Burnt Paper Sky Read Online Free PDF Page A

worsened and great fists of water broke through the canopy. Within minutes we were wet through and large spreading puddles appeared on the path. Our progress slowed dramatically but we carried on calling and listening, the beams of the torches swinging wide and low into the woodland around us, eyes straining to see something, anything.
    As each second passed and the weather pressed in around us my fear built into a hot, urgent thing that threatened to explode inside me.
     
    After twenty minutes I felt my phone vibrate. It was a text from Peter.
    ‘Meet car park’ it said, and that was all.
    Hope surged. I began to run, faster and faster, and when I emerged from the path and into the car park I had to stop abruptly. I was in the full glare of a pair of headlights. I shielded my eyes.
    ‘Rachel Jenner?’ A figure stepped into the beam, silhouetted.
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘I’m WPC Sarah Banks. I’m a police constable, from Nailsea Police Station. I understand your son is lost. Any sign of him?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Nothing at all?’
    I shook my head.
    A shout went up from behind us. It was Peter. He had Skittle cradled in his arms. He gently laid the dog down. One of Skittle’s delicate hind legs was at a painful, unnatural angle. He whimpered when he saw me, and buried his nose into my hand.
    ‘Ben?’ I asked.
    Peter shook his head. ‘The dog hobbled onto the path right in front of us. We’ve no idea where he came from.’
    My memories of that moment are mostly of sound, and sensation. The rain wet on my face, soaking my knees as I knelt on the ground; grim murmurs from the people gathered around; the soft whimpering of my dog; the wild gusting of the wind, and the faint sound of pop music coming from one of the cars that the kids had sheltered in, its windows all steamed up.
    Cutting through everything was the crackle of the police radio just behind me, and the voice of WPC Banks calling for assistance.
     
    Peter took the dog away, to the vet. WPC Banks refused to let me go back into the woods. With her sharp young features and neat, white little teeth she looked too immature to be authoritative, but she was adamant.
    We sat in my car together. She questioned me closely about what Ben and I had been doing, where I’d last seen him. She took slow, careful notes in bulbous handwriting, which looked like fat caterpillars crawling across the page.
    I rang John. When he answered I began to cry and WPC Banks gently took my mobile from me and asked him to confirm that he was Ben’s dad. Then she told him that Ben was lost and that he should come right away to the woods.
    I rang my sister Nicky. She didn’t answer at first, but she called me back quickly.
    ‘Ben’s lost,’ I said. It was a bad line. I had to raise my voice.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Ben’s lost.’
    ‘Lost? Where?’
    I told her everything. I confessed that I’d let him run ahead of me, that it was my fault. She took a no-nonsense approach.
    ‘Have you called the police? Have you organised people to search? Can I speak to the police?’
    ‘They’re bringing dogs, but it’s dark, so they say they can’t do anything more until morning.’
    ‘Can I speak to them?’
    ‘There’s no point.’
    ‘I’d like to.’
    ‘They’re doing everything they can.’
    ‘Shall I come?’
    I appreciated the offer. I knew my sister hated driving in the dark. She was a nervous driver at the best of times, cautious and conservative on the road, as in life. The routes around our childhood cottage, where she was staying for the night, were treacherous even in daylight. In the depths of rural Wiltshire, on the edge of a large forested estate, the cottage was accessible only via a network of narrow, winding lanes edged with deep ditches and tall hedges.
    ‘No, it’s OK. John’s on his way.’
    ‘You must ring me if there’s any news, anything.’
    ‘I will.’
    ‘I’ll stay up by my phone.’
    ‘OK.’
    ‘Is it raining there?’
    ‘Yes. It’s so cold. He’s only