About the Author

AMANDA BRITTANY lives in Hertfordshire with her husband and two dogs. When she’s not writing, she loves spending time with family, travelling, walking, reading & sunny days. Her debut novel Her Last Lie reached the Kindle top 100 in the US and Australia and was a #1 Bestseller in the UK. All her eBook royalties for Her Last Lie are being donated to Cancer Research UK, in memory of her sister who lost her battle with cancer in July 2017. It has so far raised almost £7,000.

Visit amandabrittany.co.uk to find out more.

Praise for Amanda Brittany

‘An exciting new voice – Brittany reels readers in with this twisty, clever thriller that will have you second-guessing everything …’

Phoebe Morgan, author of The Doll House

‘Brilliant, pacey, and will leave you suspecting everyone is involved!’

Darren O’Sullivan, author of Our Little Secret

‘I was drawn in right from the rather original prologue and did not see that twist coming!’

Diane Jeffrey, author of Those Who Lie’

Also by Amanda Brittany

Her Last Lie

Tell The Truth
AMANDA BRITTANY

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © Amanda Brittany 2018

Amanda Brittany 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.

E-book Edition © December 2018 ISBN: 9780008305390

Version: 2018-11-28

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Praise for Amanda Brittany

Also by Amanda Brittany

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Acknowledgements

Extract

Dear Reader

Thank You for Reading

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

With loving thanks to my mum, for always believing in me.

And to my dad for proudly reading everything I wrote –

I wish you were here to read Tell the Truth.

Prologue

Born or made? In my genes, or was it what happened to me as a child? Maybe I was dropped on my head at birth.

I laugh inside. They tried to find out once: the shrinks. They talked to me for hours, those who thought they knew. They couldn’t see I would kill again.

I never meant to kill the first time – extinguish a life. Yes, the anger bubbled even then, but it wasn’t meant to end in death.

The second kill was different. I sent David and Janet Green up in smoke like a Guy Fawkes effigy. They deserved to die. To scream as flames licked their bodies, and thick, black smoke invaded their lungs.

It was the same with Ronan, and again with Flora.

They all deserved to die.

Now there are more lives to take. But this time I’m going to make a game of it – have some fun. And when the game is over, I will drop off the edge of the world, into oblivion, my job here done.

Chapter 1

December 2017

The soft sofa felt as though it might swallow me. Suffocate me in its bright yellow fabric. I wasn’t keen on yellow, unless worn by a daffodil or buttercup. It tended to reflect off my normally healthy-looking skin, giving me an unflattering jaundiced complexion that clashed with my blood-red hair.

It was hot in the TV studio, but it was too late to remove my hoodie. The clock said almost eleven, and Emmy – the nation’s favourite morning presenter – had flicked me the nod. She was about to introduce me.

But I was crumbling, anxiety flooding through my veins. I had an excuse. Lawrence had left me.

A cameraman slid his heavy camera across the studio floor towards me. It seemed threatening somehow – a metal monster. I rolled my tongue over my dry lips, my throat closing up. Was I going to cope? I reached for the glass of sparkling water beside me, and gulped it back. I was about to talk about childhood memories to millions of people sitting in front of their TV sets at home. How was I going to do that, when I couldn’t shake Lawrence’s departure last night from my head?

Emmy finished telling the viewers about Stephen King’s latest novel – another nod in my direction. She had a pile of hardbacks on the table in front of her: Stephen King, Paula Hawkins, and Felix T Clarke. If she’d asked for my opinion I would have told her I love them all. That I adored Inspector Bronte, Felix T Clarke’s character who had come to life in over ten novels.

I scanned the studio, trying to stop my knee from jumping, still amazed Emmy had swung it for me to be here.

‘You’re perfect, Rachel,’ the producer had said when I met her. ‘The public will love your casual style, and your pixie cut is appealing – you’ve got a bit of a post-Hermione Emma Watson thing going on.’

I wish.

Five years ago, Lawrence loved my look, which, come to think of it, hadn’t changed since then. Perhaps that’s why he left. But then he’d once loved that I was a casual kind of gal, who lived in jeans, T-shirts, and hoodies. They say opposites attract, so when did I start to repel him? When did I pass my sell-by date in Lawrence’s eyes? When was the first time he suggested I wore heels, or that I might look good in a figure-hugging dress?

‘I want Grace in my life, Rach,’ he’d said last night about our four-year-old daughter, folding his arms across his toned chest. He didn’t have to say but not you – the words were in his eyes.

I admit I over-reacted, fired abuse at him, hoping to inflict pain. ‘I’ll move away. You won’t see Grace, if I have anything to do with it.’

He said I was over-reacting – that I should calm down. ‘I’ll get my solicitor onto it right away,’ he’d gone on, far too calm. ‘We’ll sort something out to suit us both. This can work. We can stay friends.’ And then he’d disappeared through the front door without a backward glance.

I confess to getting pretty angry with some inanimate objects after a couple – five – glasses of wine. But the truth was I’d been thinking for a while that our relationship wasn’t right. He worked long hours. I barely saw him. I’d wondered more than once if we were only together for Grace’s sake. But it still hurt. The memories of when things seemed perfect kept prodding my mind. And his timing was awful. How could he leave when he knew what I was going through with Mum? Or was that partly why he left?

‘We are lucky to have brilliant psychotherapist Rachel Hogan, who once worked for the prestigious Bell and Brooks Clinic in Kensington, in the studio with us today,’ Emmy was saying, bringing me out of my reverie. She didn’t mention that I now ran a private practice in a summerhouse at the foot of the long, narrow garden of my rented end-terrace in Finsbury Park.

The camera was on me, and my heart hammered in my chest. You can do this, Rachel. You can do this. The point was, if I did this right, they might ask me back for a regular slot – that’s what Emmy had said – so I needed to throw a metaphoric bucket of cold water over my feelings, and get on with it.

Emmy had been one of my clients for about a year. Looking at her now – her pale ginger hair spiralling over her shoulders, her sparkly green eyes, the sprinkle of freckles on her nose, her beaming smile – you would never have guessed the torment she’d been through. The persona she’d created for TV never gave that away. Although for a time, the medication had helped pull it off.

‘Hi, guys,’ I said, waving at the camera, trying not to imagine the number of people watching. ‘I’m here to talk about childhood memories. We’ve all got them, but how real are they? And what about those we’ve repressed, ones that lurk in the dark corners of our minds? In our subconscious.’

My confidence grew as I spoke – it was a subject I knew well.

Emmy chipped in. ‘I remember my second birthday party. My parents bought me a toy monkey with a huge red bow. And when I was three I had a little pushchair for my dolls, and I would take them for walks round the garden.’

I was wrong-footed. She’d lost her mum when she was a child, and now, in front of millions, I was about to extinguish her recollections.

‘Sadly, it’s unlikely they are real memories,’ I said, running my finger over my dry lips, as I looked her way.

‘Oh,’ she said, raising a brow, and giving a strange little laugh. ‘So, you’re saying I don’t remember my second birthday party?’ She’d lost her smile.

‘Well, it is possible, but rare to recall things from before the age of three or four. In fact, few memories are stored before the age of six. You may have kept the monkey and pushchair for years.’

‘I did, yes, Vanessa the monkey was my favourite toy until I was about twelve.’ Her smile was back – always so professional. ‘And before you ask, I’ve no idea why I chose that name.’

‘Maybe you’ve seen photographs of you pushing the pushchair?’

‘Oh yes, tons. My mum took mountains of pictures of me when I was little.’

There was a slight dip in her voice that only I would pick up on. I felt awful. I knew I’d hurt her, and wanted her to look my way so I could mouth that I was sorry, but she didn’t catch my eye.

Once the camera was back on me, I said, ‘I had a toy rabbit called Mr Snookum as a child.’ I smiled. ‘I still have him stashed away in my loft. My mother told me she gave him to me on my fifth birthday, and I’m sure I remember her handing him over and telling me to always take care of him.’ My voice quavered, and a lump rose in my throat. My poor mum. My poor, poor mum. I swallowed, and took a breath. ‘But I can’t be sure the memory is real. Vivid recollections of my childhood start much later, particularly her painting on the beach at Southwold.’ I gave a little cough to ward off my stupid emotions. ‘She’s an artist.’ Why am I sharing this with the nation?

My slot seemed to go on for ages, as I continued to discuss childhood amnesia, and the different methods of retrieving infant memories. I did my best to put on a front, hoping I was making a good impression.

Then it was the phone-in. The bit I’d dreaded most.

A woman suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder came on the line, and I went through breathing and muscle relaxing exercises with her, and suggested meditation and yoga. ‘Spending time with nature can be beneficial too,’ I concluded.

Next, a man suffering with agoraphobia called in.

‘Do you think it’s something in my childhood that I can’t recall, causing me to stay in my apartment day in, day out?’ He sounded defeated, on the verge of tears.

What a ridiculous position I was in. How was I meant to answer someone I knew nothing about?

‘Could be,’ I said. ‘Call your doctor as soon as possible. They can advise you.’ Pathetic!

‘We have John Burton on the line, Rachel,’ Emmy said, once the agoraphobic man had hung up. She pressed her finger to her ear, as though listening through her earpiece.

‘Hello, John,’ I said. ‘How can I help?’

‘Polly put the kettle on,’ he sang. ‘Polly put the kettle on, Polly put the kettle on, we’ll all have tea.’

‘Do you remember that nursery rhyme from your childhood, John?’ I said, feeling uneasy, and glancing over at Emmy.

There was a pause, before he said, ‘Yes.’

Emmy furrowed her brow, and shrugged. Surely they would cut him off. Blame a poor connection.

‘What age do you think you were when you heard it?’ I asked, trying to sound professional.

‘Suki take it off again, Suki take it off again, Suki take it off again, they’ve all gone away.’

The hairs on my arms rose, despite the heat of the studio.

‘I’m crying out,’ he said. ‘But they won’t listen. And now you must pay, Rachel.’ The line went dead, and within moments we went to a commercial break.

‘Oh my God,’ Emmy said as soon as we were off the air, jumping up and dashing over. She plonked down next to me, and put her arm around my shoulder. ‘Why the hell did they keep him on the line so long?’

I didn’t reply; instead, I dashed off set, barely looking at the concerned faces following me through the door. I rushed through the labyrinth of corridors, desperately seeking an exit, my heart thumping. Eventually I spotted the automatic doors that led to the car park, and raced through them, freezing air hitting me like a smack. I stood for some moments, my eyes darting around the area, trying to catch my breath.

I drove home, relieved Emmy was still on the air and couldn’t call me. I needed time to process what had happened, before discussing it. I collected Grace from Angela, keeping the conversation with my next-door neighbour brief so she didn’t see how anxious I was. ‘You knocked them dead, sweetie,’ she said in her throaty middle-class way, as I dashed down her path, holding Grace’s hand.

‘Thanks,’ I called back, certain she couldn’t have seen the live show.

Inside my house, with the bolts pulled across the door and the deadlock on, my heartbeat slowed to a normal rate. Grace settled herself in the lounge, building with Lego, and I padded into the kitchen to make tea, the song ‘Polly put the Kettle on’ worming its way into my head on repeat, driving up my anxiety.

I rummaged in the freezer for fish fingers for Grace’s lunch. As I closed the freezer door, I noticed a photo of Lawrence and me on holiday a couple of years ago, pinned amongst the magnetic letters. I couldn’t tear my eyes away, and touched Lawrence’s face with my outstretched fingertip. We were happy once. Weren’t we?

‘Mummy!’

I jumped at the sound of my daughter’s voice, dropping the box of fish fingers to the floor with a thud. I fell to my knees.

‘Are you OK, Mummy?’ Grace said, running over and crouching beside me, as I shoved broken fish fingers back into the box with shaking hands. She craned her neck to see my face, touching my cheek softly, and I realised tears were filling my eyes.

‘Don’t cry,’ she said.

‘I’m not crying, lovely. I’ve got something in my eye.’

