Mindsight

CHRIS CURRAN

an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright

Killer Reads

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street,

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2015

Copyright © Chris Curran 2015

Cover layout design © HarperColl‌insPublishers Ltd 2015

Cover illustration © Jem Butcher

Cover images © ShutterStock

Chris Curran asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.

Ebook Edition © January 2015 ISBN: 9780008132729

Version 2016-03-23

For Paul, with much love

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Read on extract from Her Turn to Cry

Acknowledgements:

About the Author

About the Publisher

Chapter One

The road twisted ahead, a blur of heat shimmering above it. I looked away, my eyes dazzled by the fields flashing past: bright green, pale green, dark green, brown, brown, acid yellow, and green again.

Alice changed gear into what must have been fifth, and I gripped the edge of my seat. ‘OK, Clare? Won’t be long now.’ She reached across to flip open the glove compartment. ‘There’s some water in there.’

It was fizzy and tasted harsh, drying my mouth even more. I closed my eyes. And here it was again: that other road. A dark road, flickering with shadows of trees and cloud. Then the stab of light and the chaos of jolting, screeching, and skidding. Oh, God.

I jerked upright and saw we were approaching the turn off for Wadhurst. Something pulled hard on my insides and my foot pressed an imaginary brake. ‘Alice, do you think …’ My voice cracked.

She looked over at me and slowed the car, then pulled into a lay-by. Her blue eyes were clouded. ‘We can’t, Clare. I haven’t told him it’s today. And you said yourself it was better to wait. Get settled first.’

I nodded: she was right. She squeezed my hand, giving me a wobbly smile. ‘OK?’ I managed another nod, and Alice drove on, as I looked back down the road and that tug came again, so strong this time it felt like pain.

Another swig from the bottle; the gassy stuff stinging my throat. Alice twisted a dial and a draught of cold air blew into my face and around my ankles. ‘Any better?’ she asked.

‘I’m sorry, can we stop again?’

She pulled into a pub car park and I got out, tugging at the jeans and shirt that clung too tight. Alice walked round to open the boot.

‘Look, why don’t you put on something cooler?’

All I wanted now was to get back to the safety of the car, away from the wide sky and the fields, but I pulled out the holdall and followed her. The toilets were just inside the main door, and Alice led me into the Ladies, leaning on a sink and talking to my reflection, her own distorted by the mirror.

‘I’ll leave you to it then.’ She rubbed my back. ‘I’ll get us some lunch. You should eat something.’

The place was cool and clean, a bowl of potpourri between the two sinks, but as I rifled through my clothes I could smell the stench of prison on them: strong enough to overwhelm the faint scent of lavender. My face in the mirror was bleached stone beneath the dark curls, and the fluorescent light revealed lines around my eyes that I’d never noticed before. Thirty-three wasn’t that old, was it? I pinched my cheeks, running my fingers through my hair.

Locked in a cubicle, I stripped off. The floor was cool under my bare feet, and I rested my head on the metal door. Then put on a thin blouse and cotton trousers.

I felt better for the change, but as I stood in front of the sinks again, staring at my white face, I couldn’t imagine how I would get through the door. Come on; come on, just do it. A woman and child burst in, the little girl holding the door for me, and I found myself in the bar.

I stood, with the conspicuous holdall on the floor beside me, scanning the room. The worn floorboards stretched away to open French windows, a babble of voices echoing all around.

I couldn’t see Alice.

‘Don’t look so worried, darling. If you can’t find your friend, you can sit with me.’

I recognised that look. You get it even in prison. The one that imagines fucking you, making you squirm. I wanted to tell him what I was – to take that smirk off his face – but instead I clenched my teeth and headed for the French windows.

She was sitting by a stream, her blue dress hanging over the edge of her chair, pale legs stretched out before her, strappy sandals on her feet. I forced a smile as I sat and she motioned to the drinks.

‘I got you still water.’ She raised her own glass, full of white bubbles. ‘Ordered us some sandwiches too.’

I took a sip, grateful for an excuse not to speak or to look at the girl who approached with two plates.

‘Tuna, or cheese and tomato?’

Alice smiled at her, then back at me. ‘We’ll share shall we, Clare?’

For all the world as if we were friends out for a jaunt in the country. Two men glanced over at us as they brought their pints to the next table: the younger giving Alice’s long legs an appreciative look up and down. She tucked them under her chair and his glance flickered to me, before returning to his drink.

We were nothing like sisters, of course, and I wondered if we even passed for friends.

Alice’s blue dress was crisp and her blonde hair dropped like pale water to her shoulders. Looking at her, I couldn’t help pulling at my creased trousers and moving my feet behind my holdall to hide my trainers.

She pushed some keys across the table at me. ‘I hope the flat’s OK. It was three months’ rent in advance, so no need to worry about that for a bit.’

We ate for a while in silence, but I didn’t have much appetite, and Alice soon stopped eating too. She looked into her glass, twisting it so the bubbles swirled and sparkled.

‘I’ve mentioned you to a friend who owns a florist’s shop near the flat. She might have some work for you, if you’re interested. Just don’t rush it.’

‘Who is she?’

‘Don’t worry; it’s no one you know. Stella’s the sister of an old boyfriend.’ She laughed. ‘I realised I didn’t like him much, but Stella and I hit it off and we’ve stayed in touch.’

‘What did you tell her … about me I mean?’

‘The truth – more or less.’

She would have done it perfectly. Even as a little girl, five years my junior, I remembered her watching my tantrums with puzzled eyes.

‘Your little sister’s nothing like you,’ people would say and, depending on my mood, I might laugh and say it was just as well. In my darker moments, I would shout, ‘She’s not my real sister, that’s why. I’m adopted. I’m not even English.’ I told people my mother was a Romanian princess, knowing she must really have been a peasant who couldn’t, or didn’t want to, support a child.

‘Oh look, aren’t they lovely,’ Alice said, as a flotilla of grey cygnets appeared around the bend in the stream and she began tearing pieces of crust from her sandwich and tossing them into the water. Soon the cygnets were jostling and squabbling for the bread, as the parent swans glided in, their wings arched behind them. ‘That’s a threat you know. They’re warning us not to hurt their babies.’ She cast a few more crumbs at the birds, as the parents’ tiny black eyes watched.

I hoisted my bag onto my shoulder. ‘Shall we go?’ I wanted the journey over. I needed to be alone.

As we got closer to the sea, small grey clouds drifted across the sun, reminding me of the little cygnet siblings. Poor Alice, she had stuck by me through it all, and yet, I had never said more than the odd, gruff, thank you.

‘You’re still my sister, and I know how sorry you are for what happened,’ was all she said, when I asked her why she was so good to me in spite of everything.

By the time we got to Hastings, and turned onto the seafront road, the sky had changed from blue to white, the water grey and almost still. There was some kind of hold up and the traffic stretched ahead, unmoving. The layer of cloud covering the sun had trapped the heat and stifled the breeze so it was hotter than ever. Alice tapped her nails on the steering wheel and opened the window to peer ahead.

‘Oh God, what now?’ She put both hands behind her neck, lifting the shimmer of hair away from her skin. ‘At this rate it’ll be rush hour before I get back on the A21.’

I wanted to shout that I couldn’t stand sitting in this sweatbox any longer, that I needed to be alone and quiet, but, instead, I leaned back and closed my eyes.

A scream jolted me from my trance, and I stared up at the huge sky filled with a mass of whirling white. But it was just a flock of seagulls, their shrieks echoing against the thick roof of cloud as they fought over scraps of fish.

We’d reached the Old Town, huddled between two hills, and the gulls were circling over the boats drawn up on the shingle and the tall, black net huts where the fishermen stored their gear. Alice pulled into one of the narrow streets; the car slowed, this time, by holidaymakers sucking ices and eating chips from paper parcels.

‘It’s just up here, round the back of the church,’ she said.

As the road became steeper, and the jumble of small, crooked houses and shops gave way to larger, Victorian villas, the tourists disappeared. Apart from the gulls, we could have been in any suburban street. Alice pulled into a parking bay, touching my arm as I undid my seatbelt. ‘Careful, this is a rat run. They drive up and down here like maniacs.’

I got out slowly, my feet uncertain on the steep road. ‘It’s just here.’ She pulled open a gate and shepherded me into the overgrown garden of a large house. Four bells flanked the blue door. ‘Go on, your flat’s number one. You’ve got half the ground floor.’

I fumbled at the lock until she took the key and slotted it in. The tiled hallway was cool; the doors to the two downstairs flats facing each other and between them a wide staircase leading to what Alice said were two more flats. My door was on the right, and Alice ushered me in and moved straight on to a swift guided tour.

In the bright living room, she said, ‘There’s only a small TV, but you won’t mind that.’ She looked at me and smiled. ‘What?’

‘It’s just that, TV becomes so important when you’re inside. But you’re right; the last thing I want to do is sit in front of the box.’ Even as I said it I wondered how true that was.

The sofa and two mismatched armchairs looked clean and comfortable but, seeing me look at them, Alice said, ‘They’re a bit shabby, but you can always brighten them up with cushions.’

She was trying so hard and part of me wanted to hug her and tell her how grateful I was. Another part longed for her to shut up and go away.

As I followed her into the kitchen, I saw the coffee maker next to the kettle. Alice must have noticed my stillness. She gripped my forearm. ‘Oh, no, did I do wrong bringing it here? I thought you’d want it. I know how you love your strong coffee.’

It was from my old house. Alice had cleared the place when I asked her to sell it. I ran my fingers over the glass and touched the new packet of coffee she’d put beside it. I couldn’t speak, but as I headed back to the living room I managed to smile.

She cleared her throat and walked over to a small table in the corner. ‘I sorted out the new laptop for you, like I said. Set it up with broadband, email, and everything.’ She picked up a little notebook. ‘I’ve written all the details, your email address, passwords, and so on, in there so you should be ready to go.’

‘Thank you. You didn’t need to do all that,’ I said.

She was smiling and holding up a white envelope. ‘And there’s this too.’ I recognised the writing at once. ‘Go on,’ she said, ‘it won’t bite.’

The card had an old- fashioned photo on the front. Three little girls on a beach in white dresses and sun hats. The two bigger children had long dark curls and the smallest was an angelic blonde. Inside: Welcome home, dearest Clare, with all our love from Emily and Matt. (Hope to see you soon!) XXXX

As I closed the card I couldn’t stop a sob bubbling up. Alice came behind me, resting her chin on my shoulder. ‘Oh, Clare.’ Her voice wobbled with tears, too. ‘They’re just like us.’ That was how we had always been: Alice, and me, and our cousin Emily, who was like another sister.

I hadn’t seen Emily, or her husband Matt, for more than three years.

Alice sighed and walked over to stand by the four large sash windows. ‘I’m sorry the place smells musty.’ She fiddled with the old-fashioned locks and managed to push up one of the sashes, catching her finger and letting out a muttered curse. ‘It’s a shame it’s so cloudy: there’s normally a wonderful sea view from this room.’

I peered out over the misted rooftops to the whiteness beyond – a couple of dark fishing boats, nosing close to shore, the only things to distinguish sea from sky. Alice perched on the arm of the sofa, sucking her torn finger.

‘What do you think? Is it all right?’

I nodded, without turning, and she was suddenly behind me, so close the warmth coming from her brought a prickle of sweat to my spine. I inched away, but she put her hands on my elbows, giving them a gentle shake.

‘You don’t like it do you? And you’ll be all alone here. I should have insisted you come to us, taken you straight home.’

The quiver in her voice brought a spurt of anger. It was too late to start on that again. In the old days I would have flared up at her, but not now.

‘I’m fine, and the flat’s lovely. Thanks for sorting it out.’

‘I got some shopping for you – just the basics – but don’t offer me coffee because …’ glancing at her watch, ‘I need to get off. Shall I ring you later?’

‘Better leave it till tomorrow. I’m so tired I think I need to settle in then get to bed.’

She gestured to the telephone. ‘I’ve put my mobile number, as well as the one for home, into your phone memory, so you don’t need to call the house until you’re ready.’ After a moment’s hesitation, she pulled me to her and whispered, ‘It’ll be all right.’ But I couldn’t speak and my arms hung heavy at my sides.

