roofs, the swifts still in flight. She had read that they sleep in flight, roosting high above the ground, unable to fly again if they are forced to land. Ziggy waited for her at the back gate. Fiona looked up at the house. Owen was still out. She wasn’t due in work till Wednesday. She must ring in the morning, tell them she hadn’t finished her last visit.
She locked the gate behind them, let the dog in. She took off her trainers and cleared up the dishes even though it was Owen’s job, unable to let them sit and then face another argument about it. She poured a glass of wine.
It was almost nine. She tuned the radio into the local station. Why was she doing this? Proof? Prurience? The jingle came on then the time signal. The newscaster gave her introduction, then announced the headline: Police in Greater Manchester have launched a murder inquiry after a sixteen-year-old boy was shot and killed in the Hulme district of Manchester earlier today. The youth has not yet been named.
‘Danny,’ Fiona whispered, ‘Danny Macateer.’ She turned the radio off and sat in silence until she heard Owen come in at quarter past ten, his footsteps thudding up the stairs, shaking the house. She stood and went up after him. Met him on the landing.
‘Hey,’ she kept her voice light, ‘I said ten.’
He gave a sigh.
‘I love you, you know,’ she said quickly. ‘Don’t ever forget that.’ He made a noise in his throat. She squeezed his shoulder. He swung past her into the bathroom, a half-smile on his lips.