His shadow, flung across the rocks, seemed to wriggle and jerk as its shape fragmented among the bracken and brambles. The haze of heat made his outline blur and writhe, as if he were dancing a slow shimmy. The old man stood in the glare of the low sun, with hot rocks shimmering around him like a furnace. Cooper had to squint against a patch of dazzling light that soaked the hillside in strong colours. He was looking through the trees and thick brambles as if towards the end of a dark tunnel, where the figure of Harry Dickinson was framed in a network of branches. A passing walker wouldn’t have been able to see him up here among the bracken, even if he’d bothered to look up.Ĭooper turned round, wafting his hand across his face against the flies.
The spot where Ben Cooper stood was remote and isolated.
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