The Complete Ingo Chronicles: Ingo, The Tide Knot, The Deep, The Crossing of Ingo, Stormswept. Helen Dunmore

Conor, tell him I’ll bring the car in at eight o’clock tomorrow morning, before I go to work.

      “Now then, there’s plenty of bread for sandwiches. Use up the rest of that chicken, and you can take crisps and a KitKat each. I’ll be back at six tonight. Mind you clean your teeth properly, Sapphy. You’re seeing the dentist soon.”

      “Yes, Ma’am,” says Conor, saluting.

      Reluctantly, Mum smiles. “I know, I know. But someone’s got to think of everything.”

      “OK, Mum.”

      “OK, Mum,” I echo.

      Suddenly Mum stops in her rush from ironing board to fridge to door. She stands and looks at us, really looks at us.

      “Come here, both of you,” she says. Conor shuffles forward in his duvet. I hang back.

      “Come on, Sapphy. Give me a proper hug.”

      She reaches out for me. I feel bony and awkward, as if I don’t fit into her arms any more. But Mum strokes the back of her hand down my cheek and says, “Your Mum loves you,” just as she did when I was little, and suddenly I feel myself relaxing, melting…

      “You’re good children,” says Mum, so quietly I’m not sure I’ve heard her right. “Stay together, mind. Look after each other.”

      “We will,” I say, and I mean it. I am not letting Conor out of my sight today. “Will you be all right driving, Mum? The mist’s so thick.”

      “It’ll be clearer up on the road,” says Mum. “There’s my good girl. Now, I’ve got to go, or I’ll be late.”

      I go out with her, to open the gate and shut it again after she’s gone through. The mist is not quite so bad once you’re out in it. I can see as far as the wall, and the thorn bush looming in the field beyond.

      Mum has her fog lamps on and she drives forward cautiously, gripping the wheel. She hates driving in bad weather. The mist blows in from the sea. It’s thick and silent and salty, and the damp of it is all over the gate post in silvery beads. Mum’s tyres crunch over the rough stones, and through the gateway. She gives a little toot of the horn, and drives on up the track. I swing the gate shut, watch the red rear fog lights disappear into the mist, and then tie the twine securely around the gate again. There won’t be many walkers coming down here today, not in these conditions. It’s dangerous on the coast path when the mist is down like this. You could walk straight over the edge of a cliff. We won’t go down to the cove today.

      But for once I don’t mind that. It feels safer inside the cottage.

      Safer? Why did I say that? The mist swirls, dragging wet fingers across my face. I’m going to go back inside and maybe I’ll light a fire if we’ve got any wood left in the shed. It’s cold when the mist is down. I hurry back inside and there’s Conor’s duvet on the floor.

      “Conor! I’m not picking up your dirty washing for you! You can put it in the machine yourself.”

      But there’s no answer. The cottage is silent.

      Maybe he’s gone up to the farm to get the eggs and potatoes.

      No. He’d have had to go past me. Even in the mist he couldn’t have gone past without me seeing him.

      “Conor?” But this time I don’t shout. I am asking the empty, familiar kitchen to tell me where he is. The radio clock winks. The fridge whirrs. They must have seen him go, but they’re not telling me.

      They don’t need to. A cold shiver is creeping over my skin, as cold as the mist. I know where Conor’s gone. Down the track, through the bracken and foxgloves, down the path and out on to the grassy lip of cliff above the cove. Everything wet and shining with mist. The rocks hidden, the sea hidden. Down the rocks, between the boulders, on to the rocks. Everything slippery and dangerous—

      The sea pulling like a magnet. Pulling Conor as it pulled me.

      What’s the time? The tide will be going out. I remember how the sea swirled round my legs, urging me deeper and deeper—

      Conor, wait. Wait, wait. Don’t go without me. Wait, Conor, I’m coming.

       CHAPTER SIX

      Never go down to the cove alone. Are you listening to me, Sapphire? If Conor isn’t with you, you don’t go.

       But Mum—

      Sapphy, I want you to promise me that you won’t go on your own. Ever. It’s for your own safety.

      I can swim just as well as Conor.

      I know. But you’re such a daydreamer, Sapphy. If the tide comes in while you’re dreaming, I won’t be there to help you. So promise.

      Make Conor promise too.

      He has already.

      All right, Mum. I promise.

      Mum’s words from years ago drum in my head as I feel my way through the mist, down the track and along the path. Shapes loom out frighteningly, but when I get close, they’re only bushes. The mist has already closed up behind me, damp and woolly and smothering. I can’t see any of the cottages. I can’t see the track, or the gate, or even the gap where the path begins—

      I trip and stumble, and scramble up again, rubbing my grazed leg. Pebbles rattle under my feet, wet bracken slaps my legs. I can hear the sea echoing, and the mournful sound of the foghorn.

      Danger. Danger. Don’t come here.

      But I’ve got to carry on. This is the path to where Conor is. I must follow it. My heart bumps so hard it feels as if it’s up in my mouth. Take a deep breath, Sapphire. There’s nothing to be scared of. It’s only mist.

      I creep out on to the grass. I’ve nearly reached the cliff, but I can’t see the edge. The grass is wet and slippery and I’m afraid of falling, so I get down on hands and knees and crawl forward slowly, feeling my way.

      Haaaaa says the sea, haaaaaa. I creep forward, digging my fingers into tussocks of rough grass. I won’t go over the edge, whatever happens.

      Here it is. I lie down on my belly, lean over, and look down. Below me, mist swirls. It’s coming in from the sea, thicker and thicker. The shapes of boulders loom beneath, like dark heads rearing out of the mist. I can just about find my way down, but the rocks are shining wet. I mustn’t slip.

      I try to remember where the tide will be. It should be low tide, just on the turn. I’m safe for now.

      I let myself down very carefully, over the grassy lip of the cliff, scrabbling for footholds.

      You’ve been down here hundreds of times. It’s completely safe. But my heart bangs and sweat prickles under my arms.

      Climbing down through the mist is like trying to do your best handwriting with your fingers in thick gloves. My left foot brushes a foothold, finds it. I lower my weight gently. No. My foot slips on wet rock and I start to slide. I grab a clump of thrift and cling on. My fingers want to hold on for ever but I won’t let them. Don’t be stupid, Sapphire. You won’t fall. You can’t stay here clinging on to a cliff. No one’s going to come and rescue you, and anyway you’ve got to find Conor.

      I take a deep breath. My feet will know where to go if I can just stop panicking. They know where the next foothold is, and the next, and the next. My feet have been learning the way down for years.

      I take another deep breath. Slowly, slowly, I let go of the clump of thrift. My right foot finds its way down to the next ledge like a key finding its place in a lock.

      Down the rocks, squeeze between the boulders, over the stones. The dripping of water sounds eerie in the