She stopped at the door and I forced a smile. ‘Go on. I’m OK.’

The kitchen overlooked the front garden and I watched her go. She turned at the gate to wave, and I raised my hand, longing to call her back and ask her to take me home with her.

When I heard the car start up and drive away, I pulled down the kitchen blind, went back into the living room and shut the window to let silence fill the place. Then I sat on the sofa, leaning back and closing my eyes. Deep breaths, one step at a time.

In the bedroom, I unpacked the holdall, my clothes lost in the big wardrobe. My one precious possession – the photograph in its cheap plastic frame – I put on the bedside table, my fingers lingering for a moment over each glassy face.

Alice had made the bed, and I pulled off my clothes and crawled into the soft darkness, lying hunched with the effort of clamping my mind shut. I knew I deserved to feel the pain the oh-so-familiar thoughts and images would bring, but, for now, I would allow myself a few, blessed, moments of peace.

I woke to darkness, knowing I’d slept for hours. I didn’t need a clock to tell me it was 3 a.m.: the time I’d woken every night for the past five years. Oddly enough, there was no confusion about where I was. The softness and the stretch of the bed around me, the silence and the feeling of space told me everything. I thought of my friend, Ruby, and longed to feel her warm, brown skin against mine; to tell her how frightened I was. But Ruby was still in prison, and I knew she’d only repeat the last thing she said to me: ‘This is the first day of the rest of your life, girl. So, get out there and live it.’

The floorboards were cold under my feet as I fumbled for socks and a sweatshirt. I knew, if I turned on the lamp, I’d never be able to cross the huge space to the door, but there was enough grey light to lead me to the living room windows. As I looked out, I felt a shock of disorientation; it seemed the stars were below, and the dark sea above. Then I realised that, of course, there were no stars. The shining pinpoints were lights from the houses in the town below; the darkness, above and beyond, was the sky merging with the water. I recalled the milky emptiness I’d seen from the same window earlier and the phrase that had come to mind then – the end of the world. This was how ancient mapmakers thought of the Earth: a slab of land bustling with life, a strip of sea and then – nothing – just emptiness.

I leaned my forehead against the window and closed my eyes. If I could stay perfectly still, block out my thoughts again, I might be able to sleep when I got back to bed. But the chill glass, dripping condensation on my skin, brought me fully alert. I was shivering, rocking back and forth, and chanting the familiar, meaningless charm, ‘Oh God, oh God, help me.’ It brought no more comfort than my own clutching arms, or my head beating against the cold glass.

The darkness in my head flickered with images of flames, my ears echoed with screams, and I longed for Ruby to hold me and help me cry away the agony. ‘That’s it, baby,’ she would say, ‘you’ll feel better soon.’ And a storm of tears would exhaust me so much that I no longer felt anything. But now, alone, I couldn’t cry, and I knew that all the tears and the therapy had just been another way to keep up the barricades.

I sometimes went to church services in the early days in prison, and the chaplain talked once about what he called the dark night of the soul. It seemed a good way to describe how I felt. But, later, I read another phrase that fitted better – the torments of the damned.

For I was certainly damned for what I’d done.

Chapter Two

The phone jolted me from sleep and I sat up, hugging my arms tight around my knees.

‘Hello Clare, it’s me. Are you there?’

I grabbed the handset. ‘Alice, your name didn’t register.’

‘I’m ringing from the surgery. I can’t talk long. Just wanted to check you were all right.’

‘I’m fine. What time is it?’

‘Half past eight. Try to get out for a bit today, won’t you. A walk will do you good.’

‘I should go and see your friend in the flower shop.’

‘Don’t rush it. I told Stella not to expect you immediately. Why not start by meeting your neighbours. The ones I talked to seemed lovely.’

In the end, I couldn’t get myself through the door. Still wearing the musty T-shirt I’d slept in, I switched on the TV and curled on the sofa in front of it, dozing and waking, dozing and waking. According to the weather forecast, it was the hottest heatwave since 1976, and when I opened the windows, all that came in was steaming air and the screeches of the gulls. I made tea and toast I didn’t finish, wanting only to sleep again.

Around four o’clock, I found myself staring at the phone. I picked it up, put it down, then tried again. At the third or fourth attempt I began to dial the number, but halfway through, I clicked to disconnect and threw the handset onto the other end of the sofa, as far from me as it would go. Then I dragged myself back to bed, pressing my face into the pillow. You coward, you fucking coward.

I didn’t leave the flat for three days. When I wasn’t huddled on the sofa or in bed, I was in the bathroom, standing under the shower, letting the water soak into me, through me, washing out the filth of five years.

Alice rang every morning, and on the second day I lied that I was going for a walk later on. Each afternoon, around four, I would sit and stare at the phone, my hands clammy, mouth dry. Once or twice I started to dial. Once, I even let it ring for half a second before clicking to disconnect, my whole body shaking.

On the fourth morning I made myself get up early, glad to see that, at last, the sun had disappeared and a light curtain of rain made the outdoors more kindly, easier to hide in. I knew I had to get out and I needed to find something decent to wear to visit the florist’s. I’d been watching and listening for my neighbours; the flat across the hall from mine seemed to be occupied by a young woman with a small child. My kitchen overlooked the front garden and I saw them, through a gap in the blinds, leaving about 8.30 every morning, and coming back around half past five.

Today the woman looked back, fair hair flopping over her face, and I jumped away from the window. It was minutes before I caught my breath, but the silence and the empty front garden reassured me they were safely out of the way.

Alice had said one upstairs flat was empty, but I heard enough from directly above to guess someone was living there: someone who liked jazz and was often walking around in the early hours, but sometimes clumped down the stairs in the morning too.

I stood by my closed front door, listening, and checking my bag yet again. My keys, the most important things of all, were still there, nestled in an inside pocket.

I had the cash Alice had given me on the first day and there was a debit card too. She’d put £5,000 in the account and told me I could have more whenever I needed it. After all, she said, Dad would have wanted that. I wasn’t so sure.

I was still inside, minutes later, with no idea what to do next: it had been so long since I’d been free to walk through a closed door. I made myself turn the knob and peep out. The hall was silent, and I stood for a moment, steadying my breath. A creak from somewhere above had me shutting the door again: leaning my head on it. Come on, come on. Get on with it, you stupid cow.

I forced myself through the hall, stumbling down the garden and out of the gate in one gasping rush. A car roared past, almost brushing me with its wing mirror, and I remembered Alice’s warning about the traffic. There was no pavement here, so hugging the hedge, and unsure whether to look behind or ahead, I scurried down the hill.

The rain had stopped by the time I reached the safety of a narrow pavement and the sun was out again, already hot enough to send filaments of steam from the patches of water on the ground. I didn’t dare go into any of the tiny shops in the Old Town, but it wasn’t far to the modern shopping centre where I could be anonymous. It might have been a pleasant stroll, but I kept my head down, my whole body clenched against anyone coming too close. No one knew me here – one of the reasons, along with the cheap rents, I’d chosen Hastings for my bolthole – but I felt as conspicuous as if I wore a convict suit, complete with arrows. I couldn’t forget the publicity around my trial – the photographers. I was even something of a minor celebrity in Holloway Prison at first, which certainly hadn’t helped.

It was still early, so the shopping mall was almost deserted, but the colours were so bright, the floor so shiny, my eyes were dazzled. I stood still and began to take in the individual shops. Marks and Spencer was in front of me. Yes, that would do, it was big enough for me to pass unnoticed, and empty enough, at this hour, that I wouldn’t have to queue. It would all be over in a few minutes – and then back home.

Inside, it seemed huge, the lights too brilliant. But it was quiet, just a few figures wandering at a safe distance. The rails of clothes, crowded together, gave some shelter and I walked through them, touching the soft cloth of shirts and trousers and avoiding the mirrors.

At last I spotted a few dresses. A blue one looked OK, not my size, but there was another in green that would have to do. Scrabbling with my bag and purse, I tried to replace the dress on the rack, but it didn’t seem to fit. When I let go, it fell to the floor dislodging the blue one and a white cardigan. My breath caught in my throat as I tried to control the clothes, the hangers, my purse, and my bag, and the purse came open in my hand spilling coins onto the floor.

‘That’s all right, dear.’ A waft of perfume as she picked up the bundle of clothes, shaking them and slotting them back in place, then crouched beside me. ‘Can I help?’

‘No.’ I clutched the purse to my chest, knocking her hand away from the scatter of coins.

She flinched, her face flushing under the film of make-up.

I left her there, and the money where it lay, and looked for the exit. I couldn’t think where all these people had come from. I pushed past a woman posing in front of a mirror with a frilly strip of something, and bumped into a pushchair. There were stacks of china and glittering glass around me, as I turned on the spot, terrified to move in case I broke something.

At last, I saw the doors and was able to get out. But the mall was crowded, now, and my ears throbbed with the clamour: squeals of laughter from a group of women, a screeching child in a pushchair, and behind it all the tinkle of piped music.

It was hot, so hot, and, head down to hide the tears that had begun to sting my eyes, I made for the main doors. As I reached them, a teenage boy charged through, bashing hard into my shoulder. The stab of pain brought me back to my senses and I made myself stand for a moment to get my bearings, then headed for the seafront.

On the promenade I stopped, leaned on the rails, and looked out over the calm water, slowing my breath to match each rhythmic sweep of waves back and forth. You’re not in prison anymore, I told myself, and the woman was trying to help you. That’s what people do outside. Five years of learning to fight, to meet aggression with aggression, to show everyone you’re hard so they won’t bully you. To make sure you never let anyone near your precious spends, or your few belongings. That was something I had to unlearn if I was to be fit for normal society.

Back at the house, I felt in my bag for the keys, my breath catching when I couldn’t find them.

‘Here, I’ve got mine out already, let me do it.’ It was the young woman with her pushchair. The red-faced baby, head slumped, asleep.

‘I’m Nicola, Nic, and you must be Alice’s sister. It’s Clare isn’t it? She said you’d be moving in soon.’ I managed a nod as she opened the door and together we dragged the pushchair inside.

‘Honestly, the nursery phones me at work,’ she said. ‘“Your Molly’s been sick you need to come and get her.” By the time I’m there she’s playing and laughing with her little mates, but they still make me take her home. Any excuse.’

Her chatter helped to calm me and I found my keys easily enough.

‘Let’s have a coffee sometime,’ she said, hauling the baby into her arms. The little girl was blonde, like her mother, her hair curling at the nape of her neck, chunky legs hanging down. So vulnerable.

In the flat, I made some tea, cradling the warm mug. Tea was Ruby’s remedy. At one session in prison, the therapist, Mike, asked us to write and read out an account of our lowest moment. For Ruby it was when her pimp threatened her children if she didn’t work that night. She stabbed him. ‘But the kids are safe with my mum and they know I did it for them.’ Mike sat po-faced, as the rest of us clapped.

I couldn’t bring myself to read my account and Ruby told me I needed a cup of tea. I gave her the paper and afterwards there were tears in her eyes to match my own.

I killed my family. That was what I’d written. My father, my husband, and my darling son. And my darkest moment was when I finally had to admit I must have been to blame. I couldn’t remember the crash and although some people thought that should be a comfort, Ruby realised it only added to the agony.

It was my cousin Emily’s wedding day, in the Lake District. I’d never driven Dad’s Mercedes before and I enjoyed the contrast of its smooth comfort to the bumps and grunts of my own rust bucket. But it was further than we’d realised, the roads narrow and winding, and we were only just in time at the small, stone church. It was next to the farm where the reception was to be held, overlooking one of the smaller lakes, and I remembered thinking how beautiful it was; the day one of those cloudless rarities so precious in that part of the world.

Dad sat next to me in the passenger seat and Steve was annoying me by tickling our giggling eight-year-old, Toby. I told my son to calm down; he was going to have to behave in the church. He answered in a voice bubbling with hysteria. ‘Don’t tell me, Mum. It’s Dad’s fault. Tell him.’ And that’s where the memories stopped.

At first I’d hoped, and dreaded, that I would recover the rest eventually, but only the odd flash returned. In hospital, Alice had tried to fill me in on the facts she knew and of course I’d heard plenty more during the trial, but nothing seemed to explain what had happened when I crashed the car on the way back that night, or how I managed to crawl free leaving the others to burn.