What the hell was the matter with me? Was it Lawrence taking off, or the stupid call? I took a deep breath, trying to escape the silly nursery rhyme in my head. It’s just some weirdo. A troll. Nothing personal.

I rose and slipped the battered box onto the worktop, and lifted Grace up into my arms, burying my nose into her dark curls. She smelt of strawberry shampoo. ‘So did you have a lovely time with Angela?’ I said, as the kettle boiled.

***

The phone blasted on my bedside table. It was 7 a.m. Only one person would ring so early – someone who got up at five.

‘Emmy,’ I said as I answered the call, my voice croaky.

‘I’m so sorry about the odd phone call yesterday, Rachel,’ she said. If she’d been angry about my comments on air about her childhood, she’d let it go.

‘It wasn’t your fault. And I’m sorry too … for rushing off like that.’

‘No worries. You dealt with it all amazingly while you were on air. After the break we had that cute contestant from The Bake Off on, and carried on as though nothing had happened. There’s been a few tweets about it, but nothing major.’

‘Thank God.’

‘Live TV, especially phone-ins, can be a nightmare.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

‘I’m fine, honestly,’ I said, pulling myself up to a sitting position, and propping myself against the headboard.

‘I still can’t believe they let him stay on the line for so long.’ Her TV persona was confident, loud and bubbly, yet the real Emmy – the one on the other end of the line, was softly spoken. ‘The guys handling the phone lines said he sounded upbeat and friendly when he called in. Had a great question to ask you.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said, raking my fingers through my hair. Despite ‘Polly put the Kettle on’ playing in my head during the night, I felt sure I was over the call. Lawrence had left. My mum was ill. I wasn’t about to let some creepy caller add another layer of worry to my life. ‘It was just some fool with nothing better to do,’ I said, sounding strong. ‘I’m sure the call wasn’t aimed at me personally.’

‘I’m not so sure, Rach,’ she said. Words I didn’t want to hear. The phone line went quiet for a few moments, and I imagined her twirling a curl of her hair around her finger, forming the words she sometimes struggled to get out. A trauma twelve months ago had triggered a childhood stammer, although she could mainly control it now and rarely stuttered on air. ‘The thing is …’

‘What is it, Emmy?’ I leaned forward on the bed, and threw back my quilt, suddenly hot. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Nothing’s happened exactly,’ she went on. ‘And to be honest, I’ve been deliberating over whether to tell you – but then I feel you should know. Just in case.’

‘Just in case what?’ The hairs on my arms rose.

‘The thing is, a man came to the studio looking for you earlier this morning.’

‘Was it the man who called in?’ Is that fear in my voice?

‘No. Well, I don’t think so. I don’t know who he was, but he was quite normal, nothing like the bloke on the phone. He was waiting outside when I arrived. He’d been there a while, as he was soaked through.’

‘It’s raining?’ I glanced at the window. Part of me didn’t want to hear what she had to say. Let’s talk about the weather instead.

‘It’s dried up now. Rach, are you taking this in? Did you hear what I said?’

I nodded, as though she could see me, before rising and pacing the room. ‘Of course. Yes.’

‘He didn’t tell me his name, despite me asking several times.’ Another pause. ‘Just that he was desperate to talk to you. I hope I’ve done the right thing in telling you. I thought you should know.’

Just in case.

‘Yes, yes thanks, Emmy. You did the right thing.’

‘He looked nice. Normal,’ she said. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about, Rachel. Listen, I must go, I’m back on the air in five. Talk soon. And please don’t worry.’ She ended the call before I could answer.

It’s nothing, I told myself, continuing to pace the bedroom. I’d been on TV. Things like this happen all the time. But my neck tingled, and a chill ran through my body. Had it been the same man who called in to the studio?

And if it was, why was he looking for me?

Chapter 2

February 2018

We were on our way. Zoe driving, me holding on to the overhead handle, knuckles turning white.

She always drove too fast, and was taking the car to seventy mph along dark, narrow roads. Twigs, like bony fingers, scraped the window as she raced past the hedgerow, barely missing oncoming traffic. Despite the harrowing journey, I was looking forward to the evening ahead with my friend. It would be good to unwind, and I loved being with Zoe. She was the tonic to my gin.

It had been a long two months since Lawrence left. At first I was grieving, I supposed – well, I’d certainly wanted him dead. But after an initial love affair with gin and chocolate – a useless attempt to shave off the sharp edges of my crap life – I’d almost accepted we were over, and my sadness was now fully focused on my mum.

I still hadn’t come to terms with her early onset dementia, and wasn’t sure I ever would. In fact, sometimes, on bad days, it was as though I’d already lost her, and yet she was still here, reminding me of the life we’d once had together.

I’d first noticed the signs a year ago, just before her fiftieth birthday. The confusion and forgetfulness I’d witnessed back then would later be attributed to Alzheimer’s. It hadn’t seemed possible, and her rapid decline had made it even crueller.

Zoe reached over and turned up the radio, as she sang along to ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’. It was as though she’d forgotten I was there. Zoned in to her singing, she continued to swing her red Clio along the spiralling country roads towards the spa, seeming oblivious to the frosty February evening – the chance of ice on the road. A sprinkling of snow had coated the pavement earlier, and the forecast promised snowstorms heading from Siberia. Slow down! Please.

I stared her way, and as though sensing my eyes on her, she turned, and stopped mid-Galileo.

‘You OK, Rachel?’ she said, tucking her chestnut-brown hair behind her ears with both hands.

‘Hands on the wheel, Zoe, for Christ’s sake,’ I yelled.

‘Jeez, you don’t have to shout,’ she said, doing as I asked. ‘Are you OK?’ she repeated.

‘Of course.’ I smiled. Tonight I was determined to purge thoughts of Mum’s illness from my head and de-stress. Enjoy myself. Lawrence had Grace for the weekend, and the care home had my mobile number. I could relax. It was Friday night. Surely I was allowed to chill every so often, uncoil my tension.

‘Almost there,’ Zoe said, slowing down. ‘I’ve booked us both in for a facial and a head massage, and maybe we could swim too.’ She didn’t wait for a response. She knew what she’d said. ‘Oh God.’ She covered her mouth. ‘I’m such an idiot.’

‘It’s OK. It’s no big deal.’ I smiled, and patted her arm, wishing I hadn’t told her about my fear of water – I didn’t like to make a fuss about it. ‘Actually, I fancy a long read on a hotbed. I’ve brought my Kindle.’

Her eyes were glued on me as I spoke, and her car veered to the right. ‘Keep your eyes on the road or you’ll kill something,’ I cried, although I felt sure it would be us if we didn’t reach our destination soon.

I was relieved when she indicated and pulled onto a sweeping drive, lit by white lights. She manoeuvred into a space in front of Mulberry Hall. I hadn’t been here since it became a spa.

As she pulled on the handbrake, I picked up my bag from the car well, unzipped it, and rummaged for my phone. I found myself constantly checking for missed calls from the care home. My mum had nobody but me. She’d never been one for making friends – a bit of a recluse in many ways – and my grandparents had died before I was born in a car accident. She’d never been close with them anyway, she told me once.

There were no missed calls, only a notification on Facebook. I clicked on the app. ‘Ooh, I’ve got a friend request.’

Zoe glanced over. ‘Well it can wait, can’t it?’ she said, getting out. ‘We totally need pampering.’

I slipped my phone back in my bag, and jumped from the car, eyes scanning the prestigious Victorian building. Both the spa and the luxury apartments had once been an insane asylum, and later a psychiatric hospital.

‘I fancied buying one of those apartments when I moved this way,’ Zoe said, nodding towards Mulberry Hall. ‘But allegedly it’s haunted by old patients.’ She wiggled her fingers and made a howling, ghost-like sound.

‘Oh for God’s sake, Zoe.’ She looked amazing in a red three-quarter-length coat with a fur trim, over tight-fitting leggings and expensive trainers. She was tall, slim, elegant; whereas I was small, and a whisker away from chubby when I’d been on a chocolate binge. A flash of memory came and went – Lawrence telling me that ‘with a bit of effort’ I could look as good as Zoe.

I zipped up my hoodie and hunched my shoulders against the cold, my teeth chattering.

‘They used to do awful things here in the late 1800s,’ she said, her eyes skittering over the building. ‘What a terrible time to have lived if you showed any signs of not fitting the mould.’

‘Mmm.’ I glanced at the towering building. ‘Put in asylums for no good reason half the time.’

‘I know. You could have been admitted for anything from novel-reading to nymphomania – so that’s me admitted.’

‘I didn’t know you read novels.’

‘I don’t.’ She burst out laughing, and I laughed too. ‘Seriously though,’ she said, sighing. ‘They would even admit poor souls for grieving.’

‘It’s hard to believe now how terrible the mental health system was back then.’

‘The treatments were awful. They would immerse patients in ponds until they were unconscious, or tie them naked to a chair and pour cold water over them.’ She looked about her and shivered. ‘I wouldn’t want to be out here alone,’ she said. ‘There’s something spooky about this place, don’t you think?’

I shrugged. It was quiet, yes – but it seemed peaceful, and the apartments were stunning. Anyway, I didn’t believe in ghosts. Truth was, I was more scared of the living.

‘I saw a ghost once,’ she said. ‘When I was a child, I slept with my arm dangling out of the bed. I woke one night feeling certain something cold had touched my hand.’ She shuddered. ‘A girl in blue stood by my bed.’

‘A dream?’ Tingles crawled up my neck, despite my determination not to believe in the paranormal.

‘It must have been. Although I never slept with my arm out of the bed after that.’ She laughed. ‘Let’s go inside before we freeze to death.’

I looked over my shoulder, trying to imagine lost souls looking down from the many apartment windows. And despite only seeing the stunning apartments, lit by what I imagined were happy dwellers, I couldn’t help wondering what secrets the walls held.

As we walked, Zoe nodded towards the lower building we were heading for, built from the same mustard-coloured brick as the apartments. ‘Apparently the swimming pool is where the morgue used to be,’ she said, reaching the door.

‘Good God,’ I said with a laugh. ‘I’m actually glad I don’t swim.’

‘Hello, ladies,’ said the man behind the counter as we approached, his Irish accent charming. He was in his early forties, with a sprinkling of grey in his dark hair.

‘I’m the manager, Connor Mahoney.’ His eyes drifted to Zoe, a look of appreciation on his face. Men seemed to like her.

‘Zoe Marsh,’ she said.

While he glanced at his computer screen and tapped on his keyboard, I studied Zoe’s perfectly made-up face, her blemish-free skin, her full lips, and her perfect eyebrows. I tended to hide my brows under my fringe. I’d never got the hang of plucking, and now power-brows were the in thing, and I hadn’t got the first clue how to shape and fill them. I’d been a bit of a tomboy when I was a kid, so never acquired the skills to be feminine – but it had never bothered me.

Zoe owned a salon in Islington, so knew ways to highlight her beauty, and make men notice. ‘Come along to my salon sometime,’ she’d often said. ‘I could do your colours.’ I never had. I suppose I was happy as I was, with my boxed hair dye, and my cheap-as-chips make-up.

We’d met at a yoga group about six months ago and hit it off. I’d seen her a few times before we finally got chatting, and admired how she’d managed to make all the moves look so graceful. Whereas I’d made the mountain pose look more like a molehill. I was quite sporty – fastest in my class at the hundred-metre sprint when I was twelve – but elegant yoga poses, I struggled with.

‘So you’re both booked in for a facial in an hour,’ Connor said, looking up from the screen.

‘I don’t suppose you could book me in for a full-body massage,’ Zoe said. Her words were tangibly flirtatious.

‘Sorry, we’re fully booked,’ he said, his eyes locking with hers. There was an instant chemistry, and I suddenly felt like a ham sandwich at a vegan wedding.

He handed us robes and towels, and gestured for us to go through the frosted-glass doors. ‘We’ll just take some details and then you can enjoy your evening.’

As we headed towards the hotbeds, Zoe smiled. ‘He’s rather nice, don’t you think?’

