Reservoir 13: WINNER OF THE 2017 COSTA NOVEL AWARD. Jon McGregor

      In October the winds were high and in the mornings there were trees blocking the road. The sound of gunshots cracked down from the woods in pairs. There were more sightings of the missing girl’s father, although some of them turned out to be false. It was known that he no longer wore the charcoal-grey anorak, and there was anyway no shortage of preoccupied men striding solitary through the hills. But there were enough sightings to give the impression of a man who couldn’t keep away. There was talk that he and the girl’s mother had divorced, and around that time the sightings increased. On the shore of the reservoir; around the edge of the quarry; down at the river by the packhorse bridge. Almost always seen from a distance, moving away. At the allotment the pumpkins fattened slowly, lifted from the damp soil on squares of glass, striped in the low autumn light. Jane Hughes walked back from the Hunter place and happened upon Jones beside the millpond. He was standing patiently with his hands behind his back, his shoulders hunched and his neck angled forward. She didn’t want to interrupt, but as she walked past there was a softening in his posture which she understood as acknowledgement. She’d grown used to these cues. She stepped up beside him and looked at the water for a moment. Mr Jones, she said. Vicar, he replied. You’ve been keeping well? she asked. He nodded. And your sister? He didn’t answer, but pointed in at the water, at some tiny change in the light she could barely see. Scared them all off now, he said. Really? I’m stood in the shadow of the tree, he explained; so I’m right. But you’ve come looming, so. She stepped away from the edge of the water apologetically. She looked at him. Are you fishing today? No, he said. But if I was. I’ll remember that then. Sorry. There was the clatter of woodpigeons’ wings in the trees overhead, and the sound of the water moving over the stones. Jones still had his hands behind his back. She’s home again, he said. I gathered, yes. There’s plenty of trout in there, he told her, if you don’t bother them. We don’t see her around much, Jane said, leaning out over the water as though watching for trout, giving him a chance to speak without being looked at. She doesn’t go out, he said. She waited, but there was no more. That must be difficult for you, she said. Not really. She’s no bother. Do you get any help? She felt him stiffen beside her, and his hands came round from behind his back, rearranging his jacket buttons, his cap. He turned away from the water. Weather, he said, nodding towards the hills. It looks like it’s coming in, she agreed. Be seeing you then, he said, lighting a cigarette and setting off along the footpath towards the packhorse bridge. On the stubbled fields of Thompson’s land a buzzard wandered, picking for worms.