Or why my bloodstream had been full of amphetamines.

Chapter Three

Next day, I had to see my probation officer. The office was not far and I made sure I arrived early. I wasn’t surprised to have to wait for what seemed ages on an uncomfortable plastic chair, but the woman who came to get me was brisk and smiling. ‘Nice to meet you, Clare,’ she said, leading me to a stuffy cupboard of an office and glancing at her watch as she closed the door. Apparently I could call her Sophie and she was sure we would get on well.

She had an open file on her desk. I looked away from it, didn’t want to read anything about myself there.

‘I’m going for a job interview later today,’ I said, knowing that was what she wanted to hear. Her eyes strayed to the clock on the wall and she said we would need to meet weekly for a while, but that could probably be reduced soon.

‘If you do get work, let me know and we can organise our meetings to suit your hours. But you must make sure you attend regularly.’ She glanced at the file and her index finger grazed the top page. ‘And of course you must stay clear of drugs,’ She beamed up at me. ‘But I know you’ll do that, Clare.’

The room was suddenly silent and, although she continued to smile at me, all I could see was her finger still moving back and forth, no doubt tracing the words of my conviction: causing death by careless driving under the influence of drugs. I swallowed. Careless had always seemed to me such a strange way to describe something so terrible.

Outside, I stood taking deep breaths of fresh air and longing to head back to the flat, but instead I forced myself to turn towards the shopping mall. I managed to find a dress and some sandals and at home I took a shower and put them on. I didn’t dare look in a full length mirror, but they seemed to fit and made me feel fresh and clean. My hair stayed as unmanageable as ever, but after struggling with it for an hour I gave up and finally got myself out of the flat, my insides churning.

Bunches was on one of the narrow streets of the Old Town, just a stone’s throw from the flat. I paced up and down, a few yards from the place, willing myself to go in. Once, I had my hand on the door but then turned away to study some second-hand books on a rack outside the neighbouring shop. Finally, I forced myself to go back, but I might have run away again had the door not opened and an elderly man stepped back to usher me in.

It was a tiny, old shop with a low ceiling and uneven, tiled floor. Tall vases and metal buckets stood near the walls, each one crammed with the flowers and greenery that filled the place with damp, peaty odours. A red-haired girl stood behind the counter. She looked up with a smile as the old-fashioned bell over the door jangled at my entry. ‘Can I help you?’

I swallowed, tempted to walk out again. But thinking of my promise to Alice, I said, ‘I’m looking for Mrs Lucas – Stella?’

She opened a door behind her and I glimpsed a small room, another door at the back open to the sunshine. More buckets of blooms crowded the floor and a long table was covered in loose flowers, ribbons, and coloured paper. ‘Mum, someone to see you.’

An older and curvier version of the girl emerged, removing gardening gloves and pushing red curls back from her face. ‘Hello. You wanted me?’

Once I’d introduced myself as Alice Frome’s sister she was all smiles. ‘Harriet, I’ll be upstairs for a bit with Clare. Try not to disturb us, will you?’ She ushered me through a side door and up a narrow staircase, explaining as we climbed that Harriet had been helping out since the last girl left but she was off to university in September. ‘So there’ll be a definite full-time vacancy, then. At the moment we need someone who can be flexible. It’ll be at least three days a week but some odd mornings too, maybe.’

I’d hoped for more, but I was in no fit state to argue. By the time we reached the small room at the top of the stairs I was so nervous I could hardly breathe and I was grateful she went straight into the tiny kitchen. It was divided from the living room by a looped-back curtain, so she carried on talking as she made coffee. I had been dreading some kind of inquisition, but, clearly, Alice had done a good job of selling me. Stella already knew I’d worked in a couple of shops, some years ago, and after a few gentle questions about how I was getting on, since you moved here, she made it clear the job was mine if I wanted it.

‘Sit, down, sit down,’ she said, as she plonked two mugs onto the coffee table and settled on a worn leather chair, kicking off her gardening clogs and tucking her toes under her.

I perched on the squashy sofa opposite.

‘So what about a trial period, and if we’re both happy we can make it permanent and full-time in September?’

I would barely be earning enough to cover what I imagined would be my expenses till then, but I felt pathetically grateful to her for making everything so easy. I kept the mug close to my mouth to avoid doing more than answer her questions, but could swallow only a few sips.

She looked closely at me. ‘Are you sure you’ll be happy dealing with customers? Most of them are fine of course, but we do need to be tactful when it’s a funeral or even a wedding. Emotions can run high at times like that.’

I made a supreme effort to smile, to seem normal. ‘Yes, I’m looking forward to it.’

She nodded, and I sat back, exhausted.

‘Of course. Fine, then.’ She swallowed her coffee in a couple of gulps, thrust her feet back into the clogs and stood up. ‘In fact, how about starting tomorrow?’ She must have noticed my squirm of anxiety, because she smiled and added, ‘You can come in for half a day, see how it suits you.’

Outside, I stood for a moment taking a deep breath. I glanced back through the window to see Stella, with her back to me, talking into the phone. For a moment I wondered if she was calling Alice to report on the interview, but I told myself not to be paranoid.

It was all I could do to get back to the flat. Although it was only mid-afternoon I stumbled to the bedroom and was asleep in minutes.

I’m in a cold room surrounded by flowers, trying to arrange them into wreaths, and I can hear crying nearby. My feet are bare on the tiled floor. I’m naked, too, under the rough dress. Of course I’m in the punishment block. And the flowers have disappeared. One of the screws, red hair tumbling over her face, looks in and tells me I’m no good to anyone. The room is full of smoke now, but the warder is holding me back so I can’t get to the crying, and the fire alarm is ringing and ringing…

The phone had stopped before I got to it, but in my sleep I’d made a decision and one I knew I had to act on before I lost my nerve.

I chose Alice’s home number instead of her mobile. As I heard the distant ringing, my hand moistened and my mouth went dry. A click signalled someone answering, and I dared not wait any longer. ‘Alice? It’s Clare. Is he there? Can I speak to him, please?’

A moment’s silence. A breath. Then a voice with a heart-piercing adolescent wobble, ‘Mum? Is that you?’

I hardly slept that night and by dawn I was sitting in front of the TV in my dressing gown. Inevitably, I dozed off and woke certain I was already late for work. I tore into the kitchen to check the clock, relieved to see I just had time to wash and dress. It didn’t matter that it was too late for breakfast, because I couldn’t have eaten anything. But my throat was bone dry, so I stuck my mouth under the tap and glugged down a few swallows of lukewarm water before setting off at a run.

Stella had told me to come round to the back door, and I found her unloading the van, too busy, thank God, to notice I was breathless. ‘Oh, good, you’re just in time,’ she said, thrusting some trays of flowers at me.

Harriet was already in the shop and they both talked almost non-stop as we got ready to open. They rarely seemed to expect an answer from me, so I focused on following the torrent of instructions. At nine o’clock Stella opened the shop door. ‘Harriet, sweetie, would you show Clare how we make up a simple bouquet.’ She smiled at me. ‘It’s not difficult, but best if you have a bit of a practice before you do it for real.’

When the bell jangled half an hour later Harriet smiled at me. ‘Over to you then – your first customers.’

The two women were poking at a large container of roses and, as I walked over, I forced a smile, very conscious of Harriet behind the counter. ‘Can I help you?’

Without looking up, one of them began pulling roses from the vase and handing them to me. ‘Yes, can you do these up with some greenery, love?’ I knew my hands were shaking as I wrapped the bunch for her, but I managed to deal with the till without too much trouble.

‘Just started have you, dear?’ she said.

Harriet answered for me. ‘This is Clare. She’s taking over when I go to uni.’ Obviously this was a regular, and they chatted for a few moments. I should have been relieved, but all the time I was aware of the woman’s friend watching me.

‘Local are you?’ she asked.

I fiddled with the Sellotape dispenser, avoiding her eye. ‘I’ve just moved here.’ I could tell she wanted more, but her friend was already at the door. They stood outside for a moment, glancing back at us as they talked.

When Harriet went into the back room to sort some orders, I leaned on the counter, my legs almost too weak to support my weight. I asked myself why I’d agreed to a job like this, where I would be constantly on show. Stella was Alice’s friend, of course, and they’d made it easy for me, but I wasn’t at all sure I was going to cope.

I managed to deal with the next three or four customers and at last Stella shouted down that coffee was ready. Harriet ran up and brought down a mug. ‘Go and have a sit down with yours, Clare. You deserve it.’

Stella was standing, draining her mug. ‘Take your time,’ she said. ‘No rush.’ I suspected she was going to get a progress report, but was just grateful to be able to lean back and close my eyes for a few moments; to give in to the thoughts I’d been fighting since yesterday.

A part of me was terrified about what I had to face that night, but another part was joyful. I had spoken to my son, and – the memory was a sliver of sunlight dancing with motes of something wonderful, something amazing, something I’d thought impossible – Tommy wanted to see me.

‘Did Alice tell you I was out?’ I’d said when I was able to speak, cursing myself for the crass remark.

‘She said it was soon, but I worked that out anyway.’ There was silence, as his unspoken question hung in the air. Why didn’t you come and see me right away?

There was no point in making excuses, no point, either, in raking up the past. The conversation, if you could call it that, faltered to a halt and I asked to speak to Alice, to arrange for her to drive me over. ‘That’s OK, I can tell her,’ he said, the edge to his voice suggesting he suspected I might try to get out of the arrangement.

Neither of us mentioned his dad, or his granddad. Or Toby – his twin – his other half.

Tommy had always been the more forceful, the more independent, of the twins even though he was the younger by half an hour. He hadn’t been involved in the crash because he’d been invited to his best friend’s birthday party the weekend of the wedding and he’d stayed over. Toby had been happy to come on his own: to have all our attention to himself for once.

After I was sentenced, Alice took Tommy on and brought him up: yet another thing I had to be grateful to her for. It was agony to lose him too, but at least I knew he was with someone who loved him almost as much as I did.

Down in the shop again, Stella said she needed Harriet to help in the back room. ‘You’ll be OK out here on your own, won’t you, Clare?’

I was very aware of the sounds of clipping and muttering, the scrape of shifting stools and the occasional burst of running water. At least the shop was quiet, only two more customers buying flowers from the displays. Neither of them did more than glance at me and I began to tell myself that maybe it would be all right.

By quarter to one I was almost too drained to keep standing and I found myself looking at the clock every few seconds, sure it had stopped. Finally, it crept to one o’clock and, on the dot, Stella emerged. ‘Right, I’m starving and we close for an hour now, so why don’t you pop off?’

As I crossed to the other side of the counter, she was fiddling with her hair and frowning down at a small notebook. But, before I could escape, she spoke. ‘Oh, Clare…’ I looked into her button brown eyes. ‘Now I know I said you could start properly next week, but…’ I froze, ‘… I wonder if you could do tomorrow morning too. Saturdays are always busy and we’ve had a load of last minute orders.’

I managed to gasp out a, ‘Yes, that’s OK.’

‘And if you can do Monday to Wednesday next week that would be wonderful.’

He must have been listening for the car because he was standing on the steps of Beldon House as we pulled into the driveway. I knew, of course, that he was thirteen now: I’d pored over each new set of photographs for hours. But the shock at his height and the sharp bones replacing the soft roundness in his face jolted through me all the same. His arm rose and then fell as I climbed from the car and he took a half step towards me. But the car door was comfortingly warm and I leant back against it smoothing my dress with damp hands.

A deep breath. ‘Hello, Tommy.’

His eyes flickered away and his hands pulled at the sleeves of his sweatshirt, dragging them out of shape. It was a habit the twins had shared, and I swallowed, trying to move the huge lump blocking my throat. Then I pushed myself forward, hands stretched out.

On the step he was taller than me. ‘It’s lovely to see you.’ Stupid, stupid. I didn’t blame him for turning away without a word.

Head lowered, he led the way through the hall to the kitchen. As we’d approached the house it looked the same as always – the same as it had been when Alice and I grew up here. Inside, the hall with its black and white tiles certainly hadn’t changed. Mum’s favourite vase, a big copper thing filled today with sunflowers, still stood on the table by the stairs and Alice had put a photo of Mum and Dad next to it. But, as Tommy threw open the kitchen door, I saw that a huge and lovely space, with the sun streaming through open French windows, had replaced the clutter of little rooms I remembered. Tommy slumped down at the table twisting open a can of Coke and watching as a line of fizz foamed down the side.