‘I guess so,’ I said, and then whispered, ‘But what about Hank?’

She stopped suddenly and covered her mouth with her hand, her chin crinkling.

‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ I said, stopping, and two women walked into us. ‘Sorry,’ I said, as they skirted round us, rolling their eyes and muttering. ‘We should have brake lights,’ I called after them, but they didn’t look back. ‘What’s wrong?’ I repeated, my attention back on Zoe, whose eyes had filled with tears.

‘We broke up.’ She removed her hand from her mouth, and slapped the tears from her cheeks. Straightening her back, she carried on walking.

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘I was going to tell you earlier, but didn’t want to ruin the evening. I still love him, Rach. Always will. But I can’t handle it any more.’

‘The drugs?’

She nodded. ‘I’ve tried so hard. You know that, right?’

‘I know you have, lovely,’ I said, linking arms with her and pulling her close, so we walked as one.

‘He’s never going to listen. The other day I found him so out of it, I thought he was dead.’

‘Oh God, Zoe. You can’t live like that.’

‘I know.’ She sniffed, her eyes still watery. ‘It was the final straw. I can’t bear to think that one day I will find him dead.’ She dashed another tear from her cheek with the back of her hand.

‘Of course you can’t.’

I’d only seen Hank a few times. He would pace the pavement some distance away, while waiting for Zoe to finish yoga. And even from across a busy road, I noticed his skin was far too pale, his clothes dishevelled, and his whole demeanour agitated.

‘He still refuses to get help, so for my own sanity I walked out on Tuesday.’

‘You’ve done the right thing, lovely,’ I said, fishing a tissue from my bag and handing it to her. ‘You’ve done everything you can.’

‘Thanks. You’ve no idea how much I appreciate your support,’ she said, dabbing her cheeks. ‘And I know I sound a bit cold flirting with Connor – but I need the distraction, and I suppose the comfort. It’s been hell with Hank for a long time.’

‘You have to do what’s right for you,’ was all I could muster.

‘Life’s short and all that,’ she said.

It wasn’t until later, as I relaxed on a lounger, that I looked at the friend request I’d received earlier. My heart sank as I opened it. I was expecting a long-lost friend, or even a boyfriend wanting to meet up because he’d heard about my breakup with Lawrence – but it wasn’t a name I recognised.

David Green: CONFIRM/DELETE REQUEST

It was no big deal, I told myself. Lots of people got requests from strangers. But then I’d never had anything like it before. My anxiety rose, though I couldn’t put my finger on why.

The temptation was too much. I clicked on his profile. David Green’s profile picture was an image of a lake. His cover photo was of a row of grey houses with red front doors, the words ‘Mandan Road, County Sligo’ at the foot of the picture. He had no friends that I could see, and his timeline only revealed one status update:

Here comes a candle to light you to bed

Here comes a chopper to chop off your head

Below the words was a cartoon gif of a blazing fire.

I shuddered, trying to convince myself it must be a mistake, or some kind of joke. But my heart hammered in my chest. I was born in County Sligo. My mother grew up there. Was it a coincidence? And if so, why did I suddenly feel so vulnerable?

Chapter 3

July 1995

The flames dance like magical beings – telling me I’m right – telling me they deserve to die.

They’d left the back door open, so it was all so easy.

And now I can see David from my window. He can’t get out of the bedroom. I wedged a chair under the door handle.

‘Help!’ he cries as he presses on the glass; well, I think that’s what he’s yelling. I can’t be sure. I’m too far away to hear.

‘Nobody will help you,’ I whisper.

He looks down and I wonder if he’s going to leap from the bedroom window, but the fire grips his pyjamas, and his face changes shape as he cries out in agony. He slips out of sight.

I draw the curtains, rest my head on the pillow, and close my eyes.

Chapter 4

February 1987

Laura let herself into the house she grew up in. It was hers now. The house her father built, with its oversized windows and oddly angled sloping roof, far too modern for the stunning surroundings. The towering trees and wildlife looked on and laughed at it – that’s what she’d thought as a child.

A flick of the light switch illuminated the lounge, the paintings on the walls, the vases cradling dead flowers. The wealth was tangible. Her parents had had far too much: spoilt children wanting more, more, more. Except they’d never wanted her, had they?

Laura flung her denim jacket onto the sprawling leather sofa, and attempted to push the creases of the journey from her orange kaftan. She’d been staying at a hotel in Sligo Town for two weeks. Now she was here, and the shock of her parents’ death was slowly wearing off, bubbles of anger rose in her chest.

She dived towards the drinks cabinet, poured vodka into a cut-glass tumbler, and placed it to her lips. With a jolt, she remembered.

You’re pregnant. You fool.

She abandoned the drink and padded towards the window, barely able to see into the darkness – just a reflection of the room and her still-willowy shape. She would be isolated here, in this ridiculous house she’d inherited, along with far too much money. She would sell soon – once she felt she could move on with her life.

Thoughts of Jude swam into her head. ‘There’s been an accident,’ she’d told him three weeks ago. And when he took her into his arms, she’d buried her head in his shoulder, breathing in the smell of his Brut aftershave, and Consulate cigarettes. She’d hoped at that moment he’d changed his mind. That he would put her and their unborn child before his law degree, before his monstrous parents. That he would care enough to stay.

‘They’re in intensive care,’ she’d gone on. ‘Will you come to Sligo with me? I need you, Jude.’

He’d pulled away, his grey eyes cold – the shock of finding out a few days before that he would be a father still reflecting on his handsome face. He looked too young to be a parent, but then she was young too.

‘You know I can’t, Laura. I’m sorry. Please think about a termination.’ He’d said it so softly, that the word termination didn’t sound so bad. But the truth was, she was already attached to the baby growing inside her – even if it was only the size of a peanut. This would be her and Jude’s child.

She’d cried as he pulled on his jacket, and dragged his woollen hat over his dark curls. And with a final, ‘I’m so sorry,’ he opened the door, and disappeared into the night.

Controlling her desire to race after him, she’d dashed up the stairs to her rented room, flopped onto her bed, and cried into the early hours.

The following morning, her holdall slung over her shoulder, she headed for Connolly Station, and boarded a train for the three-hour journey to Sligo.

She’d told no one she was pregnant. Not that there was anyone to tell. The people she’d rented with had never been close, and although she had friends at university in her first year, falling for Jude meant she’d let them slip away. Even before uni, growing up in her parents’ isolated house meant she’d had few friends – and part of her liked it that way.

As the train rattled along the tracks, she placed her hands on her stomach, imagining her child with Jude’s curls and cute nose, rather than her straw-like hair and sharp features. But it would have her blue eyes – an amazing child that Jude wouldn’t be able to resist, once he’d had time to reflect. He would love their baby. They would be happy. The three of them.

‘Your mother’s gone,’ the nurse had told her when she reached the hospital. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’

A crushing numbness took over. She’ll never love me now. Her eyes ached, but no tears came. She’d dreamt that one day she would be close to her mother – that they might even become friends. It had been a ludicrous dream.

The nurse touched her arm gently. ‘Would you like to see your father?’ she said, after a few moments. ‘Although I must warn you, he’s in a poor way.’

The week that followed had been long and painful. Her father was attached to drips, and the beeps of the monitor penetrated Laura’s head, making it ache. He had been an arrogant man – so vain. Yet now he was swollen and bruised, and she cursed the wicked thought that invaded her head, as she sat by his side. You deserve this.

But still she visited each day, waiting for it all to be over.

‘Why?’ she asked him on day five, a question that spanned so much. But he never woke.

Why did you always drive so fast? Had it been for Mum? Her mother had loved the wind in her hair, as he treated back roads like racetracks.

Laura had been told the woman coming the other way had died instantly. That the child strapped in the back had survived. A child lost her mother because of you.

It was on the seventh day she asked, ‘Why didn’t you want me?’ A tear finally rolled down her cheek, and she imagined for a moment that he squeezed her hand – that he was saying he was sorry. But there was no way he could have. He’d died ten minutes earlier.

And now, Laura stood in her parents’ house, her hair damp from a shower and loose about her shoulders, her feet bare on the cold wooden floor. She knew she wouldn’t go back to university – to the room her parents had paid for. It was time for her to get off the merry-go-round of life, pause time until she had the strength to climb back on – and what better place to come to terms with her parents’ death, her pregnancy, and Jude letting her down, than here in this isolated house in the middle of nowhere?

The phone blasted, bringing her out of her reverie, and she raced to pick it up.

‘Jude,’ she said, twirling the phone cord around her fingers. He was the only one she’d given her parents’ number to.

‘It’s Abi.’

Laura froze. She’d been friendly with Abi in her first year, but she didn’t need her right now.

‘I just wondered if you’re OK,’ Abi went on. ‘Jude told me about your parents. He gave me this number – I hope you don’t mind me calling.’

‘I’m fine, Abi. Honestly. I just need some time out, that’s all.’

‘Well, give me a call, won’t you, if you need anything. I can come up and see you at the weekend, if you’d like me to.’

‘No.’ It came out too sharp. Abi was a good person. ‘Sorry. It’s just I’m fine. I don’t need anyone right now.’

‘Well, OK then. But you know where I am …’

‘I do. Thanks.’

Laura ended the call. The only person she needed right now was Jude.

She cupped her hand over her eyes, and peered through the window, and into the woods, her nose touching the glass. The lake where she’d swum as a child was visible through the glade. There had been some happy moments, hadn’t there?

She narrowed her eyes. Someone was out there, by a distant tree. She blinked. She was tired, imagining things. The area had been deserted when she first arrived, and the nearest life a farm half a mile away. It was the shadows – the shapes of the hedgerow playing tricks.

She lowered the blind and spun round, her eyes skittering around the room. An oil painting of her parents filled the wall above the fireplace. That would have to go. In fact she would bag up most of their stuff and give it to charity. Her father would die again if he knew.

She grabbed her holdall and climbed the twisting staircase, and then stood in the doorway of her old room for the first time in two years. When she’d gone off to the University of Dublin to study art, she’d never looked back, never called – not once. Deep sadness consumed her.

She padded into the room, lifting books from the shelves. They were all educational – no Noddy or Famous Five. Her parents had expected so much of her. It was probably for the best they’d never known about the baby – that she’d made the decision to drop out of university.

Laura had begged her parents for a toy rabbit when she was a child, like Jenny’s at school. ‘Babyish,’ her father had said. She’d been seven at the time.

My child will have toys – all the toys they desire.

She flopped onto the bed, eyes wide and looking at the ceiling, imagining her parents’ awful accident on Devil’s Corner – and how the poor woman had died. Had it been instant? Had the little girl in the back seat witnessed it, or had she been sleeping? How would such a young child cope without her mother?

She felt suddenly cold, and pulled the duvet over her. She curled into a tight ball, cradling her knees.

‘We’ll be OK, little one,’ she told her unborn child, her eyes growing heavy. ‘When Daddy comes, everything will be all right.’

Chapter 5

February 2018

‘It’s a bit weird, that’s all.’ I stared at the kettle, urging it to boil, feeling cross with myself for making too much of the friend request, and for showing it to Angela. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. Just someone having a joke.’

‘Jokes are meant to be funny, Rachel. Aren’t they?’ Angela heaved herself onto the kitchen stool, and rested her elbows on the breakfast bar, gazing my way.

She’d moved in next door about a year ago, and we’d hit it off immediately. I liked to think it was because we both liked Imagine Dragons and drinking rhubarb gin, but sometimes wondered if it was more than that. She was around my mum’s age. Was I looking for a replacement mother figure, or perhaps a gran for Grace? I certainly couldn’t rely on Lawrence’s parents to fill that role; they’d started a new life in Australia before I met him, and he rarely spoke to them.

I swallowed a lump in my throat, guilt rising that I would ever consider replacing my mother, and I attempted to bat down memories of the last time I’d visited her. ‘What a delightful little girl,’ Mum had said, as Grace sat in the communal lounge with her colouring book and crayons, pausing every now and then to suck orange juice through a straw. ‘Is she yours?’

