Double Vision: A Novel

Overview

In the aftermath of covering 9/11, English war reporter Stephen Sharkey and photographer Ben Frobisher leave New York and part company. Stephen returns to the devastating discovery of the end of his marriage; while on assignment in Afghanistan Ben is killed. Retreating to the English countryside to write a book questioning the role of the war reporter and photographer Stephen enters into complicated relationships with Ben’s widow Kate, a sculptor, her disturbing and sinister young studio assistant, and a young ...

See more details below
Paperback (First Edition)
$16.38
BN.com price
(Save 9%)$18.00 List Price

Pick Up In Store

Reserve and pick up in 60 minutes at your local store

Other sellers (Paperback)
  • All (35) from $1.99   
  • New (13) from $2.91   
  • Used (22) from $1.99   
Double Vision: A Novel

Available on NOOK devices and apps  
  • NOOK Devices
  • NOOK HD/HD+ Tablet
  • NOOK
  • NOOK Color
  • NOOK Tablet
  • Tablet/Phone
  • NOOK for Windows 8 Tablet
  • NOOK for iOS
  • NOOK for Android
  • NOOK Kids for iPad
  • PC/Mac
  • NOOK for Windows 8
  • NOOK for PC
  • NOOK for Mac
  • NOOK Study
  • NOOK for Web

Want a NOOK? Explore Now

NOOK Book (eBook - First Edition)
$7.99
BN.com price

Overview

In the aftermath of covering 9/11, English war reporter Stephen Sharkey and photographer Ben Frobisher leave New York and part company. Stephen returns to the devastating discovery of the end of his marriage; while on assignment in Afghanistan Ben is killed. Retreating to the English countryside to write a book questioning the role of the war reporter and photographer Stephen enters into complicated relationships with Ben’s widow Kate, a sculptor, her disturbing and sinister young studio assistant, and a young au-pair. Set far from the literal theatre of war, Double Vision is nonetheless a novel about its representation and effects as Pat Barker once more lays bare the complexities of desire and violence.

Read More Show Less

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
"A story that is both terrifying and fascinating....Wholly engrossing."

—Neil Gordon, New York Times Book Review

"One doesn't often find the caliber of writing displayed in Barker's latest, a compulsively readable novel."

—Joanne Wilinson, Booklist

"As briskly taut as a thriller and, at the same time, a deeply thoughtful consideration of how our lives are changed by sweeping historical tragedy and everyday acts of violence...We keep paging rapidly through the novel, even as we pause to admire the trenchant reflections."