Say something, do something for God’s sake. I glanced round. ‘Shall I make some tea, Alice?’

But she wasn’t going to let me off that easily. ‘No you sit and talk. I’ll make it.’

I pulled out a chair next to my son. One large hand, his nails chewed like mine, traced the grain of the table while the other turned the can round and round making a series of wet, sticky circles on the wood. He muttered something to the tabletop.

‘Sorry, Tommy. What did you say?’

‘Tom – everyone calls me Tom now.’

‘Oh yes, sorry, I should’ve remembered. You started putting Tom on your letters.’

We both watched the can as he turned and turned it again.

‘Sorry… I’m sorry about not writing lately.’ His ears and the side of his jaw had flushed pink and I realised he thought I was telling him off for neglecting me. My throat throbbed.

‘That’s OK. I expect you’ve been busy.’ This was hopeless, hopeless. Say something sensible you stupid fool.

Alice sat opposite plonking two mugs and a biscuit tin with a floral lid on the table. ‘Tell your mum about your music, Tom.’

His voice was so low I could only make out odd words. Grades and examiners, and soon he stopped speaking and went back to playing with the can.

‘Would you like to be a musician?’ I said it softly, and for the first time he met my eye, nodding, before looking down to crush the sides of the can with a crack.

‘Tell you what. It’s too nice to sit inside. Will you show me the garden?’ I jumped up, hoping to make it impossible for him to refuse.

We left Alice in the kitchen and my tall son strode down the tiled path so quickly that, as I tried to match his pace, my skirt caught on the overhanging plants and a sweet herby smell filled the air. Alice had worked magic on the garden too; its flower-filled lushness bore little resemblance to the vast expanse of lawn bordered by huge woody shrubs that I recalled. He led me to the far end where a bench overlooked a vista of fields. The sun was hot once more and the fields flared with the painful yellow of oilseed rape, dotted here and there with a flush of poppies. It reminded me of a Van Gogh painting – too bright, too hectic.

I sat on the bench, but Tom stood by the low wall staring over the fields. His hair was a slightly darker blond than it had been when he was little. ‘I’m sorry I stopped writing to you,’ he said.

‘Tom, it really is OK. You don’t need to feel bad about anything.’

‘I was mad at you.’

I gripped the bench, the rough wood biting into my palms. I wanted so much to help him. To tell him if he wanted to shout at me, to hit me, it was only his right.

‘You lied about me not being allowed to come and see you in prison. Mark’s dad’s a solicitor and he said.’

How stupid we’d been. ‘You see, Tom, I didn’t want you to come there because Holloway’s not a very nice place and …’

‘That’s bollocks.’ His voice broke and the word hung in the air. I think he was as shocked as I was. ‘Sorry.’ When he turned I could see his eyes were glassy, and I was beside him, my arms round him, rubbing his stiff back. He was too big and too bony, but then I felt him relax, his head resting on my shoulder as he muttered again, ‘Sorry, sorry, Mum.’

I led him to the bench and made him sit. He scrubbed his face ferociously, as I patted his other forearm and echoed his throat clearing and sniffing with my own small cough. ‘Tom.’ I laid my hand over his larger one. ‘You’ve got nothing, nothing at all, to say sorry to me for. I can’t make it right again, I know, but please don’t blame yourself for anything. All I want is for us to be friends.’ Even as I said it I knew I’d got it all wrong. But what would have been right?

He looked up, and there in his clear grey eyes was my little lost Tommy. ‘OK, and if it’s all right with you, I want to live with you again. Alice says I can’t, but you are my mum aren’t you?’ The words came out in a rush and I guessed he’d prepared them.

My own eyes filled with tears, but whether they were tears of joy at hearing the words I’d never dared hope he would say, or of pain that I couldn’t take him home right now, I didn’t know.

Don’t lie to him again. ‘Well… Alice does have custody you know.’

‘Yes, but you’re my mum.’ His voice was hard.

‘And there’s nothing I want more than to have you with me all the time. But, you know, it’s going to take me a while to get settled. I’ve already found a job so that’s a good start. And, if it’s all right with you I want to see you as often as I can, because we need to get to know each other properly again. So will you be patient for just a while longer?’

He jumped up and began pacing the little patio. I couldn’t tell if he was angry, disappointed, excited, or just too full of life and energy to sit still.

When he turned to me, his eyes were shining. ‘One thing, one thing I’ve been thinking, is that I could help you.’

‘What do you mean, Tom?’ I loved saying his name.

‘You know, to show them they made a mistake; to show them it wasn’t your fault.’

Chapter Four

Alice had roasted a chicken with all the trimmings and opened some wine. I knew she was trying to make this a celebration of sorts for my homecoming, but I couldn’t force much down. My mind whirled with it all, but mostly with the idea that Tom still believed I was innocent. At the trial I’d pleaded not guilty, but in prison I finally had to accept what Mike and the others told me: that my amnesia was caused by my inability to face the reality of what I’d done. I’d tried to explain it to Tom in my letters, and I cursed myself for not making it clearer.

We didn’t speak much, but he ate well. When he’d cleared his plate he pushed back his chair, looking at Alice. ‘Got to do some homework,’ he said.

As he thundered upstairs, Alice touched my hand. ‘It’s bound to be hard for him. Give him time.’

‘He thinks there could be some way to prove I was innocent.’

She shook her head, and I followed her to the kitchen where she fiddled with a fancy-looking coffee machine. ‘I was afraid of something like this.’

‘What?’

‘He spends a lot of time at his friend Mark’s and, according to Mark’s mum, the two of them have started watching that bloody programme about miscarriages of justice.’

I knew the one she meant; it was a favourite with some of the women inside. ‘But you should have told him there was nothing like that with my case.’

‘It wasn’t so simple, Clare. I tried, but what could I say? If your letters didn’t convince him how could I? I couldn’t tell him about your past, the drugs, and everything, could I?’

‘But you should have made him understand.’

‘Look Clare, it’s you who doesn’t understand. You haven’t lived with him all these years.’ She slammed a brimming mug on the table so that coffee dripped down the yellow stripes on the china. ‘He believes what he wants to believe. I tried to talk to him about it, but all he would ever say was, “My mum’s a good driver and when they find out she’ll come for me.” Lately he just won’t discuss it, not with me anyway.’

I sat down, gulping at the scalding coffee. ‘I’m sorry. I know it hasn’t been easy for you.’

She shook her head, looking suddenly very grey. ‘Tom’s a great kid and he deserves to know the truth. But that can only come from you.’

‘But I can’t remember, you know that. Just those few images I’ve told you about. I’m not even sure they’re really memories. I’ve heard so much about what might have happened that I could have invented them to fit.’

Alice pushed her fingers through her hair. ‘Well, tell him what you do know then.’

‘Be completely honest, you mean?’

She nodded, taking my hand and gripping it hard. ‘I’m sure most kids are wiser and more realistic than we imagine.’ I put my hand over hers and looked into her blue eyes. They were shining with tears and for the first time in years she looked like my little sister again. ‘Go on,’ she said, ‘speak to him now.’ She sniffed and smiled and when I stood she kept hold of my hand for a moment.

I paused in the doorway of Tom’s room. It was the one the twins had always slept in when they stayed here. His choice or Alice’s, I wondered? At least I was thankful it looked different from the room where I’d kissed my boys goodnight so many times.

It was large, like all the rooms in the house, and seemed larger with only one bed now instead of two. There was a distinct, though not unpleasant, tang in the air: a mixture of damp socks, orange peel, chocolate, and peppery sweat. The bed was rumpled, a shirt and a bath towel in the middle of the floor, but otherwise it was surprisingly tidy.

The mantelpiece and the shelf next to it held a row of metal trophies and the walls were decorated by several large posters – The Hobbit, Hunger Games, and a couple of footballers.

I noticed Tom’s hair still stuck up at the back and his shoulders, bent over the keyboard as he tapped away, were surprisingly broad.

‘Come in if you want,’ he said, making me jump and slop coffee onto the pale hall carpet. I rubbed it in with the toe of my shoe.

‘I’m just admiring your room.’

‘Oh that’s Martha, Mrs Cooper. She cleans up. But just in the week.’ A glance back at the messy bed and the clothes on the floor. ‘I’m s’posed to do it at weekends.’

I stayed in the doorway, fingers pulling at the fabric of my dress. Say something. ‘How’s the homework going?’ Stupid, stupid idiot.

Without looking at me he pushed at the chair next to him. ‘Nearly done.’

I sat on the chair, put the coffee I couldn’t drink on the floor and sat watching as he did something complicated with a spreadsheet. ‘That looks impressive.’

He laughed. ‘It’s not really.’ A glance at me. ‘But thanks anyway, Mum.’

It was the name that did it, and I found myself burying my face in his hair, breathing in the musky boy smell, different to what I remembered, but not so different that I didn’t know it for the scent of my child. He tolerated it for a bit then twisted very gently away. ‘You all right?’

When I could speak I apologised. ‘I’m silly I know, but it’s just so nice to hear you call me Mum.’

‘What do you expect me to call you?’ A long pause, his face and neck mottling pink. ‘Mum, do you – you know – often think about Tobe and Dad?’

‘Of course I do, but sometimes it hurts too much.’

He looked at the floor, swinging his chair back and forth and chewing at his nails. ‘You know the party? The one I went to? Toby could’ve come too.’

‘But he didn’t and there’s nothing we can do to change that now.’

‘But Daniel’s mum wanted to ask him as well, and I said he wouldn’t want to come.’

‘Well that was probably right. He was excited about going to the Lake District on his own with the grown-ups. And Daniel was really your friend.’ I fought to keep the tremors from my voice.

‘But Daniel liked Toby a bit and he said his mum was going to ask Toby anyway, and I told him I wouldn’t be his friend anymore if Toby came. And then I told Toby Daniel didn’t like him.’

I laid my hand on his back. His guilt seemed so ridiculous compared to mine, but it was clearly a huge burden to him. ‘Maybe it was a bit mean of you, but you weren’t to know what would happen. And don’t forget, Toby was sometimes nasty to you.’ Thank goodness he was still looking down and couldn’t see me shaking the hot tears from my eyes.

‘Yeah, well, that was why really. I wanted to get back at him cos he took my Gameboy and broke it.’

‘You were always breaking each other’s things. What about the time when you had kites for Christmas and you lost yours up a tree that same day? And then Toby laughed at you, so you trod on his.’

‘And when he kept stealing the batteries from my remote-control car, and I kept stealing them from the TV channel changer, and Dad went mad at us both, and you went mad at Dad?’ We laughed at that, although the laughter was forced. Then he turned to face me. ‘What about Dad? Only sometimes, when we were little, Tobe and me thought you might be going to get divorced.’

I told him this was probably because of what was happening to the parents of other kids they knew. ‘Dad and I argued a bit, but all married couples do.’ I’d promised myself I’d be honest with him, but it was going to be so difficult, when I often didn’t know the truth myself.

I took a breath. ‘Alice wants to take me back soon, but what about a quick walk?’

We didn’t talk till we reached the little wood down the lane from the house. It was quiet and cool, the late sun sending delicate fingers of gold low through the trees.

‘I remember coming here when I was small, usually when I’d done something wrong,’ I said.

He scuffed his feet through the dry leaves and twigs covering the ground. ‘I know. You used to bring us when we came to see Granddad. You were always telling us that.’

I bit my lip. Of course. What else had I made myself forget? Odd, disjointed memories came back: Toby dancing in the Indian headdress he’d been so proud of; Steve chasing two screaming five-year-olds with a discarded snakeskin; and little Tommy jumping out from behind a tree to shout Boo at us all so loudly it made Toby cry.

Tom’s new, deep voice jolted me back. ‘Me and Tobe used to think it was a forest. Used to pretend we were outlaws.’

The name hung in the air between us and I began kicking at the leaves, matching his rhythm.

A pheasant burst from a bush just ahead and we bumped shoulders as we stopped: me with a gasp and Tom with a gruff chuckle.