It was those kinds of moments that held the most regret. Regret that I hadn’t made more of the second chance I’d been given when Mum had a heart attack ten years ago. I’d promised myself at the time that I would make the most of every moment – and I did, for a while, visiting her often. But then I met Lawrence, and worked long hours in Kensington, and later we had Grace. Weeks sometimes turned into months. I should have called her more, visited more, especially as she would never have travelled to London.

‘Well, I still think you should take the request seriously, Rachel,’ Angela continued, cutting into my thoughts.

I bit back tears. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing.’

‘It’s pretty odd, if you ask me. Do you think it’s connected to the call-in at the TV studio?’

Well, I do now. ‘Why the hell would it be?’

She shrugged. ‘Hey, keep your hair on, I just wondered, that’s all. Have you tried searching for this David Green on the Internet?’

‘Yes.’ I spooned coffee into mugs, refusing to catch her eye. ‘Last night, but the name is far too common. There are millions of results on Google.’ I’d even searched random LinkedIn profiles, Twitter, and Instagram to see if I could find him, with no luck.

‘Did you add Mandan Road and Sligo to your search?’

I nodded. ‘Still nothing.’ I felt a wave of anxiety wash over me. Sometimes, like now, Angela drove me crazy with her worrying. ‘Anyway, lots of people get requests from strangers,’ I went on, needing her to back up that theory, not raise more concerns.

‘None for me!’ She held up her hand as I rammed a teaspoon into the sugar bowl. ‘I need to lose a couple of stone.’

I splashed scalding water into the mugs, and handed her a steaming sugar-free coffee. ‘But you look great,’ I said, controlling my desire to ask her to leave.

She tweaked my cheek. ‘You’re such a sweetie.’

‘I mean it.’ I did. Her weight had yo-yoed since I’d known her. Sometimes, like now, she was curvy, and looked great in jeans and a flowing, funky top – the kind my mum loved. Other times, she looked too thin. Today, her highlighted hair fell in layers to her shoulders, and her pleasant round face carried a smile. ‘Are you going anywhere nice?’ I asked, realising she was more made-up than usual.

‘Another attempt at meeting Mr Right, this time for lunch – hopefully in liquid form.’ She rolled her eyes. She’d signed up to a dating agency she’d seen advertised on TV, but so far it had been a disaster. ‘It’s costing a fortune to meet idiots and bores, quite frankly. Let me tell you, Rachel, chivalry is dead. I’ve paid my own way every single time.’

‘That’s the way it’s done these days,’ I said, with a smile.

She blew on her coffee, and took a delicate sip. She’d told me before how she’d taken early retirement, and recently she’d felt a bit lost. ‘I just want someone to share my evenings with, Rachel. Is that too much to ask?’ she’d said. ‘It’s lonely spending twenty-four hours a day in your own company.’

Now she glanced over her shoulder, and into my lounge: a square room with an original fireplace I adored. Toys were put away in the wicker chest, and I’d straightened the cushions and throws, put the books on the crammed shelf in height order, and dashed the hoover over the grey carpet. I was grateful the room looked tidy. Angela’s house was always spotless. Not that she judged me.

‘I’m guessing Lawrence has Grace?’ she said.

‘Mmm. They won’t be back until Sunday evening, so I’m hoping to drive down to see my mum shortly. I prefer not to take Grace any more.’ Another stab of guilt – what about the times Mum recognised her? ‘It hurts … you know,’ I went on. ‘When Mum doesn’t know us.’ Sharp tears prodded my eyes, and I took a deep breath. I’d done far too much crying.

Angela reached over and patted my arm. ‘I know, sweetie,’ she said, her voice soft and warm. ‘I know.’

***

Dream Meadows Residential Care Home was deep in the Suffolk countryside, and my mother seemed happy there, as far as I could tell.

I parked and headed into the front entrance, spotting Margo, a care assistant with a permanent smile and short silver-grey hair.

‘Are you looking for your mum, dear?’ she asked breezily, hurrying across the reception area. She’d taken a shine to my mother, and Mum liked her too. ‘She was sleeping when I last put my head round her door. Go up. She’s had a busy day today, but she’ll be delighted to see you.’ She went on her way, straightening her navy tunic over her midriff, as I climbed the stairs.

Mum’s was a cosy room: a single bed, and a wardrobe and chest of drawers in antique pine. The surfaces were filled with framed photos jostling for space with trinkets Mum had asked me to bring from her house.

She was asleep on the bed, a duvet with lilac butterflies pulled over her, her breathing shallow. I stepped towards the window, and dragged back the thin curtains that matched the quilt cover.

Fields extended for miles – sheep and cows no bigger than ants dotted in the distance, and I imagined Mum painting the scene.

She stirred behind me, and I went over and perched on the edge of the bed near her head, watching her sleep, my body tensing as I pretended she was fine. Her quiet breaths were rapid, her eyes moving under closed lids. What are you dreaming about, Mum? Is it the times we spent together when I was young? Trips to Southwold – eating chips – flying kites – walking along the beach?

Should I wake her?

As though sensing me, her eyes flickered and opened. ‘Rachel,’ she said, and my heart sang. It was a good day. Thank God it’s a good day.

She pulled herself to a sitting position and leaned her head against the wall behind her. She was wearing a faded orange kaftan dress that was creased from sleep. I remembered her wearing it when I was young, yet it still fitted perfectly; she’d never gained weight over the years. I remembered visiting her house a few years ago, and trying to get her to throw a few things out. She’d been horrified when I suggested the dress should go, clutching it to her like a security blanket.

Now she pulled her plait over her shoulder, reminding me of a character from a Brontë novel.

‘It’s so lovely to see you, darling,’ she said, burying her fists into her eyes and rubbing them, childlike. She leaned forward, and I took her into my arms and hugged her close, breathing her in.

‘Where’s Grace?’ she said, when I released her.

‘She’s with Lawrence.’ I hadn’t told her we’d broken up. Not yet. I wanted to save her from that. ‘Are you getting up? We could go for a walk in the grounds. It’s cold but bright.’

‘Yes. Yes, let’s do that.’ She swung her legs round, and a furry toy rabbit in a waistcoat fell to the floor.

I picked it up. ‘Mr Snookum,’ I said, placing a kiss on his head. ‘I haven’t seen you for years.’ I thought he was in my attic.

She took him from me, and began fiddling with his ears. ‘I gave him to you when you were little, remember?’

‘Yes,’ I said, raising a brow. ‘I didn’t realise you had him.’

She placed the love-worn rabbit on her pillow, and covered his small body with the duvet, so just his head poked out. Then she slipped her bare feet into canvas shoes.

‘Will you be warm enough? It’s been snowing.’

‘In summer?’

‘It’s winter, Mum. You’ll be cold.’

‘Of course I won’t,’ she said, standing and pulling on a long, thick cardigan that brushed against her ankles. ‘Let’s go,’ she said, and I followed her from the room, closing the door behind me.

We strolled around the grounds for about half an hour, our arms linked as we pointed out crocuses and snowdrops pushing their way through the cold earth. We talked about art – her favourite subject, and how different areas in the grounds would make beautiful paintings. Bare trees lined up against a pale sky in the distance with a hint of sunlight glowing around the branches, caught her attention. ‘I’ll paint those,’ she said.

‘I love you, Mum,’ I said, resting my head on her shoulder, wanting to capture the lucid moment – a second of clarity amongst her sea of confusion. I wanted to bottle it so I could drink it in whenever I felt down. I couldn’t bear that I was losing her, and battled down tears.

‘Love you more, Rachel,’ she said, as I brushed my cheek with the back of my hand. ‘You’re not crying, are you?’

‘No, no, of course not,’ I said, breathing deeply.

‘Is this because Lawrence left you?’

I shook my head. How did she know? We stopped and stared at each other for several moments, her blue eyes shimmering. She took hold of my wrist, her hand freezing. And there it was, that look. I was losing her again. ‘There are things you should know about the past, Rachel,’ she said. ‘Before I go.’

‘Where are you going, Mum?’

‘Laura.’ Margo was dashing across the grass towards us, a little breathless. ‘It’s time for your heart tablets, love.’

To my frustration, Mum released her grip on my arm. ‘I don’t want to take them. They’re poison,’ she said, as Margo took her arm and led her away.

Our conversation was over for the day.

Chapter 6

February 2018

‘She said there are things I should know about my past,’ I said, as Angela and I sat next to each other on my sofa. I admit, I’d have preferred to be with Zoe, who I could rely on to pull me round and tell me I was daft to worry, but she was always so busy with work and her new romance with Connor – who was so cute she could eat him, apparently.

Angela’s eyes were fixed on mine. Her curiosity, or maybe the wine, made them sparkle. ‘What do you think she meant?’

I shrugged. ‘She gets confused,’ I said, stating the obvious.

‘I know, sweetie. It must be dreadful for you both.’ Angela leaned forward and filled our wine glasses for the third time, before handing me my glass. I wasn’t sure I wanted another. I certainly didn’t need a hangover tomorrow. But I took it anyway.

‘She isn’t herself at all,’ I said. Another obvious.

‘How much do you know about your past?’ she asked.

I shrugged again. ‘I was born in Ireland, County Sligo, but I can’t remember that far back. We moved to Suffolk when I was about four, I think.’

‘So, you’re Irish?’ she said, leaning forward, elbows on knees, as though the topic fascinated her.

‘Half Irish – although my father could have been Irish, I guess.’

‘You don’t know who he is?’

Angela had asked about my dad before, but I’d changed the subject. I hadn’t known her well enough at the time to discuss my personal life. She often pried into areas I wasn’t ready to share with her. In fact, she’d only lived next door a week when she brought round moussaka that I could pop into the oven, gas mark 5, and a bottle of wine. She’d seen Lawrence go out for the third time that week, and thought I’d be glad of the company. I’d invited her in, not wanting to hurt her feelings.

But despite her flaws, she’d become a good friend. A friend I relied on to look after Grace.

I shook my head. ‘I’ve asked my mother lots of times over the years who my father was, tried prodding her memory – but she’s always insisted he was a one-night stand, and she’d been too drunk to even remember his name.’

‘Do you know where in Sligo you lived as a child?’

I shook my head again.

‘Could you ask your grandparents?’

‘They died in a car accident before I was born. My mum was never close with them. And I have no other family.’

I tried to shake my mum’s comment from my head. I liked that my memories started in Suffolk, that they were such happy times spent with my mum. But now I felt my curiosity rise, drawn to Ireland – to Sligo.

‘You should find out more about your grandparents, at least. I’ve done a family tree, and it’s been fascinating discovering things I never knew.’

‘But they may not be relevant to what Mum said. I think I just need to talk to her next time I visit, wait for one of her more lucid moments, and ask her what she meant – before it’s too late.’

My mood was spiralling downwards, like a child on a helter-skelter. I needed to change the subject, and managed to pluck a smile from somewhere. ‘Anyway. Enough about me. How’s the dating going?’

‘Awful,’ she said, leaning back, and peering over her almost empty glass. She was drinking too fast – and I wasn’t far behind her. ‘I feel like a fool selling myself to strangers. And the bra and knickers stage scares me half to death.’

I laughed. ‘It’s not easy,’ I agreed. ‘Have you met anyone you like?’

She shrugged. ‘There was one bloke. But after a couple of dates he told me he was married. Separated, he insisted, but I couldn’t face being part of a love triangle. I’ve been there before.’

‘You have?’

‘Mmm.’ She nodded. ‘A long time ago.’

‘Was it serious?’ I said, clutching at the opportunity to find out more about her. For a person who was so inquisitive about my life, she’d given little away about her own.

She closed her eyes and sighed. ‘Anyway.’ Her eyes sprung open, and I knew the little insight into her past had ended. ‘There was another bloke I quite liked. He was a bit young though.’

I raised a brow. ‘How young exactly?’

‘Thirty – give or take a few years.’

‘Oh my God, Angela, you devil.’

‘I felt like his sugar mummy.’

I smiled. ‘Is there such a thing?’