—Francine Prose, O Magazine

The New York Times
[Barker's] latest novel, Double Vision, is a complex, deeply engaging ensemble piece that describes a single winter in the lives of a handful of interconnected characters … Where the melodies of the novel mesh, they display a writer at the height of her powers. The few times they clash are almost more beautiful: in them, you can hear the even more impressive, because rarer, sound of an artist growing. — Neil Gordon
The New Yorker
Kate Frobisher is a recently widowed sculptor, who, temporarily crippled by a car accident, is forced to employ help to complete a fifteen-foot sculpture of Christ. Nearby lives a colleague of her late husband, a foreign correspondent who is taking a break from Bosnia and Afghanistan to write a book about “ways of representing war.” In his downtime, he philosophizes with Kate about voyeurism and human suffering. There are flashes in Barker’s tenth novel of the electrifying prose that readers have come to expect from her. But its central preoccupation, with social and moral vision, is shamelessly heavy-handed, and the novel is further encumbered by a jumble of lacklustre minor characters and grand themes.
Publishers Weekly
The quaint English village of Barker's 10th novel is a world away from the wars in Bosnia, Afghanistan and elsewhere that have scarred its main characters, but the specter of violence still looms. Kate Frobisher, a sculptor working on a monumental figure of Jesus, is recovering from a car accident and grieving for her husband, Ben, a war photographer killed in Afghanistan. Stephen Sharkey, a journalist (and friend of Ben's) suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome after covering Bosnia, Rwanda and other conflicts, has left London and a failed marriage to write a book about "the way wars are represented." An ensemble cast gathers around these two haunted figures: Stephen's brother Robert and his family; Alec Braithewaite, the friendly vicar, and his Cambridge-bound daughter Justine; and Peter Wingrave, Kate's studio assistant and Justine's ex. A predictable mix of domestic drama (the Sharkeys' marital woes, a romance between Stephen and Justine) plays out against the backdrop of current events, but the real theme of this insightful, harrowing novel is violence: its impact on victims, but also on those who witness it and those who tell the tale. As Barker's characters are forced to acknowledge, aggression and brutality are close at hand. And Barker spares no unsettling effect animals are turned into bloody heaps of roadkill; Kate grows paranoid about solitary Peter; Justine is the victim of a terrible beating. The effect of such unrelenting darkness is to render the story less dramatic and convincing, but this is still a gripping novel, noteworthy for the author's gifts as a stylist and her formidable, engaged intelligence. (Dec.) Forecast: Barker's fictional take on the psychological costs of contemporary warfare bests other recent efforts (Michael Ignatieff's Charlie Johnson in the Flames [Forecasts, Sept. 15]; Gil Courtemanche, A Sunday at the Pool in Kigali [Forecasts, Sept. 8]), and should benefit by association with Barker's brilliant evocation of WWI in her popular Regeneration Trilogy. Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
Library Journal
British journalist Stephen Sharkey has just watched the Twin Towers fall when he discovers that his wife has been unfaithful. He returns home to divorce proceedings while his partner, photographer Ben Frobisher, heads to Afghanistan and dies capturing an eerie image of abandoned tanks. A shaken Stephen heads to the country to live on the property of his brother and sister-in-law, themselves tension-ridden; there he befriends Ben's widow, Kate, a sculptor struggling after a devastating car accident to complete a massive figure of Christ, while launching a gentle affair with his nephew's teenaged nanny. Oh yes, and there's something definitely unsettling about Kate's new assistant, formerly the nanny's boyfriend. This may all sound too neat, but it's not. In effortless prose as sharp and polished as new frost, Barker (Border Crossing) shows how tightly bound we are and how our actions reverberate; every step is fraught with consequence. Over the proceedings hangs a painful question: Can-and should-art attempt to capture the depths of human tragedy? Barker herself leaves the question open, but if you read her new novel, you'll say yes. Highly recommended.-Barbara Hoffert, "Library Journal" Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
The universal fears crystallized by 9/11 provide the initially gripping, ultimately limiting core material of this overheated tenth novel from the Booker-winning British author best known for her Regeneration Trilogy. Very capably written and insistently readable, it's an eventful narrative focused initially on sculptress Kate Frobisher, whose photojournalist husband Ben had moved on from covering the destroyed Twin Towers to Afghanistan, where he was killed by a sniper. Kate's story soon meshes with that of Stephen Sharkey, whose own experience of 9/11 coincided with the discovery of his wife's adultery. After divorcing her, Stephen moves in with his physician brother Robert's family in rural northern England, not far from Kate's home-and begins a book on the phenomenon of violence and our responses to it. Barker skillfully connects these protagonists and the acquaintances of each. Stephen falls for 19-year-old Justine Brathwaite, a vicar's daughter employed as an au pair caring for Robert Sharkey's autistic ten-year-old son Adam. And Kate, who's temporarily disabled following a car crash, continues work on a huge statue of Christ commissioned for a cathedral-with the hired assistance of Peter Wingrave, a menacing loner (and hopeful fiction writer) with a violent past, who is Justine's former boyfriend. Nobody heals, because Barker constructs an atmosphere so charged with real and threatened violence that her characters can scarcely breathe without screaming. Stephen attends the trial of Slobodan Milosevic at The Hague, where incriminating photographs display "Human bodies baked like dog turds in the sun." The Sharkeys' house is burgled, and Justine brutally injured. Robert Sharkeyresearches "treatments for Parkinson's and dementia." Barker's characters share virtually no moments that are not claustrophobic, fearful, or death-haunted. Consequently, however vividly and powerfully their experiences strike us, they are, in the final analysis, simply not credible. An honorable failure: heartfelt, unflinching, and oddly compelling. But this author has done, and will again do, much better.
Read More Show Less

Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780312424107
  • Publisher: Picador
  • Publication date: 12/1/2004
  • Edition description: First Edition
  • Edition number: 1
  • Pages: 272
  • Sales rank: 1,012,096
  • Product dimensions: 5.50 (w) x 8.50 (h) x 0.60 (d)

Meet the Author

Pat Barker

PAT BARKER is the author of nine novels, most recently Border Crossing. For her highly acclaimed Regeneration Trilogy, she was awarded the Guardian fiction prize and the Booker Prize. She lives in England.

