Watch Over Me

Начало книги

She thought at first that it was a cruel practical joke. That the blood must be tomato ketchup from the kitchen cupboard. That the shaft of the arrow must be a stick-on plastic fake from Bonzo’s, that awful shop in Edinburgh, just off the Royal Mile, where you could buy itching powder and whoopee cushions and disgustingly realistic dog mess.

Her daughter lay on the grass in the orchard, on her back, her arms flung out to either side. Her favourite yellow T-shirt was spattered with red spots and the collar area was saturated – that was going to need a good long soak. Her hair, especially at the left temple, was sticky with the stuff, and it was streaked all down her face. They’d really gone to town with it around the eye, presumably to hide the place where the fake arrow was meant to penetrate. The whole of the socket area was concealed under gloopy red goo, which was very silly and dangerous. She hoped they’d covered the eye with something first.

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