She shook her head. ‘A panther then …’

‘Cougar.’

We burst into laughter, my mood lifting.

‘I think I’ll be alone forever,’ she said, fiddling with her earring as she drained her glass.

‘You and me both.’

‘But you will always have Grace.’ She unscrewed the lid of the third bottle, and filled our glasses.

‘Yes, Grace keeps me going,’ I said, rubbing my forehead with the tips of my fingers. ‘Although I worry about her, you know, how my breakup with Lawrence is affecting her. Nursery said she’s been a bit quiet lately, but they have no concerns.’

‘She loves you both very much, and you love her. She’ll be just fine.’

‘I hope so,’ I said, my mind drifting.

And as though sensing she was losing me, Angela put down the bottle, looped her arm around me, and pulled my head in to her shoulder. She smelt of Chanel No.5 – Mum’s favourite. ‘Is there anything else bothering you, Rachel?’ she said.

‘Just Mum.’ But in truth it was more than that. It was Lawrence. It was the fact I was letting the friend request from David Green blow out of proportion. And I’d definitely had far too much wine.

‘I’ll deactivate my Facebook account,’ I said. ‘Then the friend request can’t bother me any more. And the truth is I look at Lawrence’s timeline far too often. That can’t be healthy, especially as he seems to be having more fun than me – which isn’t that difficult.’

‘Do you miss him?’

I shrugged. Do I miss him? ‘I miss bits of him,’ I said. ‘The good bits.’ And there had been good bits. We had a beautiful daughter together. He would surprise me with flowers and a bottle of Prosecco, and lead me upstairs where we’d stay for hours. Yes, there’d been good times. Lots of them.

But there had been bad times too, and his voice suddenly hammered in my head: ‘You always over-react, Rachel.’ ‘The place is a pigsty.’ ‘You’re a mess.’ ‘Aren’t you getting a bit old for bright red hair?’ ‘Your mum isn’t going to improve, and you have to accept it, and just get on with it.’ ‘I’ll be late tonight.’ ‘I’ll be late tonight.’ ‘I’ll be late tonight.’

I grabbed my open laptop, thumped it down on my knees, and clicked into Facebook, determined to close my account. ‘Oh God, I’ve got another friend request,’ I cried, peering at the little symbol at the top of the screen.

‘Don’t look at it,’ Angela insisted, trying to pull the laptop from me.

I tugged it back. ‘No, no, I’m not going to.’ But I was already clicking on the symbol with shaking fingers.

Relief surged through my body, and I let out a small laugh.

‘Who’s it from?’ she said, looking over my shoulder at the screen.

‘You, you doughnut.’

She’d said a few weeks back that she was going to sign up, to stalk the men on the dating site, she’d joked. I gave another laugh as my heart, which I hadn’t realised was racing, slowed to an even beat.

‘Oh, yes, I forgot about that.’ She laughed too. ‘I don’t suppose I’ll use it that much. It took me all afternoon to work out how to set up a bloody profile.’

I accepted her friend request.

‘But I thought you were going to deactivate.’ Her forehead furrowed.

I shrugged, confused. ‘To be honest I feel a teeny bit pissed – not the best time to make such a life-changing decision.’ I giggled, picked up my glass, and drained it in two gulps, even though a nagging voice in my head was telling me not to.

Angela yawned and, stretching her arms above her head, glanced at the time on her phone.

‘Oh my God,’ I said, looking at the clock on the wall. ‘It’s gone midnight. I’ve kept you up.’

‘No problem,’ she said, rising. ‘It’s been fun. Better than a blind date any day.’

Five minutes later we hugged goodbye and, from my front door, I watched her stagger towards her house. Once she was safely inside, I closed and bolted my door, hating that I was alone – and hating even more that I hated being alone. I flumped down on the sofa, and picked up my phone, moving my index finger over the screen. Would Lawrence be up? Would he mind if I called? He’d said we could be friends.

I squeezed my hand into a fist. It was a ridiculous idea. If I called him after midnight he would be put out. He’d always told me he needed his beauty sleep if I ever woke him in the night desperate to talk about Mum.

I reached for the half-drunk bottle of red, unscrewed the lid, and refilled my glass. As I drank, I couldn’t expel Lawrence from my head. How happy we’d been in the early days. We’d met at an art exhibition I’d put on for Mum, in a small gallery in London. He’d bought a study of Lough Gill in Ireland.

‘It’s the lake mentioned by Yeats in his poetry,’ he’d said, locking me in with his grey gaze.

‘You like Yeats?’ I’d asked.

He’d nodded, and there was something about him that had captured my interest. Maybe it was simply because my mother had read Yeats and other romantic poetry to me when I was young.

I finished the wine and, my good sense heading out the door, brought up his number on my phone. I pressed call. It rang and rang, and I was expecting it go to voicemail when it was picked up. ‘Lawrence Templeman’s phone.’

It was a woman. American. Why has a woman picked up his phone after midnight?

‘Hello,’ she continued when I remained silent. ‘Is that you, Rachel?’

Damn you, caller-ID. ‘Sorry, yes, who is this?’

‘It’s Farrah.’ It was as though I should know exactly who she was. ‘Lawrence is asleep, I’m afraid. I heard his phone and, well …’ She paused. ‘Is everything OK? Is your mother OK?’

I bristled. Why had Lawrence told this woman, whoever she was, about my mum?

‘Is Grace OK?’ The sudden thought of a strange woman in the same house as my daughter angered me.

‘Yes, she’s been asleep since seven, bless her heart. She’s an absolute delight. You must be so proud.’

I wanted to yell that I was coming to get my daughter, and how dare Lawrence let her into Grace’s life without my permission? But I said nothing.

Farrah clearly picked up on my silence. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes, yes, I’m fine. Listen, I shouldn’t have called.’ My voice trembled, and I knew it carried a slur. ‘I’ll ring back in the morning.’ And before she could respond, I ended the call.

A surge of tears hit my eyes as my thumbs thumped the screen and I sent a text to Lawrence:

How dare you let someone new into Grace’s life without telling me!

Oh God, would Farrah read the text? I let out an exasperated wail, raced upstairs, chucked my phone onto the bedside unit, and threw myself onto the bed like a lovelorn teenager. The room spun.

Eventually sleep saved me from my chaotic emotions.

Later, I woke from a vivid nightmare, certain something had stirred me. I was thirsty, my head throbbed, and the quilt was tangled around me like a cocoon. I normally planted a glass of water on my bedside table if I’d been drinking, but in my silly stupor a few hours earlier, I’d forgotten. I was still in my clothes.

I lay for a few moments listening, but the only sounds were familiar creaks of the old building, and the distant rumble of a train. It was odd how when Grace wasn’t with me, I felt more insecure.

I untangled the quilt, sat up, and swung my legs round, stuffing my feet into my slippers. I needed water before my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.

Flicking on the bedside light, I picked up my phone: 3 a.m.

I thought again about Lawrence. Were there photos of Farrah on his Facebook timeline that I’d missed? I dragged my fingers through my hair, still feeling pretty pissed. Water could wait. I clicked into Facebook on my mobile.

It was then that I saw it – another friend request. My heart bounced around my chest.

Ronan Murphy: CONFIRM/DELETE REQUEST

I clicked on his profile. As before, he didn’t appear to have any friends. His profile picture was another view, a mountain this time – and I knew it was Benbulbin in Sligo. The cover picture was of a building that reminded me of a workhouse, and it had a sign outside that read ‘Glastons Insurance. Dublin’.

I scrolled down his timeline. Just one status update:

Ronan, Ronan is no good

Chop him up for firewood

But this time I noticed he’d sent me a message.

Chapter 7

September 1999

Incessant rain hammers against the window – a clap of thunder rings out. It doesn’t wake him.

One strike to his head, so he doesn’t fight back – but now he wakes, dazed – tries to speak – no words come out.

I plunge the knife deep into his flesh – once, twice, three times. The blood sprays and spurts like a bright red fountain, covering me – metallic on my lips.

He’s holding on to life – too young to die – refusing to let go, reaching up to me, eyes pleading. He thinks I’ll stop. Poor Ronan.

I lurch forward. The knife goes in one final time – deeper, and I twist, hearing his ribs crack.

They’ll know it’s me this time, but I don’t care.

Ronan Murphy deserves to die.

Chapter 8

March 1987

Kneeling in front of the loo, Laura buried her head in her hands, waiting for another wave of nausea to hit. It would soon pass, once the digestive biscuit she’d eaten on waking took effect.

She rose, padded to the sink, and splashed her face with cold water. This would be so much easier if Jude was with her – but he hadn’t replied to her calls. And she’d already stayed at her parents’ house longer than she’d envisaged, unable to find the strength to put it on the market and move on. For now the woods and lake felt different to when she was a lonely child. She liked the solitude. The isolation.

She’d received a couple of letters from acquaintances at university, asking if she was OK, was there anything they could do, but she hadn’t replied. Paralysed by the twin poles of grief – the loss of the parents who never loved her, and Jude not changing his mind – she found she couldn’t reach out them.

She headed down the stairs, tightening her robe, knowing her face was the colour of dough. She needed to shower, to clean her teeth, but first, some coffee.

Despite liking the quiet of the area, the house still felt far too big. Sometimes it was as though she was on display – an exhibit in a glass case. Why had her parents loved this house so much? Her father had said the window gave them a splendid view of the lake, and she supposed it did, but what about feeling vulnerable on the other side of the glass?

She drifted into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Should she try to get hold of Jude again? Was she beginning to act like a stalker? Never giving up when she knew, deep down, it was over.

She’d tried the number of his digs so many times, but either it went to answer machine, or his roommate answered and promised to pass on a message. But Jude had never got back to her. She’d even tried his parents’ house, but his father had picked up and told her with a bark to stop calling.

She made herself a mug of coffee – she’d gone off tea – and stood at the kitchen window sipping it. The kitchen looked out onto a lonely country road. It was a rarity to see a car pass by – it was too quiet at times, just as it had been when she was a child. She’d had no friends nearby back then, and travelled a fair distance to school by bus.

A postman appeared, cycling round the bend, and her heart almost lit up at the sight of another human being.

Maybe she should get herself a cat. At least she could speak to it, even if it didn’t answer – it was better than talking to herself, which seemed to be happening more and more.

‘It’s Postman Pat,’ she said, rubbing a hand over her stomach, which barely showed a baby was growing inside her. ‘He’s coming to see us, peanut,’ she added, as he propped his bike against the wall.

There was a clatter, as three letters dropped through the letterbox and onto the mat. She headed over and picked them up. There was a letter from her solicitor sorting out the ownership of the house and the money her parents had left her, a phone bill, and a handwritten expensive-looking envelope. She ripped open the final letter, her eyes filling with tears as she read the words:

Dear Miss Hogan,

It’s come to our attention that you are carrying our son’s baby. We realise you are probably concerned and distressed too and so we would like to offer you the money to have a termination in a private clinic and a lump sum for you to make a fresh start; on the condition you no longer contact Jude. He has a bright future ahead of him, which I’m sure you already know, and I’m also sure you want a similarly bright future for yourself, without trying to raise a baby on your own. We all agree it’s for the best if you and he have no more to do with each other. It was foolish of you to get into this predicament. But it’s easily rectified. Please contact us at your earliest convenience, so we can arrange an appointment.

Sincerely,

Bruce Henshaw

She ripped the letter into shreds, dropping to her knees as she sobbed. How could they?

The tears stopped eventually, and she laid her head down on the floor and closed her eyes, small sobs escaping as she drifted off to sleep.

It was dark when she woke. Realising she’d slept all day, she blinked to clear the sleep from her eyes and stretched her aching limbs. The pain from reading the letter had subsided, replaced with anger.

She walked through the house, moonlight touching the dark lounge as she made her way through the shadows and the pockets of pure black. She moved closer to the window and looked out at the lake. Someone was out there – just as they had been on the first night. She’d dismissed it then as a trick of the light, but tonight, there was no doubting the silhouette she’d seen.