Biography

It took Pat Barker ten years to find a publisher for her first novel, but when Union Street was released in 1982, critical reaction was extremely positive. A gritty tale set in the 1970s, the book recounts the interconnected stories of seven women living in an industrial town in northern England. Barker, a former teacher of history and politics, was recognized as a formidable, if late-blooming talent. In its review, The New York Times mused, "Pat Barker gives the sense of a writer who has enormous power that she has scarcely had to tap to write a first-rate first novel." The literati agreed. The following year, Barker appeared on Granta magazine's list of the 20 Best Young British Novelists alongside such future luminaries as Martin Amis, Salman Rushdie, and Ian McEwan.

Although Barker received critical praise for her early books, tales that limned the bleak lives of working class Britons, she struck her most resonant chord with the Regeneration Trilogy, a series of novels based on the experiences of shell-shocked WWI soldiers (including poets Siegfried Sassoon and Wilfred Owen) at Craiglockhart War Hospital in Scotland. The first novel in the trilogy, the splendid Regeneration, was named by The New York Times as one of the four best books of 1991; its sequel, The Eye in the Door, won the Guardian Fiction Prize in 1993; and the concluding novel, The Ghost Road, was awarded the 1995 Booker Prize for Fiction.

Certainly, Barker has explored the nuances of contemporary civilian life in subsequent novels; but the specter of war, especially the Great War, seems always to loom over her writing. One explanation is that the grandfather who raised her fought in the trenches in France. Although he seldom spoke about the war, it came to haunt him in his later life. Even unvoiced, his wartime experiences became part of her childhood "stock of memories."

Read More Show Less
    1. Hometown:
      Durham, England
    1. Date of Birth:
      May 8, 1943
    2. Place of Birth:
      Thornaby-on-Tees, England
    1. Education:
      London School of Economics; Durham University

Read an Excerpt

1

Christmas was over. Feeling a slightly shame-faced pleasure in the restoration of normality, Kate stripped the tree of lights and decorations, cut off the main branches and dragged the trunk down to the compost heap at the bottom of the garden. There she stood looking back at the house, empty again now—her mother and sister had left the morning after Boxing Day—seeing the lighted windows and reflected firelight almost as if she were a stranger, shut out. A few specks of cold rain found her eyelids and mouth. All around her the forest waited, humped in silence. Shivering, she ran back up the lawn.

Gradually she re-established her routine. Up early, across to the studio by eight, five hours' unbroken work that generally left her knackered for the rest of the day, though she forced herself to walk for an hour or two in the afternoons.

The weather turned colder, until one day, returning from her walk, she noticed that the big puddle immediately outside her front gate was filmed with ice, like a cataract dulling the pupil of an eye. She heated a bowl of soup, built up the fire and huddled over it, while outside the temperature dropped, steadily, hour by hour, until a solitary brown oak leaf detaching itself from the tree fell onto the frost-hard ground with a crackle that echoed through the whole forest.

People had glutted themselves on food and sociability over Christmas and New Year and wanted their own firesides, so the first few evenings of January were spent alone. But then Lorna and Michael Bradley asked her to their anniversary party and, though she was enjoying the almost monastic rhythm of her present life, she accepted. Since Ben's death that had been her only rule: to refuse no invitation, to acknowledge and return any small act of kindness—and it was working, she was getting through, she was surviving.

Once there, she enjoyed the evening, in spite of having restricted herself to just two glasses of wine, and by eleven was driving back along the forest road, her headlights revealing the pale trunks of beech trees, muscled like athletes stripped off for a race. She was leaving a stretch of deciduous forest and entering Forestry Commission land, acres of closely planted trees, rank upon rank of them, a green army marching down the hill. Her headlights scarcely pierced the darkness between the pines, though here and there she glimpsed a tangle of dead wood and debris on the forest floor. She kept the windows closed, a fug of warmth and music sealing her off from the outside world. The lighted car travelled along the road between the thickly crowding trees like a blood corpuscle passing along a vein. Somewhere in the heart of the wood an antlered head turned to watch her pass. Almost no traffic—she overtook a white van near the crossroads, but after that saw no other cars. The road dipped and rose, and then, no more than 400 yards from her home, where a stream overflowing in the recent heavy rains had run across the road forming a slick of black ice, the car left the road.

