Mest av alt er liket så kaldt. Denne kroppen har jeg en gang lengtet etter. Jeg har krøpet opp inntil den i senga om morgenen. Disse armene, som nå er visnet, har holdt meg trygt fast, løftet meg opp og klemt meg. Skuldrene hans, som nå er livløse, har jeg sittet på i timevis.

Menneskeheten vet jo nå for første gang definitivt at klimaet har endret seg dramatisk mange ganger opp gjennom historien, og det vil derfor komme til å gjøre det på nytt med store konsekvenser. Men ingen kan vite akkurat hvordan.

He pointed to a chair next to the one where he’d obviously been sitting. There was a book on the arm, opened, page down. Mick Herron’s Slow Horses. One of Vera’s favourites. She’d given a copy to Holly, who’d enjoyed it too.

It started raining as soon as Joe Ashworth hit the Cumbrian border and that fed into all his prejudices. He saw Cumbria as a place of floods, of wild westerlies, of chaos and ignorance. Only the Lake District had a semblance of civilization but that was overrun by tourists from the South, and he distrusted the South even more than the West.

They grinned at each other briefly. Sometimes, Vera thought, she could almost believe that Holly had a sense of humour. That they might end up working very well together. That Hol would become an outstanding detective.

When the water returned, it would be an island proper again, cut off from the mainland, but the boundary between sea and land was shifting, uncertain, made up of sand and mud and dune.

Next to the causeway, a line of poles across the sand marked the Pilgrims’ Way, where the faithful sometimes crossed by foot, paddling, trousers rolled to their knees, packed lunches in small rucksacks. Ahead of her was the island, the highest point furthest away from her, and perched there on the top of the cliff, the sandstone castle, majestic, looking out towards Scandinavia.

'When can we get over?’ Because Vera had decided she would be there. The decision made, she felt lighter. There was a release of tension. She would be happier, and a lot more comfortable, at a potential murder scene than with a handful of famous writers. Very much happier.

Holy Island. Known to southerners as Lindisfarne.

It was weird to be at home, but feeling homesick for somewhere.

'And what’s happening in the village this week? I have visions of it being like Midsomer Murders.’

Sometimes you are in the underground and you have no idea what the weather is like, and the train shoots out of a tunnel and sunlight floods you, falls across your newspaper, makes the passengers squint and look up.
There is a face you have for sitting at home and talking, there is a face you have for working in the office, there is a face, a bearing, a demeanour for each
time and place. There is above all a face for travelling, and when you have seen one you have seen all. In a rush hour, when we are breathing down each other's necks, we look at each other and glance quickly away.

Now you and me ain’t going to argue about obeah. I have other things to do, and I only want to give you the episode how it happen.

Du sier du er på ditt svakeste
men du
tør å si det
tør å være det
det er fader så sterkt det

Hva om
vi faktisk hadde sett
hverandre
uten å minne
hverandre
på det

Du forteller
en historie jeg ikke kan forestille meg
likevel står du der stødig som fjell
skulle ønske jeg var mer sånn selv

Man forteller lite
for å ikke bli for mye
man velger å slite
for å skåne andre for bryet.

I dag er en av de 365
hvor du må minne deg selv
på
at du er fin
akkurat som du er
prøvde selv nå nettopp
ble ikke kjempefin
men helt ok
og det er jo bedre enn ingenting

Du er lyset
for mange
du får til og med
de som ligger nde
til å kaste skygge

Jeg er snill
hver dag
nesten
men jeg tar meg ofte i
å ikke være snill med meg selv
problemet da
er at ingen stopper meg