The solitary figure would have unnerved her once, but she didn’t care any more. Come and get me if you dare. You can’t hurt me. I’m already destroyed.

The figure darted behind a tree, as though he’d heard her thoughts.

‘Who are you?’ she called, her words trapped behind the triple-glazed glass. Without a second thought, she raced to the kitchen and picked up a carving knife. ‘Right, you bastard,’ she whispered, heading for the patio door, and throwing it open. ‘It’s time someone paid.’

She stood for some moments, her robe dancing about her ankles in the wind, her eyes skittering around the area, knife clenched in her hand. ‘What the hell do you want?’

A silent figure peered from behind the tree. It was too dark to make out his features.

‘I’ve got a knife,’ she yelled, raising it like a warrior. ‘And I’m not afraid to use it.’

‘I just want to talk,’ a voice called back. He sounded young, a teenager perhaps. ‘Wanted to find out who’d moved in.’

‘Come here then.’ She clenched the knife tighter, but as he approached and stepped into the light, she knew she wouldn’t use it. He was just a child, no more than twelve – scruffy and unkempt, his dark hair tangled, his face grey with grime.

‘Dillon O’Brian,’ he said, hands deep in the pockets of grubby jeans. ‘That’s me name, case you was wondering.’

She looked into the woods. ‘Where do you live?’

He took his hands from his pockets and pointed eastwards. ‘Lough End Farm, with me ma and da, and Bridie and Caitlin.’ He was Irish, his accent thicker than her own, and his green eyes looked dull and vacant.

Laura remembered the farm from her childhood. It had stood empty for years – was empty when she set off for university. ‘When did you move in?’ she asked.

‘Almost two years now.’ He sniffed, and wiped his cuff across his nose. ‘Bridie’s a year old, Caitlin’s two months. They cry a lot.’

She placed the knife on the patio table, keeping her eyes on the lad, who nibbled at his thumbnail and scraped his heavy boots through the leaves and twigs.

‘So you want to talk,’ she said.

‘I do. Yeah.’

‘About?’

He shrugged. ‘I just …’ He stopped, screwing up his nose, and nodding towards the house. ‘Did you know the couple who lived here?’

She nodded.

‘They would tell me to piss off if I came up this end of the woods. They thought they owned it, but I told ’em they can’t own a fecking wood.’ He kicked a stone, and it flew up and hit the patio table, the clatter echoing into the darkness.

‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘But they thought they could do what they liked.’

‘How did you know them?’

‘They were my parents.’

‘Christ! I thought I had it bad.’ His face broke into a smile as he glanced towards an owl on a branch of a high tree, its eyes wide and haunting, and then he looked back at Laura.

‘I’m Laura,’ she said. ‘Do you want a glass of lemonade or something?’ And deciding the boy could do with a treat she added, ‘I’ve got chocolate biscuits.’

He shook his head. ‘I should get back before Da notices I’m gone. Ma always says he’ll beat the shite out of me if I’m too long.’

‘Surely not.’

He shrugged. ‘He hasn’t yet, but I ain’t risking it. Listen, can I come by again some time? Would you mind?’

She smiled. It would be good to have the company. She was already feeling the isolation of the place. ‘I’d like that,’ she said.

‘Grand,’ he said, and took off, small and wiry, zigzagging through the trees.

Chapter 9

February 2018

I hated Sundays as a child. The thought of school the following day meant my hours at home were ruined, whatever we did. If I’d had my way, I would have stayed with my mother every day, watching her paint.

Sometimes, although never in depth, she would talk about her parents. ‘We were never close,’ she told me once, touching my cheek. ‘Not like us, Rachel – we’re different. It’s you and me against the world.’

‘I love you, Mum,’ I would say.

‘Love you more,’ she would reply, as I leant my head on her knee.

If I was honest, I wasn’t a fan of Sundays even now, especially today. Grace would be with Lawrence until six o’clock, and I had nothing planned. Plus I was woozy and fatigued from drinking too much. And with the weird things that had been happening, it really did have all the hallmarks of being a pretty rotten Sunday.

Needing someone to talk to, I’d messaged Zoe and Angela at four in the morning. Why I thought they’d be awake, I had no idea. But now the sun was up, its rays streaming through the kitchen window, and they still hadn’t replied – I thought maybe they were miffed I’d disturbed their sleep.

Lawrence hadn’t replied to my stroppy text either. Had Farrah deleted it, or perhaps suggested he shouldn’t respond to his crazy ex?

Nibbling on a piece of dry toast, swallowing it down with sweet tea and painkillers, promising myself I would never drink again, I stared, trancelike, out of the kitchen window. My eyes fell on the summerhouse where I worked most weekday mornings, and I wondered what right I had to offer psychological help to others when I couldn’t seem to manage my own life at the moment. Tomorrow, Emmy would arrive on her morning off from the TV studio, and I wasn’t even sure I could face her.

Perhaps I should move out of Finsbury Park – start again somewhere new.

We’d moved nearer to central London when I worked in Kensington, and Lawrence worked in the finance district as a Software Development Engineer. Later, when he suggested we didn’t need my salary, and I could be a stay-at-home mum, I’d had no objections. I adored spending time with Grace – being a mum. But after a while I missed working. So, over-riding Lawrence’s objections at the time, I set up a business from home to fit around Grace.

I stared down at my phone. I hadn’t opened the message from Ronan Murphy, convinced that if I did, whoever had sent me the request would know I’d looked at it. But now I needed to know.

I grabbed my phone, and opened the message, my hand trembling. Just two lonely words:

Hi, Rachel.

I tapped the screen:

Who is this?

Seconds later an attachment flew into my inbox. I opened it, heart thumping, oblivious to any thought it might hold a virus. It was a photograph of a pretty, pale pink cottage, with roses around the door. At the foot of the photograph were the words: Evermore Farmhouse, followed by an address in County Sligo.

‘For God’s sake,’ I whispered. What the hell’s going on?

Within moments I was Googling Ronan Murphy, adding the name of the insurance company, followed by the name of the farmhouse. Then I tried keying his name into LinkedIn, Instagram, and Twitter. But as with David Green, it was impossible to find him.

By nine o’clock, I felt calmer, and the painkillers had kicked in. I’d showered, pulled on leggings and a long, baggy jumper that touched my knees, and attempted to do something with my hair, which needed cutting badly.

My phone pinged. It was Angela.

Oh, sweetie. Do you want me to come round? X

I didn’t. The desperate need for a friend in the small hours had vanished.

Maybe later. Thank you X

A red heart appeared on the screen, along with a row of kisses. At least I had friends I could rely on.

Phone in my hand, I brought up Lawrence’s number. Should I call him? Ask to speak to Grace? I stopped myself. I was still fuming about Farrah, and the last thing I wanted to do was upset my daughter. Instead I rose and took the stairs two at a time, deciding to distract myself by clearing out my wardrobe. De-cluttering and filling a bag for charity would make me feel better, I felt sure of it.

I’d been working for about an hour when the doorbell rang. I raced downstairs to see a large envelope on the doormat. I reached to pick it up.

It was addressed to me.

Inside was a canvas, folded twice. The painting was in my mother’s unique style, although unsigned. But it was ruined. Flakes of dried paint lay in its creases, and splodges of black filled the pale blue sky – a childlike attempt at clouds, perhaps. I tipped the envelope upside down, but there was no letter – no clue who sent it.

But I recognised the farmhouse immediately. It was same as the one in the photograph from Ronan Murphy earlier, although the building in the painting looked run-down. Had Ronan Murphy posted it through my door? Was it by my mother?

I flung open the front door, and looked up and down the road. Two cars – a red and a black – were indicating to turn left at the end of the road, and a white van was travelling in the other direction. A young couple stood at the bus stop, and a man with a briefcase hurried along the pavement. I had no way of telling who had delivered the letter.

I slammed the door and leaned my back against it. When had my mother painted this strange painting?

I hadn’t seen all of my mum’s work – many of her paintings were sold when I was young – but as I looked at the picture of the farmhouse, something stirred inside me. I’d seen a similar painting before in a pile I’d brought from Mum’s house in Suffolk, when I’d collected things she’d needed in the care home. I’d intended to hang some – but they’d ended up propped up in the corner of the lounge for ages, and later been transferred to the loft.

I dashed upstairs, pulled down the loft ladder, and looked up, my stomach tipping. There were so many memories up there. Would it be upsetting to start wading through my childhood memorabilia, or souvenirs of happier times with Lawrence? I took a deep breath and climbed the metal steps. I would look at the paintings and come straight back down.

It smelt musty, and always felt odd in the attic, as I shared the space with Angela. No divide had been put up when the house was built, and although Lawrence had said he would sort it out, he never had.

The light illuminated twenty or so boxes crammed in our section, whereas Angela’s side was almost empty. Just a pile of books – mainly medical – a holdall, and somehow Mum’s pictures were leaning against her back wall. I hadn’t been up there for so long, I could only think Lawrence must have moved them when he was trying to sort things out, and forgot to put them back.

I clambered over the boxes, and knelt down in front of the paintings. There was a stunning painting of Southwold’s brightly coloured beach huts; one of the remains of Greyfriars Priory in Dunwich, the sky intense grey, as though it might start to rain; another depicting a fish and chip shop in Aldeburgh, a queue of people waiting – and I could almost taste the chips with lashings of salt and vinegar. They were all studies of where we’d visited when I was a child. Despite never travelling far from home – I never went abroad as a child – my mother loved Suffolk.

And then I saw it: a painting of the same farmhouse – but this time four children stood outside, three girls and an older boy. A memory fluttered. I knew this house. I’d been inside it, could smell the damp, the cigarette smoke, and what was that? Bleach? I dropped the painting, a surge of fear filling my senses.

Something terrible had happened there.

I rose, suddenly breathless, and clambered my way across the loft, knocking my knee against one of the boxes and letting out a cry, almost falling.

By the hatch I saw a box marked ‘Rachel’s Childhood’. Mum had given it to me many years ago, and despite knowing I needed to get out of the loft, the temptation was too much. I lifted the lid, and began rummaging.

I picked up a naked, tangle-haired Barbie. I’d had all her accessories too – although I hadn’t wanted them that much. I’d been happiest with a football or a cricket bat, but a friend had a Barbie so I’d asked for one too. I continued to rummage through the fluffy toys that had once lined my bed, and found a game of Monopoly. I smiled at a memory of Mum and I playing. She’d joked that she’d wanted to buy Whitechapel and Old Kent Road to do them up, but I’d bought Mayfair and Park Lane, putting paid to her renovating ideas.

‘Mr Snookum?’ I whispered, nearing the bottom, and spotting his soft body. I lifted the toy rabbit out, and adjusted his waistcoat, before placing him against my nose, and breathing deeply.

And then it hit me.

Mum had him when I last visited. She’d tucked him under her duvet. How the hell had he got back into my loft?

I put him back in the box and snapped the lid shut, before climbing down the metal steps, my heart thudding.

Once downstairs, I put on my thick socks and boots and grabbed my parka, shoving the painting that had arrived earlier into my pocket.

I scooped up my car keys from the plate near the door. I knew I had to visit Mum.

Chapter 10

July 1987

Laura dangled her feet in the lake, the hot sun stroking her neck. The house her father built stood behind her as though determined to cast its shadow over her.

But it was a beautiful day, and the sun’s rays danced on the water like shimmering diamonds. Anglers on the banks in the far distance looked like tiny dolls set up by a child. A sailboat glided across the lake, carried by the breeze.

Laura nibbled on a blade of grass, as she gazed through her sunglasses, her corduroy maternity dungarees tight across her stomach.

The jerking movements of her unborn child brought her out of her trance. She touched her stomach, but instead of how she’d hoped she might feel by now – amazed and bewildered by the miracle growing inside her – it was as though she was carrying an alien. An alien that reminded her daily that Jude let her down.