There was no time to think. Trees loomed up, leapt towards her, branches shattered the windscreen, clawed at her eyes and throat. A crash and tearing of metal, then silence, except for the tinny beat of the music that kept on playing. One headlight shone at a strange angle, probing the thick resin-smelling branches that had caught and netted the car.

She lay, drifting in and out of consciousness, aware that she mustn't try to move her head and neck. She knew she was injured, perhaps seriously, though she felt little pain as long as she kept still. Saliva dribbled from the corner of her mouth, blood settled in one eye.

After what seemed a long time she heard the noise of an engine. Her own wrecked car filled with shifting parallelograms of light and shade as the other car's headlights swept across it. The engine was switched off, footsteps rang clear on the road, slurred across the grass verge, and then a figure appeared at the window. A headless figure was all she could see, since he didn't bend to look in. She tried to speak, but only a croak came out. He didn't move, didn't open the door, didn't check to see how she was, didn't ring or go for help. Just stood there, breathing.

She tried to lift her head, but a spasm of pain shot down her spine and she knew she mustn't move. Slowly she slipped into unconsciousness, fighting all the way, then battled her way back to the surface, where now there were other voices, frightened voices—frightened of her, of what she'd become.

'Ambulance,' she heard. 'Police.'

up0Then the familiar sound of somebody thumbing numbers into a mobile phone, and at last she was able to let go and accept the dark.

In something too high, too tight, for a bed. White sheets pinned her legs down. Walls the colour of putty. Mum's voice, then Alice's, but she knew they couldn't be here, they'd left the day after Boxing Day, and so she refused to acknowledge them, these phantom relatives, and concentrated instead on getting some spit going in her mouth. Her tongue felt swollen, and was so dry it stuck to the roof of her mouth.

'Look,' said Alice. 'She wants a drink.'

Her mother's head came between her and the light. 'Dead to the world. Can't hear a word you're saying.'

'Oh, I don't know. They always say, don't they, "Keep talking"? You never know how much gets through.'

Was she dying? Couldn't persuade herself it mattered much.

Water . . .

Alice's scent, sharp and sweet. A spout pushed between her lips, jarred her teeth. Water, too much water, gagged, choked, spout pulled away, reinserted, gentler now, and she glugged, once, twice. Dribbles ran down the side of her neck, were dabbed away on a cold flannel. She stared at the cracks in the ceiling, only to find them replaced, almost immediately, by her mother's and her sister's heads.

'Do you think she can hear us?' Mum said.

She has been somewhere else. She remembers the trees, the dark road, the branches pushing through broken glass, the man by the window, breathing. But then it all begins to fade.

She tried to turn her head and couldn't. Some kind of brace round her neck stopped her moving. Her right arm was swaddled against her side by the tight sheet. She could feel her arms, and her legs, and her toes. She wiggled them to make sure, remembering how her father, right at the end of his long illness, after the stroke, had hated the arm he couldn't feel and kept pushing it away from him. At least she wasn't like that. It all still belonged to her, this barren plain she looked down on from the height of her raised head, this fenland under its covering of snow.

She started to drift off again, heard her mother say, 'We're only tiring her. I think we'd better go and let her sleep.'

Somebody had sent roses. She opened her eyes and there they were, tight, formal, dark red buds, like drops of blood in the white room, but her eyelids were too heavy to go on looking, and when she opened them again the roses were gone.

As soon as she could support herself, they got her out of bed and made her sit in the armchair beside it. Her feet were cold. She was depressed, worried about the work she wasn't doing. She'd taken on a big commission, a huge Christ for the cathedral, it should have been well on the way by now, and yet here she was, stuck in an armchair like an old woman, unable to move, helpless.

The physiotherapist came to see her, and then she started regular sessions in the physiotherapy room, where she stared in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors at the neckless creature she'd become. 'Very good,' the uniformed girls kept saying. 'Very good.' She hadn't been spoken to in such jolly, patronizing tones since she was in nappies. She smiled, desperation simmering under the surface.