‘Tom,’ I said, when we were moving again. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said earlier.’ I didn’t look at him as we continued to scuff along together. ‘You know I don’t remember the accident: that I lost my memory?’

‘Amnesia, yeah.’

‘And you know why they put me in prison?’

He kicked hard at a pile of leaves making them rise into the air. ‘Course I do.’ His voice was curt. ‘They said you took drugs – amphetamines.’

Don’t treat him like a baby. ‘Well, I pleaded not guilty at my trial because I didn’t believe I could have done that.’ His intake of breath told me he was about to speak, but I had to get this out. ‘But you see, I had a lot of time to think in prison, and I came to realise I must have done it – somehow got hold of those pills and taken them. I don’t know why I would have done it, but it means I was guilty.’

‘But maybe you didn’t want to take them. Someone could’ve put stuff in your drink. You know, at the wedding. I’ve been looking up amphetamines on the internet and it says they can be dissolved in liquid.’

I could have smiled if it hadn’t hurt so much. ‘But why would anyone want to do that?’

‘Maybe it was a joke, or someone had it in for you or Dad – or for Granddad. He was important wasn’t he?’

‘Well, he ran a successful company, yes.’

‘’Cos I looked him up, and he’s on Google. He was just the kind of guy people might have a grudge against. There was all that stuff with the arthritis drug too. It was in the papers.’

‘You have been busy.’

His voice was stubborn. ‘I want to help you.’

‘I know and thank you.’

He stopped walking; his crossed arms and lowered head telling me I was doing it all wrong again. I looked up into the dark branches above us, knowing it had to be now, however badly I said it. ‘What you don’t know, Tom, is that before you were born, I was an addict for a while. When I was a teenager I got in with a bad crowd and thought taking drugs was cool. It isn’t, it’s stupid, and I managed to get off them. Then I met your dad and I was so happy I never thought about drugs again. You and Toby and Dad were my life. But maybe something happened the night of the wedding to make me slip back into my old ways. I met addicts in prison who’d been clean for years, but who relapsed when things went wrong in their lives.’

He turned and crashed away, almost at a run.

‘Tom. Wait. Please wait for me.’

A bramble twisted round my foot and leg as I tried to follow him, biting into my calf and making me stumble. I pulled at the wretched thing, cursing under my breath, aware he had stopped and was watching me. When I looked up again he was still there kicking at a tree trunk and staring down at its roots. I went to him, daring to touch his arm. He didn’t push me away.

‘I’m so sorry, Tom. I should have told you this before.’

His grey eyes were misted and he shook his head as he spoke. ‘But why did you want to take drugs?’

What to say? ‘You know I was adopted, don’t you? Well my mum, your grandma, was ill. Not physically, but she had mental problems that made her depressed and unhappy. So she was often angry with me. It wasn’t her fault, but I didn’t understand that and so I ran away from home and met people who were very bad for me. That’s not an excuse, Tom, and it made things worse not better. Which is what always happens with drugs.’

He leaned back against the tree, arms folded, and looking down at the crumbled soil as he stirred it with the toe of his trainer. The whole wood seemed to have gone silent.

‘But, Tom, this doesn’t mean I don’t want to know exactly what happened that night. So will you give me some time to think about your ideas and to try to remember more?’

I almost said I needed to find out who could have supplied me with the stuff at the reception, but it was better if he didn’t start thinking that way.

He nodded and I gestured with my head that we should start back. Then took a chance and put my arm through his. He tensed at my touch. Careful, careful. ‘You can help me, Tom. Just give me time.’

‘OK.’

Then we walked back together through the cool, silent wood while phantoms from the past played and laughed around us.

Back at the flat, as I lay in bed, I couldn’t stop thinking about Tommy. My mind churned, veering from a kind of happiness to the sort of despair that makes you want to beat your head against a wall. And I did slam over and over into the pillow, pummelling it into a solid lump. I got up twice to use the toilet, then for water and finally to make a mug of tea that sat growing cold beside me as I stared up at the ceiling.

Night is the worst time in prison. That’s when you hear the sobs and the groans, the shouts of, ‘Shut up, you bitch, and let me sleep.’ It’s then you relive and regret, not in the therapy groups with a gentle voice saying you can rebuild your life. It’s your own voice that curses you as a pariah; a leper who would be better off dead.

At first I tried to remember what happened that night; to piece together fragments that came to me, sometimes awake, sometimes in dreams. Some things were constant: the dark road, the grey shadows overhead, the flashing light, but were they memories, or just images patched together from what I’d been told? After a while it didn’t matter because I didn’t want to remember. But now maybe I would have to if that were the only way to help Tom. And if I didn’t know why I’d done it, how could I be sure it wouldn’t happen again? How could I trust myself to be a real mother once more?

Apart from those horrible fragments, my memory of the day ended hours before the accident. Emily and I were close in age and we’d always been good friends. In fact, because of the five years between me and Alice, I’d probably been closer to Emily when we were kids.

Her husband, Matt’s, family owned a farm in Cumbria and the wedding was held there. Alice was a junior doctor in Newcastle, but we lived close to Dad in Kent. Most of the guests were planning to stay at a country house hotel and, when I said Steve and I couldn’t possibly afford a place like that, Dad offered to treat us. I agreed, on condition he let me pay him back by doing all the driving.

I remembered the journey to the church along sunny, twisting lanes edged by glassy streams and brilliant fields. Then, like a TV with a faulty signal, the picture stuttered and disappeared to be replaced by flashes and bursts of noise.

As those images played over and over in my head I wanted only to push them away just as I’d always done over the past few years. But I couldn’t let myself do that any more.

I got up and went into the living room where the card from Emily and Matt was still standing beside the laptop. I switched on, found Emily’s email address in the notebook Alice had left for me, and sent a message. I kept it short, just telling Emily how pleased I was to get her card. I wouldn’t blame her if she was still upset with me, but I’d love to see her. I gave her my home and mobile phone numbers, added three kisses, deleted two, and pressed send before I could change my mind.

Something woke me and I lay confused for a moment. Then a loud buzz came from the direction of the living room. I had no idea what it was and sat up in bed, switching on the light. Nearly 2 a.m. That metallic buzz again. Oh, God, it was my door buzzer. I clutched my dressing gown round me. Whoever it was couldn’t get in; they were outside the big main door, not in the hall. In the living room I stood in the darkness, away from the grey rectangles of light from the windows. Another buzz. It must be one of the other tenants, who’d forgotten their key. On the next buzz I picked up the intercom phone, but didn’t speak.

A rasping cough, then, ‘Come on, open up. I know you’re in there.’

I rammed the phone back on its holder, as if it was on fire, grabbed my mobile, and locked myself in the bathroom. Who could I ring? Certainly not the police, and Alice couldn’t help. Instead, I huddled on the floor, my back against the bath, pulling my dressing gown close. I didn’t dare turn on the light or go back to the bedroom in case he came round to my window.

Buzz, buzz, buzz, longer each time. They seemed to go on forever, but finally fell silent.

Who the hell was it? My case had made the papers, five years ago, mainly because of the recent scandal involving Dad’s firm. During my trial I was presented as a druggie debutante, a spoiled little rich girl, too reckless even to care about her own child, and I’d received plenty of hate mail. What if someone was out to make good those threats? Or maybe a reporter was trying to track me down?

After a while, the silence let me slide back the lock and creep to the bedroom. I switched off the light and shivered under the duvet trying to relax, even to sleep.

But now there was another noise. Not a buzzing this time, but an insistent tap, tap, tap on my own front door.

Somehow he’d got into the hall.

Chapter Five

In the living room again, I told myself the door was double-locked and the chain was on. I was safe. And I knew how to look after myself: had to learn that in prison.

The tapping again. ‘Clare, are you there? It’s OK, he’s gone. It’s just me, Nic, from across the hall.’

I put my ear to the door. No sounds of movement or even breathing. I checked the chain and opened the door a crack. Just her, in a shiny blue dressing gown. Behind her the door to her own flat was half-open. She gave me a nervy smile, pulling her fingers through her untidy fair hair.

‘Sorry about all that, Clare, it was my ex. He was so drunk he started ringing the wrong bell. I heard him shouting and realised what he’d done, but I didn’t dare come out till he was gone.’

I leant one shoulder on the wall, trying to speak calmly. ‘Is he dangerous?’

She looked down, kicking the door jamb with her slipper. ‘Oh no, but I didn’t want him waking Molly. And there would only have been an argument.’

I began to close the door, but Nicola held up her hand. ‘Look, I won’t get back to sleep for ages. What about coming over to mine for a drink?’

There was little chance of me sleeping either, but I shook my head. ‘I’ve got work in the morning.’

‘Come on, just one. I’m feeling really jittery. And I owe you one for putting up with him without calling the police.’

I didn’t tell her there was no chance I’d ever do that, but I felt jittery too. It might do me good to relax for a bit and talk to someone who knew nothing about my past. I grabbed my keys from beside the door. ‘OK.’

Nicola’s flat was a messier mirror image of mine. She gestured to me to sit on the red sofa covered in crumpled cushions and called from the kitchen. ‘White wine OK for you?’

‘Thanks.’

She handed me a large glass filled to the top. The first sip made me feel calmer and I leaned back, while Nicola perched on the edge of the matching armchair. ‘This is nice,’ she said. ‘I don’t sleep well anyway, what with sharing the bedroom with Molly and worrying he might turn up in the middle of the night.’ She must have seen something in my expression because she flushed and took a deep drink. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Clare, he really isn’t violent, just a fucking nuisance – pardon my language.’

‘Is he Molly’s dad?’

‘Yeah, and she loves him so much. Kids need their dads, don’t they? So I can’t cut him out of our lives altogether. It’s just when he’s had a skinful or been on the skunk or something stronger.’

I smiled and concentrated on my wine. I’d noticed the smell of hash when I came in, so wondered if he’d been here earlier, and come back after she’d thrown him out. Or had she been smoking too. It was none of my business of course, but I didn’t want to be anywhere near people who might interest the police or cause my probation officer to have doubts.

Nicola was talking on about Molly, and the nursery, and about her own job at the council offices. ‘Dead boring, but if they make me redundant I won’t be able to stay here for long. What about you? You said you’re at work in the morning.’

There was no way out of it. ‘I’m part time at the florist’s up the road.’

‘That’s nice. And I’ve met your sister, what about other family?’

I needed to shut this down and I was amazed to see I’d finished my wine. I faked a yawn. ‘Sorry, Nicola. I’m really tired so I’d better try to get a few hours’ sleep. Thanks for the drink.’

She followed me to the door. ‘No, thank you, babe. Let’s get together again soon, eh?’ As I reached my door she stayed watching me then leaned out, pointing to a small table by the main door. ‘Hey, I’ve just thought. Are you Clare Glazier?’

I swallowed, oh God she’d guessed, but before I could speak she’d picked up an envelope from the table. ‘Mrs C Glazier,’ she read. ‘Sorry I put it there yesterday. It’s where we leave the mail. Didn’t realise that was your surname.’ My smile must have made my feelings obvious. ‘Good news?’ Nic said.

‘Yes, it’s from an old friend.’ I knew the distinctive hand at once and my heart lifted. Lorna – my godmother. Of course, I knew she’d be in touch.

I thanked Nicola and went back into the flat, ripping the envelope apart before I was even through the door. As always, the paper smelled of Lorna’s perfume, mingled, it seemed to me, with a waft of fresh air from her garden. She was the only one, apart from Alice, I’d let visit me in prison. She was a real old-fashioned letter writer and I’d treasured every one of her notes and cards, as well as the long letters she sent when she knew I was in need of something more.

This was quite short, although set out as perfectly as ever and I smiled, remembering how she always insisted personal letters must be handwritten, never word processed, and there was no excuse for slapdash presentation even in a casual note.

Dearest Clare,

I’m so happy to know you’re back in the land of the living with us and I can’t wait to see you.

It’s going to be difficult for you, I know that, but don’t forget I’m here whenever you want to see me. I’m not too decrepit to travel, so I can come to you, if that’s what you would prefer. Call me to arrange something soon, and remember there are lots of people out here who are on your side.

With fondest love from,

Your fairy godmother, Lorna.

