Deep Water by Mark Ayre (best big ereader TXT) 📕

danger of succumbing if she could not put to one side her teenage trauma. This was Bobby's fault. The fault of the last town she had visited. For years before her mission to save Eddie, the previous subject of her prophetic dreams, she had been a robot. Emotion hadn't entered the equation. Now her messed up past seemed to reside at the forefront of her mind, tucked in a corner but ready to spring out at the slightest provocation.

Jacob was safe. It had been wrong to follow him, but what was done was done. It was time to go.

Before she departed, Abbie glanced left, glanced right. She was at the side of the house. It seemed the garden encircled the property, like a grass moat, but broader and with fewer crocodiles. The driveway must act as a permanently lowered drawbridge.

During her single sweep of the visible segment of the garden, something caught Abbie's eye. A shift by a hedge. A slight movement. Jacob had checked his surroundings upon arriving at the gate and upon reaching his back door. Once again, he had missed the only thing of importance.

Abbie didn't. Abbie rarely missed anything.

More shifting. Then someone seemed to appear from a hedge.

The way he appeared spoke volumes. Not smoothly but in a tangle of limbs and branches. Not on his feet but from his bum, brushing dirt from the seat of his jeans and picking leaves from his hair. The indication being he had fallen into rather than secreted himself within the bush.

Jacob's arrival had been an unexpected surprise. Afraid of being caught, Bush Man had dived for cover in the nearest available spot and done a lousy job of it.

No doubt, his aim had been to prevent Jacob from spotting him. From what Abbie had seen, Bush Man could have stood in plain sight. Jacob still wouldn't have noticed anything was amiss, and Bush Man wouldn’t need a new pair of trousers. Abbie would also have had to give him a different nickname.

Inside, the kitchen light flicked off. Water in hand, Jacob was no doubt heading upstairs. Ten seconds later, Bush Man moved away from the bush into which he had fallen and crept across the grass, towards the door through which Jacob had disappeared.

Glad of the distraction from Jacob's plight and her haunted memories, Abbie stepped a little to the side, ensuring she would not at once be spotted if Bush Man turned towards the gate and watched the sneaker cross the garden.

As he snuck, Bush Man's hand went to his jacket. He felt for the outline of something then let his hand drop.

In airports, people will often pat the pocket which contains their passport. A nervous habit to ensure it's still there. They'll do the same with their tickets in train stations and wallets in crowded high streets, especially in areas notorious for pick-pockets. Or if they've recently watched Oliver and have the Artful Dodger on the mind.

Sneaking across someone's garden under cover of darkness, it was unlikely Bush Man was worried about his wallet or passport, and there was nothing for which he would need a ticket. It might have been a key. If so, it was one illegally cut or stolen from a homeowner. More likely than that: a weapon.

If it was a weapon, Bush Man's nervous need to feel its outline indicated he was not a professional killer or burglar. Nor anyone used to carrying a gun or a knife. That he had panicked and fallen into a bush at the sight of a teenager supported this hypothesis.

Possibly, he was an amateur burglar. But doubtful. Crooks liked to burgle empty homes. They might rob a home's downstairs while the owners slept soundly above, but would a novice break into a house and try to rob the place when he knew someone was awake upstairs? Almost no chance.

As Bush Man reached the door through which Jacob had recently entered, Abbie deduced he must know the homeowners. His intentions were either to assault or scare someone within, or to steal something specific. Either way, his need to enter was so great he was willing to risk it, even knowing Jacob was inside and awake.

Reaching the door, Bush Man didn't go for the pocket he had patted when crossing the garden. Instead, he took something small from his jeans—certainly not a key—and crouched beside the lock.

Abbie stepped up to the gate. When Jacob had pushed it, the iron hinges had creaked. If Abbie did the same, Bush Man would hear her and spin. She suspected he carried a weapon. Possibly a knife. More likely, a gun.

No matter. Rather than push open the gate, Abbie planted her hands on either side. Just like in the gym, she lifted her legs, balancing on her arms, and brought them over the gate, dropping silently onto the paving stone on the other side.

Bush Man was still fiddling in front of the door. By now, Abbie would have been inside. Further evidence this guy was no professional. He had little or no experience breaking and entering; this was not a regular occurrence but a special occasion.

The garden was expansive. It had taken thirty seconds for an agitated Jacob to get from the gate to the side door of his house.

Abbie moved quickly but silently, keeping her eyes on the ground in front of her, determined not to snap any twigs or kick any stones. She guessed Jacob's family employed at least one gardener. The grass was freshly trimmed, the path clear. It made for a straightforward approach.

When Abbie closed in on the man, she could hear him huffing and puffing. Frustration seemed to pour off the guy. It was abundantly clear he was getting no closer to entry. Nor was he paying enough attention to his near vicinity. Without much fear, Abbie was able to draw within a couple of feet of his back.

Regardless of how underprepared and useless the guy appeared to be, Abbie would be careful. She was working under the assumption