Back on the ward, she set off down the corridor clinging to the rail, forcing herself to keep walking, though each step sent twinges of pain up her spine. Now and then she met another patient, similarly handicapped, head on, and then they'd pause, assess the extent of each other's disability, and decide, silently, which of them was better able to let go of the rail and stand unsupported while the other shuffled past. So much courage. So much decency. She was humbled by it.

But then it was back to the ward. Her room overlooked a courtyard where even evergreen plants, deprived of light, sickened and died.

'I've got to get out of here,' she said, when Alec Braithewaite, the local vicar and also a friend, came to see her.

He took a step backwards, raising his hands, pretending to be knocked over by her urgency. 'Good morning, Kate.'

She sighed, accepting the reproof. 'Good morning, Alec.'

'How are you?'

'Going mad.'

He came and sat beside the bed. 'Nobody likes hospitals. The main thing is to get better.'

'The "main thing'' is the Christ.'

He smiled. 'I'm pleased to hear you say so.'

'You know what I mean, Alec. My Christ.'

'Can you lift your arm?'

She tried, as she tried a hundred times a day. 'No.'

'When does it have to be finished?'

'May. In time for Founders' and Benefactors' Day.'

'That's not too bad.'

'Alec, it's a massive figure. It's barely enough time if I were all right.'

'Can't you negotiate another date?'

'I've never missed a deadline in my life.'

She sat brooding, her chin sunk into the padded collar. She looked broken, Alec thought, as he'd never seen her before, not even in the first weeks after Ben's death. 'Then you're going to need help.'

'I don't want an assistant.'

'Other sculptors use them, don't they?'

'Yes.'

He leaned forward. 'So what don't you like about them?'

'Where to start? For one thing, they're always art students, and they keep on asking questions. "Why did you do that? Why didn't you do the other?'' And even if they don't ask, you can hear them thinking it. Nine times out of ten it just turns into a tutorial. I know it sounds terribly ungenerous, and I do—I do actually like teaching, but I don't want to do it when I'm working.'

'Does it have to be an art student?'

'It's the obvious pot to dip into.'

He shrugged. 'Depends what you want.'

'All I want is somebody strong enough to lift, who isn't . . . too interested in what I'm doing.'

'Hmm,' he said. 'Bit of bored beefcake?'

She refused to rise to him. 'Doesn't have to be a man. I do all the lifting normally.'

dn0

'Do you remember the lad who used to do the churchyard after we lost the sheep?'

A hazy memory of a young man wielding a scythe in the long grass between the headstones. 'Vaguely.'

'He's very reliable, and he builds patios and walls and things like that, so he must be fairly good with his hands. And I shouldn't think he's got a lot of work on at the moment. I know he was hoping to get a job in the timber yard, but I think that fell through. They're very quiet at the moment. Shall I see if he's available?'

'That's not a bad idea, actually. What's his name?'

'Peter Wingrave. I'll give him a ring, shall I?'

He looked down at her, noticing the lines of tension around her eyes and mouth. What he thought she needed at this moment was faith, but he couldn't say that. She'd come to church once or twice after Ben's funeral, but only to show her appreciation of a difficult job well done. A youngish man, a violent death. It's not easy in such circumstances to know what to say, particularly to a congregation of atheists and agnostics up from London on cheap day-returns. Kate made no secret of her lack of belief. He did wonder what she'd be able to make of this commission, but then he thought that the risen Christ was, among many other things, a half-naked man in his early thirties, and Kate did male nudes very well indeed.

'How's Justine?' Kate asked, making an effort to set her own problems aside.

Alec's face brightened, as it always did at any mention of his daughter. 'Much better.'

Justine had been due to go to Cambridge last October, but in September had gone down with glandular fever and had to ask for her place to be deferred for a year. She'd been at a loose end ever since, mooching round the house, lonely and depressed. Alec had been quite worried about her, but now, he said, she'd got herself a little job as an au pair, twenty hours a week, and that gave her some pocket-money, and, even more important, a framework for the day. 'The Sharkeys. You know them? Their little boy.'

'Oh, yes. Adam, isn't it?'

'Anyway,' he said, hearing the rattle of cutlery in the corridor outside, 'I think I'd better be off and leave you to your lunch.' He bent to kiss her, and she grasped his hand. 'I'll have a word with Peter as soon as I can.'