My parents were atheists so I didn’t have a real godmother, but at eight years old, at a C. of E. school with a High Church ethos, I got religion. I never went so far as to demand to be baptised, but when I heard about godparents I nominated Lorna. It was her idea to call herself my fairy godmother.

Lorna worked with Dad. He called her his secretary, but she was much more than that. Mum was often ill, so Lorna organised much of our home life too. Next to my dad, she was the person I loved most in the world, and after the accident I knew, in spite of everything, she would stand by me.

When I ran away from home and was living rough I sometimes went to Lorna. She would let me have a bath while she washed and dried my clothes. Then she’d feed me and sometimes persuade me to stay the night.

As always her words came at just the right time, and she’d added her mobile number too, so I texted her straight away.

So good to hear from you. I’m fine. I’d love to see you soon. Working this morning, but will give you a ring asap. XXXX

I switched on the TV, curled up on the sofa, and dozed till it was time to shower and dress for work.

I was swallowing some toast and coffee when the phone rang. I let the machine answer, expecting it to be Nicola for some reason.

‘Clare, my love, I just got your text…’

I grabbed up the handset. ‘Lorna, oh thank you for calling.’ I explained I was working that morning and couldn’t talk for long and, as usual she read my thoughts. ‘But you’d like to see me. Well how about this afternoon? I’m free as a bird and I’d love a jaunt down to the seaside. I’ll come on the train. Not sure about times, but I’ll try to get there for about 1.30. Meet me at the station and I’ll buy you lunch.’

Somehow, just the thought of seeing Lorna meant that, despite everything, I didn’t find the morning too difficult. Stella and Harriet left me in charge of the shop, as they made up bouquets and Stella drove back and forth with deliveries. The open back door allowed splashes of sunlight to fall on the counter, and the warm breeze carried the scent of flowers and the murmur of their voices into the shop.

There were plenty of customers, but they all seemed so absorbed in their own business that they hardly seemed to notice me. I was very glad about that, and I had no time, either, to worry about making mistakes. The morning passed quickly and Stella seemed happy enough too, laughing that, if I could cope with a summer Saturday morning, then I could cope with anything.

Outside, as the sun shone down on me, I almost felt ordinary again: someone with a job, a home, and a friend to meet. Even the calling seagulls seemed tuneful, and I stood for a moment breathing deeply, my knees a little wobbly with something close to happiness.

Down at the seafront the water shone like crinkled foil. The clear air showed me Bexhill a few miles down the coast and, further away still, the white cliffs of Beachy Head near Eastbourne. I felt I could easily have walked there.

Lorna was standing outside the station. I hadn’t seen her for a few months because she was having trouble with her knee and needed an operation. Knowing I’d soon be out, we’d agreed she wouldn’t keep doing the journey to the prison, and I was shocked to see how much she had aged. She was as neat and elegant as ever, but although her eyebrows were still dark, her hair, twined into a gleaming knot, was streaked with grey. She patted it as she caught me looking. ‘You have to stop dyeing it at some point, you know.’

‘It suits you.’

She smiled; her face a spider’s web of tiny lines. Though she was still slender, I noticed she breathed heavily as we wandered down to the Old Town. It was obviously not easy for her to walk, but she insisted she was fine. At the little tapas bar we chose for lunch she exclaimed, ‘My goodness, Clare, it’s so cheap! I hardly ever eat out in London anymore. All the places I used to love are out of my league now.’

Lorna ordered a bottle of wine and as I sipped I felt a shiver of anxiety. When I was living rough, I’d spent plenty of time out of it on cider or cheap vodka, but once I straightened myself out, got married and had the twins, I found it easy enough to drink sensibly. But I’d been happy then. There had been times in prison when I’d longed to get smashed out of my skull, to forget everything for an hour or so, and the way my life was at the moment I knew I should be careful – I’d drunk too much wine in the last day or so and enjoyed it too much.

Lorna nibbled an olive and looked at me with dark eyes that sparkled as brightly as ever. ‘And how are you, sweetheart? You look thinner, but…’ she held up a blue-veined hand, a large gold bangle encircling the elegant wrist, ‘…it suits you. Just don’t go too far will you?’

‘I won’t.’

She smiled up at the waitress unloading the little dishes of food, then said a warm, ‘Thank you’. Lorna always gave her full attention to anyone she was with, whether it was an important client of the firm or the scruffy little girl I had been. Now she turned the full beam onto me. ‘So what do you think of your handsome son?’ She forked a few slices of tomato and chorizo onto her plate and began peeling a prawn, leaving the words to do their work, but I was wise to her technique and in any case I didn’t want to keep anything from her.

‘Oh he’s wonderful, and you were right all along. I should have let him visit me. I was so stupid.’

She smiled. ‘I’m not going to argue with you there, but you’ve spent enough time letting past mistakes get in your way. I think you owe it to Tom to start afresh.’

‘The problem is he doesn’t want to believe I was to blame for the accident.’

‘Don’t forget, it took you a long time to come to terms with it, and Tom’s still very young. You have to help him.’

‘That’s what Alice says, and I’m beginning to think the only way is to try to find out the whole, ugly truth myself.’

‘Regain your memory, you mean?’ She placed the piece of bread she had been eating, very carefully, on her plate, and looked at me. ‘Is it possible after all this time?’

‘Apparently it can happen. The doctors say this kind of amnesia is sometimes a way for the mind to protect itself from something traumatic – something that’s too painful to face.’

‘Do you have any memories at all?’

‘I have dreams that seem to have something to do with it. A dark road and trees, a flash of light, clouds spinning, flames and… oh I don’t know, it may all be something my mind has put together from what I’ve heard since.’

Lorna drank some wine, looking around the little restaurant at the rough white walls covered in Spanish-style plates and bright paintings. She turned back to me. ‘So what are you going to do?’

‘I think I have to go back to where it happened. To see if anything sparks.’

‘And see Emily and Matt?’

‘I’ll have to. Although, it’s not going to be easy to talk about the accident with them.’

She touched the coil of hair at the nape of her neck. ‘You do realise that delving into the past may only mean more pain and guilt?’

I couldn’t answer.

Lorna wiped her hands and scrunched up her napkin. ‘Come on, I’ll pay for this if you make me coffee at your flat.’

We walked slowly, without talking. Lorna was limping quite badly, although she said she was fine. I could only hear those words of hers: more pain and guilt, over and over in my head. That was what I feared so much; that I would find out something even worse than I knew already. Not just that I had taken the speed deliberately, but that I had wanted to harm my family. If I had, then that would be the end. I could never try to be a real mother to Tommy again if I knew he might not be safe with me. And I couldn’t bear to live if he had to know that.

‘And what about Alice? How’s it going with her?’ Lorna asked.

I pointed to a bench and Lorna headed towards it. ‘Yes, let’s sit for a minute. This wretched knee.’ I was aware of her twisting to face me. ‘So, you and Alice? Are you getting on all right?’

I looked down, fiddling with a loose thread on my skirt. ‘She’s been wonderful, as always.’

‘But…?’ The hint of a smile in her voice.

‘I’m being my usual surly self. I’m so grateful for all she’s done, but I can’t seem to show it when we’re together.’

‘Your son’s been living with her all these years. That’s something to do with it, surely?’

‘I suppose so, but I’ve no right to resent her. I mean she gave up her chance of getting on in her career to make a home for him. And her boyfriends never seem to last long, do they? It can’t be easy to develop a relationship with a child in the picture. Someone else’s child.’

Lorna rubbed her leg and stretched it out in front of her, giving me that sweet smile of hers. ‘I remember how Alice worshipped you when you were kids and she still thinks the world of you, that’s obvious. Yes, she’s given up some things, but I know she loves Tom very much and after what happened – losing her father and Toby, and you too, in a way – I think it’s helped her to have Tom to focus on. He’s been good for her.’

By the time we reached the flat it had clouded over but was still warm, and I opened a window to let in the breeze. We sat at the table, looking over the sea that gleamed silver under the clouds, the odd ripple and tinge of green like the tarnish on an antique mirror. Lorna sighed. ‘This is beautiful, Clare. Alice did well finding this place. I could sit here all day.’

‘Trouble is, I can’t afford it.’

‘What about the money from the sale of your house?’

‘That’s still in the bank. I asked Alice to use it for Tom, but she refused so I’m going to put it towards a place for the two of us, for when he comes back to live with me. But prices have gone up so much and our house was still mortgaged and I need to save every penny I can.’

She shifted and winced, then opened her bag to find some painkillers, swallowing down a couple with a gulp of coffee. ‘But Robert left you both well provided for, surely?’

‘I can’t keep using his money. Alice wants me to, but…’

‘But what?

‘As I’ve tried to tell her, I’m not entitled to it after what I did. And anyway, she was our parents’ only real child and if she’d been born earlier they would probably never have adopted me.’

‘Clare, I’m sure that’s not true. And Alice is right, your father would be furious if he thought you’d rejected your inheritance.’

I stood and turned away, a lump choking at my throat. ‘Lorna, I killed him.’

The table creaked as she leant on it, pushing to her feet. She turned me to towards her, gripping my hands and moving them up and down to emphasise her words. ‘Now look, I knew Robert. You were the apple of his eye and he loved you as much, if not more than, Alice. He’d have hated you to ruin your own life with regrets.’

‘I gave him nothing but trouble, you know that.’

‘He was well aware that you had a hard time from your mother and, although I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, they both bore a lot of responsibility for your problems.’

‘That doesn’t excuse what I did.’

‘He would have forgiven you even that, because he would know, as I do, that you’ve punished yourself enough.’ She sighed and released me, picking up her bag to pull out a tissue. ‘Now, will you call me a taxi, I don’t think this knee will cope with any more walking today.’

At the door I clung to her, breathing in her familiar scent. She pulled back and looked into my eyes. ‘When are you coming to visit me?’

‘Soon.’

‘I shall hold you to that. Then we can really talk.’

Chapter Six

Once I was alone in the quiet flat again, I thought about Lorna. She had been kind, but she couldn’t really help me. It was the same in prison when she used to tell me I should let Tommy visit, and I knew she was right, but I just couldn’t do it.

Oh, I kidded myself I was thinking of what was best for him. Ruby saw her kids, but there were plenty, like me, who persuaded themselves they wanted to spare their children: to save them the heartache of being separated again and again, blah de blah. The truth was, we were ashamed to face those clear eyes, the inevitable questions.

I had to face them now if I ever wanted Tommy back with me; to be a real mother to him. I picked up the phone: desperate just to hear his voice again.

Alice answered and I asked, ‘Is he all right? Do you think it went OK yesterday?’

I heard sounds, as if she was moving to another room or closing a door. ‘He’s been very quiet since, but apart from that… What about you?’

‘I’m all right, better, I think. I’ve emailed Emily, just to say hello.’

‘That’s good, I know she really wants to see you.’ Now her voice came from a distance, calling to Tom. ‘Yes it is. Come and speak to her.’ Then close to the phone again, very gently. ‘Here he is.’

Silence. I tried to speak but my throat had dried so much it came out on a cough. ‘OK, Tom?’

‘Yeah.’

Keep it light. ‘What are you up to?’

‘Nothing much.’

This was awful. ‘I was hoping to get over again tomorrow,’ I said. ‘It’s Sunday, so we’ll have a bit more time together.’

‘Oh, no, I’ve got a table tennis tournament all day tomorrow and I’m going to Mark’s after, for tea, so I won’t be back till late.’

‘Oh… Fine. Of course… ’

‘Sorry.’

‘That’s OK, don’t worry about it.’ The silence stretched between us. ‘Well… good luck… hope it goes well.’

‘Thanks.’ I heard his breath, loud and fast in my ear, but he said nothing more and I couldn’t manage anything either. I asked to talk to Alice again.

‘I’ll get her. Bye.’ The phone clunked down, as if he’d dropped it, and I heard his footsteps, a mumble of voices, then the sharp crack of his laugh followed by a chuckle from Alice.

‘I am sorry, Clare. I didn’t know about the table tennis, or the tea for that matter,’ she said when she came on. ‘I try to keep track of dates, but he’s getting worse and worse at letting me know.’

‘It’s fine. I can’t expect him to put everything on hold for me.’

‘Why don’t you come over anyway and have lunch with me? Or I could check what he’s got on Monday and Tuesday and we can arrange something then.’