Seven months she’d carried the little stranger, and now she’d stopped hoping Jude would call. She’d accepted he never would, and any love she’d first felt for their unborn child had been replaced with fear. Thoughts of moving away, starting a new life, were a distant memory. She hadn’t got the strength to move on – not right now. Perhaps she should have told her GP she dreaded the birth of her child. But how do you explain something so awful? How do you say those words?

She clung to the rapidly fading glimmer of hope that maybe, when she held her child in her arms, her motherly instincts would kick in. Burst through and outweigh anything she’d ever felt for Jude. Maybe their baby would become the love of her life, and together they would start a new life somewhere else.

Twigs snapped behind her. She turned, but there was nothing to see. She knew it was Dillon. She’d seen him several times over the past few months, when they would drink lemonade and talk. She had learnt not to ask too many questions about his home life because each time she had, he’d clouded over and clammed up.

He was an imaginative, animated boy, lighting up as he described the monster in the lake, and the werewolves in the woods – giving Laura’s life a much-needed magical boost. He’d been flattering too – telling her he could talk to her more easily than he could to anyone else. And he’d loved her paintings.

Laura had enjoyed painting since childhood, and despite dropping out of university, she’d loved studying art. And now painting had become her go-to – her escapism from her grief and isolation.

‘They’re fecking brilliant,’ he’d said, scanning her walls. (They’d taken ages to put up – a rebellious act against her parents.) ‘Maybe you could paint one of me and me sisters?’

‘One day,’ she’d said.

‘Dillon,’ she called now, her gaze skimming over the cluster of trees, blinking as a beam of sunlight hurt her eyes. ‘Is that you?’

The sun drifted behind a fluffy white cloud, and Laura pulled on her cardigan and shivered. ‘Dillon, don’t be silly,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Come and talk to me.’

He appeared on the bank behind her, and she patted the ground moaning as she twisted her baby bump, a twinge crossing her stomach. ‘Sit with me,’ she said, and he ran and dropped down beside her, stretching out as the sun crept out once more – his hands behind his head like a pillow, and eyes closed.

‘Did you know the mayfly only lives twenty-four hours?’ he said.

‘I did not know that,’ she said with a smile.

‘And did you know the dragonfly doesn’t bite or sting? Although it looks pretty scary.’ He pulled himself to a sitting position, and she noticed his eyes were bloodshot and red.

‘Are you OK, Dillon?’

‘Yep, course. Why?’ He avoided her gaze.

She placed her hand on his arm. ‘You know you can tell me anything, don’t you?’

‘I said, I’m fine.’ He pushed her hand away. ‘Don’t go all soft on me, Laura.’

‘OK, sorry. I didn’t mean to be nosy. So tell me more about the dragonfly.’

He rubbed his face hard, and his eyes shimmered. She wanted to ask again if he was OK, but felt it might scare him away.

‘Did you know fox pups stay with their parents until they’re seven months old? They make great parents. I like foxes. I often see one out here.’

‘You’re so clever. How do you know all this stuff?’

He shrugged, and turned to look at her, eyes serious.

‘What is it, Dillon? Please tell me.’

‘I can’t. If he knew …’

‘Who knew?’

He dropped his head, fiddling with his fingers. ‘You have to promise on your baby’s life you won’t say anything.’

‘OK.’

‘It’s just … sometimes I find my sister Bridie in the cupboard. I hear her sobbing sometimes because it’s dark in there, and she can’t get out. Ma has the key.’

‘Oh my God, Dillon,’ she said, her heartbeat speeding up.

‘Ma says me da puts her in there before he heads off to work, as a punishment. And ma says she daren’t get her out because he’d go mad, and hit her.’ He paused, now picking at a scab on his knee. ‘But Bridie’s only little, Laura.’ The scab came away in his fingers, and blood trickled. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me da. He’s always been a bit of a shouter, but now it’s as if the divil’s gotten into him.’

Laura studied the boy, shocked something so awful could be happening – was he telling the truth? He’d never mentioned anything like it before.

‘I swear on my sisters’ lives it’s true,’ he said, as though he knew what she was thinking.

Laura’s mind spun. ‘Shall I come over?’

‘Jaysus and all his angels, no.’ Dillon narrowed his eyes, and wiped away the blood on his knee with his sleeve. ‘You can’t come to the farmhouse, Laura.’ He shot to his feet. ‘If Da or Ma find out I’ve been talking …’ He looked towards her, fear in his eyes. ‘There’s nothing you can do, anyway. I once called the Guards on Da, because Ma said he hit her. But Ma wouldn’t let them in. Denied it, and they just believed her. Never came back. I just needed to tell someone, Laura, but there’s nothing you can do. Promise you won’t do anything.’

‘OK, I won’t. I promise. Sit, please, Dillon,’ she said. ‘Tell me more about the wildlife.’

A sudden stir in the trees seemed to unsettle him. ‘I’d best get going,’ he said, and before she could say another word, he made a bolt for it, and it wasn’t long before he was out of sight.

Laura edged forward on her bottom, and dangled her bare feet in the clear, cold water, as a swan drifted by. Ten minutes passed in a daze, as she thought about Dillon, Caitlin, and Bridie. Were the children OK? Did Dillon even go to school? He’d told her he did, but she couldn’t be sure – he was often about during the day. Should she try to find out more about the children’s life at home? Introduce herself as their neighbour, perhaps?

It was almost seven, and she knew she would need to move fast if she wanted to get to the farm and back before dark. She dried her feet on the grass, slipped them into flip-flops, and grabbed her hessian bag.

It was dusk by the time she found the farm, a dilapidated two-storey farmhouse. A couple of run-down sheds stood nearby, and a small apple tree grew near the lake, near a moored rowing boat. She remained a good distance away, obscured by trees, watching as a small, dark-haired woman of around her own age gathered towelling diapers from a makeshift washing line. Hens darted around her feet, almost toppling her over, as she folded the diapers into a wicker basket.

Laura wanted to go over, introduce herself, but her legs refused to move; the woman looked stern, unapproachable, and anyway, she’d promised Dillon. As she watched on, the last of the sun went down, coating distant trees like liquid gold. The woman wedged the basket onto her hip, just as the front door was flung open, and a little girl toddled out, her head full of dark curls – one of the braces of her red dungarees was undone, flapping about as she moved.

‘Bridie!’ It was Dillon, following her out. He lifted her up and swung her round and round, and the little girl giggled.

From what Laura could see, they seemed happy enough – a normal family. A little rough around the edges, but she knew that much.

The woman looked about her, and ushered Dillon, with the girl tucked under his arm, inside, as though she sensed a storm coming. Moments later the door slammed behind them. If it hadn’t been for the hens scurrying about, pecking the ground, it would have felt as though nobody lived there at all.

The sun had dipped behind the horizon, and Laura hitched her bag further onto her shoulder, and turned for home. But as she stepped forward a searing pain made her tense. She grabbed her stomach, and bent over.

‘You spying?’ It was a male voice some distance away.

Laura stood upright, and looked about her, the pain easing.

‘I asked you a question,’ came the voice.

‘I was just out walking. I live about half a mile away,’ she called, trying to pick out the man in the darkness.

‘Lough End Farm is private property,’ he called. ‘You’re trespassing.’

‘Yes, sorry. I’ll be on my way.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Laura. Laura Hogan.’

‘The daughter of that couple who died at Devil’s Corner? I heard you’d moved in.’

She shuffled. ‘I should get back.’

‘I’m Tierney O’Brian.’ He was still out of view, although his shape was moving towards her through the darkness, tall and broad – still too far away to make out his features. ‘Just keep away from here in future.’

‘Yes, yes, of course.’ She dashed into the woods, another pain gripping her, as though someone had grabbed her around the middle and squeezed. She stopped, crying out, and grabbed a tree branch.

‘You OK?’ she heard Tierney call out, his footfalls approaching.

‘Fine,’ she called. Surely it isn’t a contraction, not this early.

She sucked in a breath, and hurried through the darkness, nerves jangling, Dillon’s words about Bridie being locked in a cupboard still in her head.

She picked up speed, weaving in and out of the trees, a sudden movement of a low-flying bat causing her to cry out. What the hell was wrong with her?

Relieved to see the welcoming porch light of her house, she fumbled with her key. Once inside, she pulled the bolt across and leaned against the door. The family at the farm looked perfectly happy, didn’t they? She could stop worrying about the children, couldn’t she?

Another painful contraction ripped across her stomach.

‘Oh God, no,’ she cried, as she slid to the floor in agony, her waters breaking.

Chapter 11

February 2018

I arrived at Dream Meadows Care Home at two o’clock. Mum was in the communal lounge, a peaceful place looking out over the grounds.

I made my way through the people dotted about on chairs and sofas, reading, sleeping, or doing crossword puzzles, and sat down beside her.

Her blonde hair, not a trace of grey, hung loose and damp, from a recent shower I suspected. She looked younger than her years. Pretty in a flowing purple top with a ruffled hem, that I’d bought her for Christmas, over navy leggings, and a pair of fluffy slippers.

‘Mum,’ I said, taking hold of her hand, and she looked up, her eyes wide and vacant. I knew before she said a word that she didn’t know who I was.

‘Hello,’ she said, locking her eyes on mine. ‘I’m Laura Hogan. Do I know you?’ The question always stung. But before I could answer, my mother continued, ‘My daughter’s at school at the moment – she’s very clever. She came to see me this morning.’

I sighed inside. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ I said, trying to control the usual surge of tears burning behind my eyes. ‘Coffee?’

‘Are you my carer?’ She looked about her. ‘Where’s Margo today? I like Margo.’

‘I’m not your carer, Mum. It’s me. Rachel.’ I swallowed a lump rising in my throat. I had to keep from crying, for her sake.

‘I don’t want any …’ She stopped, and tapped her knee with her free hand, as though she was sending Morse code to her brain. ‘I don’t want any brown hot water … thank you. I’ve had several cups already. It keeps me awake at night.’

I squeezed her hand, wanting to ask her what she’d wanted to say the last time I was here, ask her about Mr Snookum, show her the painting, but what good would it do?

‘I love you,’ I whispered.

‘Love you more,’ she said, eyes still closed.

‘It’s still you and me against the world, Mum. It always will be.’

Her eyes flickered and opened, and she broke into a smile. ‘Would you get me a coffee, please? My daughter might come later, and I want to be awake when she does.’

For an hour I sat by her side, reading aloud Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, one of her favourite books. It was far easier to read than attempt to talk, and the words of Lewis Carroll seemed fitting somehow. My mother had disappeared down a rabbit hole and into another world, just like Alice.

Finally, I got up to leave, and kissed her cheek. I pulled on my coat, and as I tucked my hand in my pocket, I felt the picture, and questions darted around my head. Should I show it to her? Would she recognise the farmhouse? Would her older memories be easier to reach? I didn’t want to upset her, but desperately needed to know. I pulled it out, unfolded it, and placed it on her knees. ‘I wondered if you remember this place, Mum?’

She looked down, and her eyes filled with tears, as she ran shaking fingers over the black clouds and down the creases. ‘Rachel added the clouds.’

‘Did I?’ I couldn’t remember.

She stared at the picture for some time before a sudden desperate sob came from deep inside her. ‘The cuts,’ she cried. ‘They were the same size. They should have been different, you see. I should have said something.’

I reached over, folded the picture, and stuffed it back in my pocket, as Margo rushed over to comfort her, pulling her into a hug.

‘Mum,’ I said. ‘Mum, tell me what’s wrong. What is it you wanted to tell me last time I was here?’

But as quickly as her tears came, they stopped. She pulled away from Margo, and her eyes, vacant once more, focused on the window.

It was time for me to leave.

***

Snow fell thick and fast on the journey home, settling on the grass verges, and I began to panic that I wouldn’t get back in time for Lawrence bringing Grace home, but thankfully I skidded to a stop outside my house the same time as he did.

‘Mummy,’ Grace called once he’d unstrapped her from the car seat, and plonked her down on the snow-covered pavement.

‘Hello, my lovely girl,’ I said, crouching and holding out my arms. She padded across the snow towards me, wrapped in her winter coat, a wool hat with a fur pom-pom covering dark curls. She’d inherited her hair from Lawrence, although he kept his short these days.