The doors swinging shut behind him let in a smell of hot gravy and custard. She never felt hungry, though when food was put in front of her she ate it all. She knew she had to build up her strength. As she ate, she thought about Alec, who was an odd person to find in charge of a rural parish. He'd written several books on ethical issues raised by modern genetics and by developments in reproductive medicine, including one on therapeutic cloning that Robert Sharkey described as the most level-headed discussion of the topic he'd encountered. And he did a lot of work with released prisoners, battered wives, drug addicts, even converting part of his own house to give them somewhere to stay. No, he was a good man, though she didn't personally see that his goodness had much to do with his religion. And he had another claim on her affection: Ben had always liked him.

After the pudding—apple crumble indistinguishable from cement—she heaved herself out of the chair and started again on the long walk to the top of the corridor.

Winter sunshine streaming in through the tall windows created a grainy shadow that almost seemed to mock her efforts as she edged and shuffled along. Her walking was getting better, but she'd gladly have crawled around on her bum for the rest of her days if only she'd been able to raise her right arm above her head.

At night she lies awake, worrying about the Christ, her fingers aching for the scarred handle of her mallet, as her body aches for Ben, a cold hollow inside. She tucks her knees up to her chin, consciously foetal, but the position puts too much pressure on her spine and she has to straighten out again and lie on her back like an effigy. She remembers going into the church at Chillingham with Ben, turning the corner into a side chapel, finding Lord and Lady Grey together on their slab. Holding hands? Side by side, anyway, in a silence that still, after five centuries, feels companionable. And that extraordinary domestic detail: the fireplace in the wall opposite their tomb. As once there must have been a fireplace in their bedroom. Firelight on sweaty bodies, the first time they made love, firelight on the cold alabaster of their effigies. And then her mind drifts to Ben's grave in the churchyard here, backed by a low stone wall, dry blond grasses waving in the field beyond. And again she stretches out her legs, hears the rattle of the trolley bringing tea, and realizes that at some point in all this, surely, she must have slept.

A nurse crashes through the swing doors, red-faced, cheerful, rotund, rustling in her plastic apron, squeaking on rubber-soled shoes.

'Physio today, Mrs Frobisher,' she says, pouring beige tea into a cup.

Physio every bloody day.

When they'd done everything they could to get her mobile, they let her go, though she had to return to the hospital twice a week for more physiotherapy.

In the car, being driven home by her friend Angela Mowbray, Kate felt optimistic. She'd been managing better the last few days, and she knew the physiotherapist was pleased with her. Another fortnight and she'd be all right, perhaps even well enough to do without the bloody assistant. Alec still hadn't got back to her on that.

Angela looked sideways at Kate, thinking the surgical collar looked a bit like a ruff, reflecting light onto her face, emphasizing the lines of tiredness, the blue shadows underneath her eyes. Kate said she hadn't been sleeping well in hospital, but then nobody could. Footsteps squeaking up and down the ward, blinds on the corridor side left up because you had to be observed all the time, and then there were admissions, sometimes in the middle of the night. The memories of her hysterectomy were fresh in Angela's mind. Poor Kate, she thought, and such a bad patient.

They were approaching the scene of the crash. Angela slowed down—had to, it was a dangerous bend—though, imagining what Kate must be feeling, she would have preferred to pick up speed and get past as soon as possible.

'Do you mind if we stop here?' Kate said.

Surprised, Angela pulled over onto the grass verge. Kate got out. It was a struggle and Angela came round the car to help, but by the time she got there Kate was shakily standing up.

'Why do you want to stop?'

'I just want to see where it happened.'

Kate walked along the verge, thinking she might not recognize the spot, but there was no danger of that. Skidding off the road, the car had left scars, flattened bracken, made tyre tracks in the mud, smashed stripling trees—and then her nemesis: the tree whose branches, broken by the impact, had reached through the shattered windscreen to get at her. She had a flash of it 0 happening again and closed her eyes. The trunk had proved solid, though the roots had been disturbed. She looked down and saw how they'd been prised loose from the earth. At that moment a light wind started to blow between the trees, a current of air moving at ground level, quickening the forest floor. Dead leaves rose up and formed twisters, little coils and spurts of turbulence, and the shadows of branches danced and shook on the snow-stippled ground.