I promised to ring her the next day and said some kind of goodbye. Then I sat holding the silent phone, rocking back and forth as I bit the inside of my mouth, hoping the physical pain might somehow help. I had no idea what I’d expected, but at least I’d hoped to see him soon. Hoped he would want to see me.

What bothered me was the way he seemed so remote. And the way he’d laughed with Alice. So different from our few stumbling words.

Of course, it was bound to be awkward at first, and I should have planned what to say more carefully – I promised myself I would do that next time. And I couldn’t put the blame on Alice or anyone else. It was my own fault, all of it. How stupid I’d been to ban him from visiting me.

Some of the women in prison were honest and admitted they’d never wanted kids in the first place and the one good thing about doing time was that it freed them from those clinging bundles of dependency. Most were like me, lying to themselves. I told myself it was better if he got on with his own life and forgot about me. But the truth was that seeing my child would have been unbearable because it would have reminded me of all the ways I’d hurt him.

I decided to write to Ruby. She’d told me not to, told me to put prison and everything to do with it behind me, but I knew she would be happy to hear from me. And she was the only person I could tell everything.

But when I’d finished pouring it all out onto the page, I realised I couldn’t send a letter like this. The screws would read it before Ruby and I imagined that big bitch Maureen having a good laugh at my pathetic ramblings. I tore the paper into tiny pieces and scattered them on the table, pressing my fists against my temples as I muttered curses to myself, to the bastard screws, and even to the crumpled sea for lying there so grey and sluggish.

Unbelievable as it seemed, I wanted nothing more at that moment than to be back in prison, with Mike to tell me to put the past behind me, and Ruby to cheer me on when I began to hope I might have some kind of future outside.

It had been terrible in the early days. I was sure I was innocent and could only grieve for the family I had lost and obsess over the agony of separation from Tommy. The one thing that kept me going then was believing my appeal must succeed and I would soon be back with him. But even before the appeal failed I realised I had to be guilty, and for a long time after that I could hardly imagine how to carry on living. Didn’t want to go on.

I was never sure when things changed, but one day I found myself talking to Ruby, and later to Alice and Lorna, about seeing Tommy again and trying to be a mother to him once more. I had been so determined to make it work that I remembered a few days when I had felt so hopeful it was almost like happiness. If I could hear Ruby’s voice again, maybe I could recapture that sense of hope.

In the end, I wrote her a short note, saying I just wanted to make sure she still had my address and phone number. I would buy a phone card and slip that into the envelope hoping she would understand it as a plea to call me.

But almost as if I’d actually spoken to her, I could hear what she would say. It was no good dwelling on how badly I’d dealt with things in the past. I had to give Tom what he needed now and that meant taking his questions seriously, and trying to find some answers, no matter how difficult it was for me. It would mean probing into things people would rather forget. And, above all, trying to force my own stubborn brain to reveal what it was hiding. It would hurt, I knew that, it might even turn Tom against me, but it was the very least I owed him.

I would have to start with Emily and Matt. And the place where it happened. I hadn’t seen Matt since that night. But Emily was there through most of the trial, spoke up as a witness for my defence, although she didn’t know much, and then sat and watched, smiling and nodding encouragement at me. Later, she came to see me regularly in prison until I refused her visits.

‘I don’t know how you bear it,’ was what she’d said, oh so kindly, the last time she came. And I looked up to see myself, tiny and far away, reflected in her eyes – a specimen behind glass. It was the word bear that did it, and I knew she didn’t mean, how did I endure the loss, or stand the grief, but how did I bear the burden of my guilt. That was when I told her I didn’t want to see her again; that was in the days before I knew I was guilty.

After the way I’d treated her, I could hardly blame her if she didn’t want to see me. And even if she did, how would she and Matt feel when I started asking questions about that night? I thought how dreadful every wedding anniversary must be for her and how the strands of my guilt entangled all the people I loved.

God knows how I could raise it with either of them, but they were the only ones who knew everyone at the wedding and I needed to ask if they had any idea of who might have given me the pills. If I could find that out, maybe I could also discover why I’d wanted them.

The sessions with Mike in prison had shown me how easily it could happen. There were others, like me, who claimed to have been clean for months, or years, but always there was a trigger to send them back to the vodka, the speed or the smack. Ruby’s man came home from wherever he’d been, beat her and gave her heroin to cheer her up. Jo had her kids taken away, and Lillian’s husband left her. They all agreed, though, that torturing yourself over the whys and wherefores was a waste of time.

I’d accepted it then. It seemed to make sense. But I knew now there was no way I could even think about rebuilding my life before I found out why I’d destroyed it.

And I had to show Tom I was taking his theories seriously. Lorna could help me with how Dad had handled the drug scandal, and if there had been any unpleasantness. Matt had worked for the company too, as a chemist, and it was just possible he could shed light on the way the labs worked; might even have known the doctor who wrote the report that caused all the trouble.

My mind was buzzing with so many thoughts I could feel a headache brewing and nothing seemed to make sense anymore. I needed to get out of the flat, to walk until I was tired enough to stop thinking for a while. Long walks were one of the things I missed most when I was inside, and another reason I’d chosen Hastings was because I knew there would be hills to tire me, sea views to soothe me, and long stretches of countryside to exhaust me. It was too late to go far, so a fast tramp up the nearest hill would have to do.

The clouds had lifted again to make a beautiful evening, the sun still high in the sky, the sea calm, and I clamped down on my thoughts and concentrated on putting one foot in front of another. Turning towards the town, I found a convenience store open and bought a phone card, slipped it in with the note for Ruby, and posted it. Then I headed sharp uphill between the jumbled old cottages, along one of the steep cobbled alleyways the locals call twittens.

Before I’d gone far, the alley turned into a flight of almost vertical steps and I was grateful for the handrail, but, all the same, by the time I reached the top my calves were aching and my chest was tight. The climb had left me hot and sticky, but up here a cool breeze blew across the wide stretch of grass, and I was glad to find an empty bench.

To my right was the ruin of William the Conqueror’s castle. Ahead, beyond the grassy cliff-edge, the sea was dotted, even at this hour, with small, dark boats. Coloured lights twinkled over the little funfair and amusement arcades, and a miniature train slid silently along beside the beach. To the left was the other hill, the East Hill, where the wooden carriage of a funicular lift hauled itself to the top. And, huddled between the two hills, the clustered houses, cafés and pubs of the Old Town bustled with activity.

Even up here the grass was heaving with life. A dog bouncing after a stick, a group of teenagers grabbing and squealing at each other, families with children, and a few elderly couples, arms linked as they strolled along. As I watched, a woman left the café that stood near the cliff-edge and began to lock the door, looking back to the road behind her to wave a beefy arm at a passing car.

I was close to them all, but felt as distant as if I was behind glass. Were they all as carefree as they looked? The two girls, one skinny, one plump, their pretty faces contorted as they zigzagged across the grass, taunting a couple of boys; the young couple, her arm round his waist, his hand tucked into the back pocket of her jeans; the little family, Mum with a baby in a buggy, and Dad pushing a little boy over the lumpy grass as he strained pink-faced on a bike with two wobbly trainer wheels.

Did we look like that, not so long ago, Steve and I, with our twins? And were we happy? I had thought so, but now I wasn’t sure. I always told Steve he saved me because I realised I was loveable, despite everything.

I met him shortly after Mum died and I’d cleaned up my act. I was doing a temp job at Dad’s firm, mostly helping Lorna in the office. A few of the guys had slimed round me once they knew who I was, but Steve was different. He was working for Dad, too, as a freelance gardener. I thought he was absolutely gorgeous; tall, blond, and with a kind of gangly grace that turned my insides liquid. I started eating my lunch on a bench outside and one day Steve asked if he could join me. And that was it.

When I became pregnant I thought nothing could make me go back to my old ways: to the drugs or drink. So what happened?

Although I hadn’t been able to stop thinking, the walk and the fresh air had done something positive and I came down almost at a run. I was suddenly very hungry, and giving silent thanks to Alice for stocking the freezer with ready meals. But as I came in sight of the flat I saw a tall man turning away from the front door. I slowed my steps. If it was Nic’s ex I didn’t want to meet him, and even if it was the mysterious upstairs tenant, I wasn’t keen on a conversation right now.

I took out my mobile phone, pretending an interest in it, to avoid looking at him. But he had stopped at the garden gate and was staring along the road at me and after a minute or two I had no option but to raise my eyes.

It was Matt, Emily’s Matt. He looked a little older and rather more solid, but it was unmistakably him.

The shock of seeing him here made me step back and the hedge of the house I was passing pressed into my back. He was coming towards me, his hands outstretched, but all I could do was stare.

‘Clare, I thought I’d missed you.’

His arms were round me, my face pressed into his crisp blue shirt. He was very warm, but smelled only of citrusy aftershave. When he pulled away he held me at arms’ length, nodding and smiling.

‘You look great.’

‘You too.’ It was true. The weight gain suited him and with a tan and designer sunglasses he looked really good. ‘But what are you doing here?’ I cringed at how that sounded, but he laughed, threading his arm through mine and walking us back to the house.

‘Came to see you, of course. And I’ve been hanging about for half an hour, so I hope you’re going to ask me in.’

‘I’m sorry, that sounded awful. I was just so surprised to see you.’

At the front door of the house, he leaned against the wall as I fished out my key. ‘I’ve just come back through the Tunnel – conference in Le Touquet – so I was almost passing,’ he said. ‘Emily phoned to tell me you’d emailed and she’s desperate to know how you are and made me promise to persuade you to come visit us soon.’

It was just as well that, as I let us into the flat, he walked straight into the living room and over to the windows, and he couldn’t see me scrub at my eyes, because if he’d opened his arms to me again, I would probably have sobbed on his chest.

He was looking out of the window, swapping his sunglasses for an ordinary pair as he did so.

‘Hey, nice view. Must make a change from what you’re used to.’

I laughed, ‘You could say that.’

He turned, pulling a face. ‘Sorry, but you know me, not the most tactful of men.’

‘It’s fine, I’d rather keep it out in the open.’ It was true. I certainly didn’t want to talk about prison with strangers, but it was a relief to be with people who knew. And I’d always liked Matt. There was a warmth about him, a sense of reliability that had something to do with his size, but was more about his personality. Now he sprawled on the sofa, seeming to fill the room, and looking more like the Matt I was used to in his dark-rimmed spectacles. I headed for the kitchen. ‘Coffee?’

A chuckle. ‘If you don’t mind I’d rather have tea. If I remember right, your coffee is strong enough to stand a spoon in.’

‘Actually, after the dishwater I’ve been drinking for five years, I’m making it a lot weaker. Still, tea it is.’

When I brought the tea and sat in the armchair opposite, Matt leaned over and touched my knee, with a big friendly hand. ‘It really is good to see you looking so well, Clare, and Emily can’t wait for you to come and stay with us in Cumbria.’

‘Well, I’ve got a job.’ He put down his mug, a broad smile on his face, but I shook my head. ‘Only in a flower shop, working for a friend of Alice, but it’s good to be back in the working world. I’m still part-time, though, so I should have a few days free soon.’

I knew Emily was finally pregnant after years of trying, IVF and so on, and we talked about that for a bit. The baby was due in a few weeks and Emily had stopped work and was staying at their house in the Lake District all the time. Matt still had to be in London and was using their flat there. ‘So poor Em gets lonely. I’m working extra at the moment to have more space when the sprog appears. In fact I’ve got some meetings in town tomorrow.’

‘On a Sunday?’

‘Well since the Yanks took over the firm, it’s breakfast meetings, late night conference calls, you name it. To be honest, I can’t wait to get out, but they’re cutting the chemistry departments in the universities and there’s a glut of people like me looking for a change.’ He ran his hand through his dark blond hair, looking more like his old scruffy self by the minute. ‘Still you don’t want to know about all that. How you are, really? How are things with Tom?’

I took a breath, better to start as I meant to go on. ‘It’s early days, but so far so good. There is one problem, though, Matt. He’s convinced himself I wasn’t to blame for the accident. Wants me to look into the whole thing again.’

He rubbed his hands over his face. ‘Blimey, that’s a bummer. So what have you said?’

‘That I’ll try to find out what I can.’