I took her into my arms and squeezed, breathing her in. ‘I’ve missed you so much.’

‘I’ve missed you more,’ she said, as I released her. She looked up at the dark sky, and a snowflake landed on her nose. ‘Can we build a snowman?’ she said, eyes back on me.

‘Maybe later,’ I said.

She crouched down, and began scooping snow into her gloved hands, singing ‘Do you want to build a snowman?’ from Frozen at the top of her voice.

Lawrence approached, tall, slim, and handsome, in a smart jacket with jeans and a green woollen hat with an oversized pom-pom. I glanced at the car. Someone was sitting in the passenger seat. Farrah?

‘I got your text,’ he said, folding his arms.

‘Yes, well, I was angry.’ I looked up at him and stuffed my hands in my pockets, conscious I looked a mess. ‘You should have talked to me before introducing fucking Farrah to our daughter.’ I never swore much, and it always sounded a bit lame – silly – like I was a child trying out the word for the first time.

‘Don’t be pathetic, Rachel.’ He’d said that to me a lot in the weeks leading up to our breakup. ‘Her name’s Farrah Bright.’

‘Of course it is.’

He glanced over his shoulder at Grace. ‘Listen, I think it’s only fair you should know.’ He paused for a moment. ‘The thing is …’ He scratched his eyebrow. ‘The truth is, I’ve been seeing Farrah for over a year now, and we’re pretty serious. I’m sorry, Rach …’

‘A year?’ I cut in. ‘Jeez, Lawrence, how could you?’ I felt my chin wobble. ‘You were seeing her when we were together?’ My stomach heaved. I’d had no idea.

‘Not seriously.’

‘Well, that’s OK then,’ I spat.

‘I’m sorry.’ He tried to take hold of my hand, but I dodged his, my arms flapping like helicopter propellers as I smacked the cold air, and skidded around on the ice like Bambi.

‘I didn’t want to hurt you,’ he said, catching my elbow.

‘Well, that didn’t work out for you. Just leave me alone,’ I cried, snatching my elbow away, and storming past him, almost slipping again as I fumbled for my keys – desperate to get inside before tears came. ‘Grace, come on, lovely girl.’

‘Farrah adores Grace,’ he called after me. ‘She can’t have kids, so …’

I turned, glaring at the car. The woman faced forward, a fur-lined hood obscuring my view of her. I wanted to rush over, bang on the glass, scream that she could have Lawrence with knobs on, but Grace belonged to me. ‘Keep her away from Grace,’ I said calmly.

I opened the front door, and Grace ran to my side. ‘Wave to Daddy,’ I said, trying hard not to show her how angry I was.

‘Bye, Daddy,’ she called, waving.

‘Bye, chipmunk,’ he called back, and it took all of my willpower not to pick up a clump of snow and chuck it at his stupid shiny black car.

Chapter 12

October 1987

Laura stood in the dense darkness at the water’s edge rocking Rachel, hoping the night air would send her daughter to sleep.

‘Shh, please,’ she whispered, but Rachel continued to yell – a piercing sound, like an incessant dentist drill inside Laura’s head, screwing with her mind, twisting her thoughts so they were no longer recognisable as her own.

She couldn’t see her baby’s face, but knew it would be red and blotchy, coated with tears and snot, because it always was. It always is.

The birth had been problematic – a bad start. Laura’s hopes that the anger she felt towards Jude would dissipate once she held her child in her arms hadn’t happened. Rachel had been premature, with respiratory distress syndrome and severe jaundice. She’d been kept in intensive care for almost a month, and Laura had struggled to bond with her. In fact, she felt nothing. Was she no better than her own parents?

Now Rachel was three months old. The midwife and health visitor were long gone, leaving her to it, believing she was OK. She’d somehow convinced them of that.

She had nobody to turn to. If she’d only kept in contact with the other students at university – accepted Abi’s offer of help when she’d called. But it was too late now they’d gone their own ways. In fact, the only people she saw were those behind shop counters, or old ladies who cooed at the child, telling Laura how beautiful her daughter was. She wished she could see what they saw. The consuming guilt was unimaginable.

But she still saw Dillon sometimes – Dillon who’d put up with her tears, and her weirdness. How had it happened that her only friend was a teenage boy?

He hadn’t mentioned his family since July, and Laura sometimes felt she should ask, but she was struggling so much with her daughter, she wasn’t sure she could take on his problems too.

Laura squeezed the child to her. ‘Shh! Shh! Please stop crying,’ she said, moving towards the lake. Once there she looked down, her eyes adjusting to the shimmering water, like tar beneath her. ‘I’m so tired,’ she said, stepping closer still, so close that her toes curled over the edge, and the earth crumbled. If she jumped it would put them both out of their misery.

As though sensing her mother’s thoughts, Rachel stopped crying, and drifted off to sleep. Laura looked down at her daughter. This little thing with soft, downy hair, and blue eyes, was an innocent victim of a heartless man and a desperate woman. She hadn’t asked to be born.

Laura laid the child, wrapped in a thick blanket, on the ground, and fell down next to her. They would sleep outside tonight.

***

The sun was rising in a cloudless sky when Dillon woke Laura.

‘What the feck are you doing out here?’ he said, nudging her with his foot as though she was a corpse. He knelt down and picked up the baby. ‘What you up to, mischief?’ he said to Rachel, touching the child’s bare feet that poked from under the blanket. ‘Jaysus, your tootsies are freezing.’

He stared at Laura, who was clambering to her feet with the aid of a tree. She ran her fingers through her greasy hair, catching them in tangles, blinking to adjust her eyes to the daylight. ‘God, what’s the time?’ she said.

‘About eight – you been out here all night?’ He jiggled Rachel up and down, humming ‘Hush a bye baby’ as the baby attempted to consume her fist.

‘Not all night,’ she said, avoiding meeting his eye. ‘Let’s go in – Rachel will be hungry.’

Inside, Dillon gave Rachel her bottle, the baby’s hand gripping his little finger as she gulped down the milk, making contented noises. ‘You need to see someone, Laura,’ he said, sounding far too grown-up for his years. ‘You’re always crying, and so is this little one. It’s not right. Do you even wash?’

‘You’re a fine one to talk,’ Laura said, pushing a pile of newspapers and some dirty mugs across the table, and plonking down a coffee and a can of cola. She sat down beside him.

‘I don’t know who to turn to, Dillon.’ Her eyes filled with tears. She couldn’t keep burdening a thirteen-year-old kid – it wasn’t fair. ‘I can’t manage; I know that, but the thought of busybodies interfering – maybe even taking Rachel away – doesn’t bear thinking about.’

‘I could ask me ma to help?’

Laura stiffened. The woman who allowed a child to be put in a cupboard? ‘No, I’ll be OK,’ she said. ‘I’ll make an appointment at the doctor’s. Honestly.’

‘But Ma would be company for you.’

Laura didn’t want anyone in her home, finding fault, judging her. And to get involved with Dillon’s family worried her. Tierney O’Brian had left her with a cold feeling in the pit of her stomach.

‘She could come here when Da’s working,’ Dillon continued, looking about him at the half-drunk bottles with milk curdling at the bottom, the used diapers that smelt awful, mugs, glasses … the hellhole she lived in. ‘Ma could help tidy up a bit. She’s good at keeping things clean.’

Laura looked at Dillon, scruffy and grimy, as ever. She snatched up her mug of coffee and took a gulp. It burned her tongue. ‘I’m fine, Dillon,’ she said, her eyes on Rachel now sleeping in his arms.

‘But she’s used to three kids, Laura. She took me on, and that couldn’t have been easy.’

‘Took you on?’

He rubbed his hand across his mouth, as though he was unsure of the words he wanted to say. ‘Imogen ain’t me real ma,’ he said eventually. ‘She just likes me to call her that. I don’t mind so much now, but at first it felt wrong.’ He placed a tender kiss on Rachel’s head.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Never came up.’ He rose, and placed Rachel into her Moses basket, covering her with a lemon-coloured blanket. ‘Me real ma walked out just after we moved to the farm.’

‘Oh, Dillon, I’m so sorry.’

‘Me real ma invited Imogen to live with us when she was preggers with Bridie. Her parents had kicked her out.’ He paused, rubbing his hand across his mouth. ‘Can we talk about something else? It’s just I don’t like talking about it – me real ma never said goodbye.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s fine, Laura,’ he said, but it clearly wasn’t. ‘So, should I ask Imogen?’

Laura knew she couldn’t carry on as she was. It wasn’t fair on the baby. She would either have to accept his offer, or see the GP, who would probably fill her with tablets, or even take Rachel away – she didn’t want either. She would bond with the child eventually. She had to. They couldn’t go through life like this. Maybe Dillon’s stepmother would understand, help her. But the fear of getting involved with the family was too strong.

‘I don’t need anyone, honestly,’ she said. ‘Rachel and I will be just fine.’

***

Two days later, Laura sat outside in the rain, soaked and sobbing, while Rachel screamed inside the house as though her tiny heart would break.

Dillon approached through the trees, and stood in front of Laura, his hands deep in his pockets.

She looked up. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, and covered her face with her hands.

He didn’t reply, just took off into the woods, reappearing some time later with his stepmother, and his sisters.

‘I’m Imogen,’ the woman said. She was tiny, her dark hair scraped back in a high ponytail, her fringe uneven. Caitlin, a smiling, pretty baby of eight months, with the same dark hair, was balanced on her hip, and Bridie, more solemn, in grubby dungarees, clung to her mother’s blue and white checked dress.

The rain had stopped for now.

Laura brushed away her tears with the back of her hand and got up.

‘You poor thing,’ Imogen said, stepping closer. ‘Dillon said you were in a bit of a pickle. Bad case of the baby blues, I shouldn’t wonder. I had it dreadful with Bridie. Couldn’t touch the child for months.’

She handed Caitlin to Dillon, and bustled Laura inside. She instantly made the red-faced, screaming Rachel a bottle, and changed her diaper.

‘Me ma’s pretty good, ain’t she?’ Dillon’s eyes followed Imogen, as she went to work, clearing up, and stuffing washing into the washing machine.

‘She is, yes,’ Laura agreed. There was no doubting his words, but watching the woman busying herself made her feel more useless than ever.

‘Cleanliness is next to godliness, that’s what my mother taught me,’ Imogen said, as she filled the bottle steriliser with water, and dropped in tablets. ‘Not that I believe in God. Well, if there is one, he’s let me down.’ She headed up the stairs, and Laura followed.

‘Help me,’ said Imogen, as she changed Laura’s bed, and Laura grabbed the pillows and changed the covers. ‘That’s the idea,’ Imogen went on with a smile, as though she was praising a child.

Next, Imogen grabbed a duster and wiped it over the chest of drawers. ‘Chanel,’ she said, picking up the bottle and spraying her neck. ‘Nice for some.’

‘Shall we go back downstairs?’ Laura said, kicking her dirty underwear under the bed in the hope Imogen wouldn’t notice. It all felt far too intrusive.

‘In a moment,’ Imogen said, leaning down and scooping up the underwear. ‘Where’s your linen bin?’

‘In the bathroom,’ Laura said, snatching the knickers from her and leaving the bedroom. ‘I can do that.’

Later, when the house was spotless, and Rachel was gurgling happily in her Moses basket – tugging and stretching the foot of her Babygro – Imogen finally collected up her daughters.

‘I’d better get home to put Tierney’s dinner on,’ she said, her eyes skittering over Laura’s paintings on the wall. ‘These are stunning,’ she said. ‘Especially this one.’ She pointed at one of the lake. ‘You’re very talented.’

‘Thank you,’ Laura said, a sudden lift inside her. Perhaps she wasn’t as useless as she thought.

‘I’ll be back soon, I promise,’ Imogen said, touching Laura’s cheek.

From the window, Laura watched them go, Dillon trotting behind with a stick the size of him, as though he was their protector.

Laura wished she had someone to protect her.

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