Then it was over and the wood was as quiet and still as it had been before.

Kate was aware of her breathing, the sound, the movement of her ribs, and the sight of it too, furls of mist escaping from her lips to whiten the air.

Angela shifted behind her. Coughed. She thinks I'm being eccentric, Kate thought. Well, she can talk.

There was something else, something she needed to get clear, a memory that bulged above the surface, showed its back and then, in a burst of foam, turned and sank again. It was the sound of her breathing that had summoned it. She groped after memories that dissolved even as she tried to grasp them. She had a sense of missing time. The minutes—how many minutes?—she'd drifted in and out of consciousness, while somebody had stood by the car, breathing, watching, not calling for help.

But all her memories were confused, and for large stretches of time she had no memory at all. Nothing about the ambulance journey or the arrival in hospital, nothing about the emergency treatment, the fitting of the back brace and the surgical collar, nothing about that. Nothing, in fact, until she woke the following morning to find her mother and Alice by the bed. So probably her memory of the man who'd stood and watched her was a distortion. A symptom of concussion.

Two days after the crash a young woman doctor had sat by her bed for half an hour, asking her questions about what time it was, who she was, where she was, why she was there, and, although she hadn't felt confused or uncertain of the answers, she'd got most of them wrong.

It was a relief to turn and see Angela's worried face.

She made herself smile. 'Lucky escape.' She was thinking of another road, in Afghanistan, the road Ben had died on. For a moment she felt a deep affinity with him, a closeness, and then it vanished, and the loneliness rushed back, worse than before. She raised her hand to her neck and touched Ben's amulet, feeling the disc cold under her fingertips, rasping it along the chain. 'That's that, then,' she said. 'Come on, let's go.'

Read More Show Less

Customer Reviews

Be the first to write a review
( 0 )
Rating Distribution

5 Star

(0)

4 Star

(0)

3 Star

(0)

2 Star

(0)

1 Star

(0)

Your Rating:

Your Name: Create a Pen Name or

Barnes & Noble.com Review Rules

Our reader reviews allow you to share your comments on titles you liked, or didn't, with others. By submitting an online review, you are representing to Barnes & Noble.com that all information contained in your review is original and accurate in all respects, and that the submission of such content by you and the posting of such content by Barnes & Noble.com does not and will not violate the rights of any third party. Please follow the rules below to help ensure that your review can be posted.

Reviews by Our Customers Under the Age of 13

We highly value and respect everyone's opinion concerning the titles we offer. However, we cannot allow persons under the age of 13 to have accounts at BN.com or to post customer reviews. Please see our Terms of Use for more details.

What to exclude from your review:

Please do not write about reviews, commentary, or information posted on the product page. If you see any errors in the information on the product page, please send us an email.

Reviews should not contain any of the following:

  • - HTML tags, profanity, obscenities, vulgarities, or comments that defame anyone
  • - Time-sensitive information such as tour dates, signings, lectures, etc.
  • - Single-word reviews. Other people will read your review to discover why you liked or didn't like the title. Be descriptive.
  • - Comments focusing on the author or that may ruin the ending for others
  • - Phone numbers, addresses, URLs
  • - Pricing and availability information or alternative ordering information
  • - Advertisements or commercial solicitation

Reminder:

  • - By submitting a review, you grant to Barnes & Noble.com and its sublicensees the royalty-free, perpetual, irrevocable right and license to use the review in accordance with the Barnes & Noble.com Terms of Use.
  • - Barnes & Noble.com reserves the right not to post any review -- particularly those that do not follow the terms and conditions of these Rules. Barnes & Noble.com also reserves the right to remove any review at any time without notice.
  • - See Terms of Use for other conditions and disclaimers.
Search for Products You'd Like to Recommend

Recommend other products that relate to your review. Just search for them below and share!

Create a Pen Name

Your Pen Name is your unique identity on BN.com. It will appear on the reviews you write and other website activities. Your Pen Name cannot be edited, changed or deleted once submitted.

 
Your Pen Name can be any combination of alphanumeric characters (plus - and _), and must be at least two characters long.

Continue Anonymously

    If you find inappropriate content, please report it to Barnes & Noble
    Why is this product inappropriate?
    Comments (optional)