He drained his mug. ‘Look, I should be going. Only stopped to deliver the message. If I remember, it’s a long and winding road from here to London. Just tell me you’ll definitely visit us soon and my job here is done.’

‘I promise, but why don’t you stay for something to eat?’

He stood up. ‘Better not, I have some work to do before these meetings tomorrow.’

I couldn’t let it end there. ‘I wanted to ask you a couple of things. To help Tom.’

His spectacle case had slid down the side of the sofa and he bent to fumble for it. ‘What’s that?’

‘Well, I’ve always wondered about who could have supplied me with the speed. It must have been someone at the wedding, you see.’ It was difficult to talk to him while he was pulling out the case, then opening it and rubbing at the sunglass lenses, and I was very aware I was holding him up. ‘You and Emily knew everyone there, so I wanted to know if there was anyone you could think of?’

He’d put the sunglasses on again and was looking more like the stylish guy I’d seen outside the house. ‘It’s a long while ago, Clare, and if any of our friends did have a habit we didn’t know about it. And to be frank I wouldn’t want to give you their names if I did. Can you imagine how they’d feel if you turned up asking questions like that? And the chances of them telling you if they did supply you are zilch I’d say. Besides it was more likely someone from the catering company.’ He leaned close and kissed me, his cheek just a little stubbly. ‘Let it drop, sweetheart. Tom’ll forget about it once he gets used to you being around and starts enjoying having a mum again.’

After I’d seen him out I closed my front door and leaned my head against it. I’d made a complete hash of that and I knew I should have waited until I’d thought out what to say more carefully. I microwaved a pasta meal and ate it at the kitchen table, wondering how I’d got myself into this when I should be focusing on making a new life for Tom and me.

The day, and the sleepless night before it, had drained me completely and I wasn’t even tempted to turn on the TV. Instead, I threw off my clothes, pulled the curtains to shut out the glow of fading sunlight and climbed into bed.

The pillow was smooth and cool but I was wide awake again, my mind racing. I turned on the bedside light and picked up the photo frame. Steve and my boys smiled at me. The eight-year-old Tommy in the picture was still more real to me than the awkward teenager I was trying to get to know. And Toby – the gap where he’d just lost a tooth making his grin cheekier than ever. My dear little boy would never be a teenager, never grow up, because of me and I could never look at his face without that agonised throb. ‘I’m sorry, Toby,’ I whispered.

My husband was standing behind the boys, smiling his wide, white smile. One hand was on Toby’s shoulder, the other pushing strands of fair hair away from his own face. Little Tommy leaned back against him. ‘Oh, Steve…’

I smoothed their dear faces with a fingertip, then pressed the photo to my chest. But it was only plastic and glass and it gave no comfort.

Chapter Seven

It must have been close to midnight when the phone rang. Still half asleep I grabbed it. ‘Alice?’ There was some noise in the background, but no one spoke and then the line went dead. I lay down, but couldn’t rest. What if Alice was calling from a hospital to tell me Tom was ill or hurt? I groped for my mobile and texted her.

Did you ring me? Is everything OK?

Her reply came through almost at once.

Didn’t ring, all’s well here. I’m in bed but call if you need to talk XXX.

I sent back:

Thanks I’m fine – goodnight XXX

I slept well for once and woke on Sunday knowing I’d dreamed of my family. They had been happy dreams: the kind of dreams I’d had in the early days after the accident – the cruellest ones of all. In the first waking moments you lie warm and comfortable, knowing everything is all right, everyone is alive and well. It takes a few minutes to remember that the happy dreams are the fantasy and it’s the nightmare that’s real.

The weather had taken a turn for the worse and as I lay listening to the rain I felt the loneliness twist inside me, worse even than it had been in the first days in prison when I was in too much shock to feel anything.

My mood today reminded me more of when I was a teenager. By the time I was fourteen I was barely speaking to Mum or Dad and no one at school seemed to like me. Emily was miles away and Alice was too young to confide in. I knew I was adopted, my Romanian birth mother hadn’t wanted me, and I was pretty sure my adoptive parents wished they had never taken me on either. I spent whole days lying in bed paralysed with misery. When I did get up I would wander the streets alone, walking myself into exhaustion.

It was on one of these tramps when I took shelter from a chill drizzle in a bus shelter. Although it was close to Beldon House, I couldn’t face going home to Mum’s silences and pursed lips. Out in the country like this, with no bus due for an hour or more, the last thing I expected was for anyone to join me, but the girl who did looked around my age and was so chatty it took only minutes to feel we were friends.

She offered me a drink. It was vodka, and I’d never had more than a sip or two of wine before, but although it tasted like sour fire and made me gasp and cough, I kept pace with her as we passed the bottle back and forth. Her name was Lizzie, and she had dyed yellow hair and eyelashes heavy with black mascara. Her nails were bitten to the quick, there were scars on her thin pale arms, and I thought she was the most glamorous creature I’d ever seen. She told me she had run away from three foster homes and now she was looking out for herself. She’d been staying with some friends in the village, but was having to move on. ‘They got fed up with me. People usually do,’ she said, with a throaty laugh. We swapped mobile numbers and when she got on the bus I longed to go with her.

I didn’t dare that time, but after the next row at home I met up with Lizzie in Tonbridge and stayed the night at the squat where she was living. I went home, very defiant, late next evening, opening the front door to be met by Dad in the hall. He looked so angry I was terrified but hid it with a toss of the head as I pushed past him, heading for the stairs.

He grabbed my arm, ‘Oh no you don’t, young lady. I want an explanation.’

He was a big man with a loud voice, but he had never raised his hand to me or to Alice. I could see, though, that he was tempted to hit me when I curled my lips and met his eyes.

‘What?’

He took an enormous breath. ‘I suppose you realise we had to call the police? You’ve made your mother ill and Alice hasn’t stopped crying. We thought you’d had an accident or been abducted.’

I pulled my arm away. ‘Well I’m back now, so you can all relax.’ Then I headed upstairs with a look I hoped was loaded with contempt.

I expected him to follow me, but he didn’t and he was at work when I got up next day. Mum was ill in bed and Alice was at school. No one seemed to care what I did. So I packed a rucksack and walked out. The first of many times.

It didn’t take long to lose touch with Lizzie, but by then I’d met Gaz. I kidded myself it was love and we headed for London. Gaz disappeared after a couple of weeks and I went home for a bit, but the pattern was set. Gradually, I was staying away for longer and longer, moving from squat to squat, sometimes sleeping in parks or even shop doorways. It’s amazing where you can sleep if you’re drunk or wasted enough.

I got picked up by the police and taken home a few times, but left again after a couple of days. My parents must have squared it somehow with school. Maybe they just carried on paying the fees and everyone agreed it was easier that way. I never went back to school.

The only thing I ever felt guilty about in those days was leaving Alice, and even now I felt a twinge when I recalled looking up one day, as I was shambling up the driveway, to see her little face at her bedroom window. Her mouth was moving and she was trying to push up the wooden sash so that I could hear her. But she couldn’t manage it and that image of her tearful face as she tried to call me back stayed with me until the downers I’d pinched from Mum’s room began to take the edge off everything.

The phone rang: Alice’s number. I took a swallow from the water beside my bed, but my voice must still have sounded croaky because Tom said, ‘You all right, Mum?’

‘I’m fine. I thought you were out all day today.’

‘I will be in an hour. Just wanted to speak to you before I went.’

I held the phone to my lips for a moment unable to speak. ‘Well, it’s lovely to hear your voice.’

‘I’m sorry about yesterday, Mum. Alice said you might have been upset. I thought I told her about the table tennis and everything, but I must have forgot.’

‘Don’t worry. I can’t expect you to rearrange your life to suit me. Now off you go and win that tournament and I’ll be over to see you tomorrow or Tuesday – OK?’

Alice came on then to ask about last night’s call. ‘It was nothing,’ I said. ‘Just a cold call, but it was so late I got worried.’

‘Do you want to come over for lunch?’

‘If you don’t mind, I won’t. I’m really tired. It was a bit of a day yesterday.’

She had to go then because Tom was there, asking if she knew where he’d put his table tennis bat and did he have any clean shorts. It was just as well because I couldn’t face talking about Matt’s visit until I’d thought about it myself.

I switched on the laptop, almost expecting an email from Emily, but my inbox stayed empty. I had her number in the notebook Alice had left for me, so I picked up the phone to call her, but somehow I couldn’t do it and phoned Lorna instead. There was no reply, but I left a message to tell her I wasn’t working on Friday and could come to her then.

After that I stood eating some toast and staring from the window at the rain, the grey clouds, and the empty sea. I knew I should clean the place and do some washing for next week, but instead I watched TV and tried to read.

Finally, I forced myself to put a few things in the washing machine and push the Hoover round the flat. At least it seemed to give me an appetite, but looking in the freezer I knew I couldn’t face more microwaved food. It was five o’clock and too late, on a Sunday, to go to a supermarket.

There was a convenience store not far away, but when I got outside the sun had come out and I found myself heading past the shop, following the smell of fish and chips to the corner of the High Street. When I saw the queue I stopped, ready to turn back to the flat and another frozen ready meal, but I took a breath and forced myself to stand behind the man on the end.

As the queue moved forward, and nobody paid me any attention, I felt myself begin to relax. And, when I asked for a pickled onion from the huge jar on the counter, I was even able to laugh with a woman behind me when she said, rather me than her, she couldn’t stand the things.

As I was pushing my way out I felt a tug on my arm. ‘Hi, babe. How’s it going?’

‘Oh hello, Nicola. Fine, yes, I’m fine.’

The slim, dark-haired man was obviously with her and I took a step back, although he didn’t look like the aggressive character I’d imagined buzzing on my door bell the other night.

Nicola’s hand remained on my arm and at the same time I felt something clutch my knee. The little girl, Molly, was standing, clinging to her mother’s leg and using mine for extra support. Her sticky smile said she wasn’t going to let go without a struggle.

‘She likes you, Clare. You’ll not get away now.’ Nicola turned to the man. ‘Kieran, this is Clare who I was telling you about.’

He smiled and held out his hand. ‘Hello, Clare, nice to meet you. I’m your upstairs neighbour.’ So it wasn’t the ex. Kieran’s hand was warm and dry and I tried to return his smile.

Molly was moving restlessly, giving high-pitched little screams, each one greeted by heavy sighs from the man serving the chips.

‘Clare, you wouldn’t be a darling and take her outside for a minute would you?’ Without waiting for my answer, Nicola peeled the little hand from her own leg and turned the child towards me. ‘Go on, darlin’, go with Clare.’

By now Molly had her hands raised to me, and I had no option but to push my packet of food under my arm and haul her up. She was warm and smelled of sweets, and when she put her arms around my neck and rested her little head on my shoulder something inside me began to ache.

They’d parked the pushchair outside, and Molly clambered from my arms and into it, grabbing a bottle from the seat as she did so and sucking away, her eyes closed with satisfaction. I stood watching her.

Kieran took charge of the pushchair and led the way, stowing their food in a bag hanging from the back and Nicola threaded her arm through mine. ‘This is nice. We can all eat at mine. Kieran’s bought us a bottle, but I’ve got another couple in the fridge.’

‘I’m sorry. That would be lovely, but I can’t, I’ve got an urgent phone call to make.’ It was a lame excuse, but I couldn’t face the thought of socialising, especially with someone as pushy as Nicola. And had I imagined it, or had Kieran’s eyes lingered on me just a fraction too long? I knew it was unlikely anyone would recognise me from newspaper pictures of five years ago, but I made sure to lower my head and let my hair fall across my face as we said goodbye.

Inside, the phone was flashing with a message:

Hi, Clare, it’s me, Emily. I was hoping I’d catch you. Matt says you look great, but he couldn’t get a definite date for a visit out of you. Please, please try to come soon. Once the baby arrives I expect it will be hell here for a bit, so get up here before and we can have time to chat without interruptions. Sorry… rambling… ring me.

It was so lovely to hear her voice that I played the message three times, picking at the fish and chips straight from the bag. When the phone rang I grabbed it, but there was only silence – another cold call. This time I was glad of the interruption because it stopped me dithering. I called Emily’s number. She burst straight into talk. ‘Oh, Clare, it’s wonderful to hear your voice again.’

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