LOUISE JENSEN is a global No.1 bestselling author of psychological thrillers. Louise has sold over a million English language books and her novels have been sold for translation to twenty-five territories, as well as being featured on the USA Today and Wall Street Journal bestsellers’ lists. Louise was nominated for the Goodreads Debut Author of 2016 Award and The Guardian’s Not the Booker 2018. The Gift has been optioned for TV and film.

Louise lives with her husband, children, madcap dog and a rather naughty cat in Northamptonshire. She loves to hear from readers and writers and can be found at www.louisejensen.co.uk, where she regularly blogs flash fiction and writing tips.

Also by Louise Jensen

The Sister

The Gift

The Surrogate

The Date

The Family

Louise Jensen

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

Copyright © Louise Jensen 2019

Louise Jensen 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.

Ebook Edition © September 2019 ISBN: 9780008330118

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For Tim,

This one had to be for you!

With love x

For I know the plans I have for you

JEREMIAH 29:11-14

Contents

Cover

About the Author

Also by Louise Jensen

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Epigraph

Prologue

Part One: The Cause

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Part Two: The Effect

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-One

Chapter Seventy-Two

Chapter Seventy-Three

Chapter Seventy-Four

Chapter Seventy-Five

Chapter Seventy-Six

Part Three: The Aftermath

Chapter Seventy-Seven

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Chapter Seventy-Nine

Chapter Eighty

Part Four: Eighteen Months Later

Chapter Eighty-One

Chapter Eighty-Two

Chapter Eighty-Three

Chapter Eighty-Four

Chapter Eighty-Five

Acknowledgements

The following letter contains spoilers

Book Club Questions

Excerpt

About the Publisher

Prologue

NOW

LAURA

It all unfolds with cinematic clarity; the gunshot, the scream. Every detail sharp and clear. Time slows as her eyes plead with me to help her. In my mind I bundle her behind me, shielding her body with mine, but she is too far away and I know I cannot reach her in time.

But still I try.

My legs are weighted with dread as I run towards her; the fist around my heart tightening.

A second shot.

Her knees buckle. She crumples like a paper doll.

The ground falls away beneath my feet and I crawl towards her like the animal I have become. My palms are sticky in the arc of blood that is staining the floor red. Blood is thicker than water they say, but hers is thin and beacon-bright. Adrenaline pulses through me leaving numbness in its wake, as I press against her wrist, desperately seeking a pulse. With my other hand I link my fingers through hers the way we used to, before I brought us to this place that has been our ruin. A lifetime of memories strobe through my mind; cradling her close in the maternity wing; Easter eggs spilling out of the wicker basket looped over her pudgy arm; her first day of school, ribboned pigtails swinging as she ran across the playground.

She can’t be gone.

Can she?

Fingers of panic press hard against my skull. The colour leaches from the room. A black and white hue descending upon me. I tighten my fingers around hers, afraid I’m going to faint. Afraid I’m going to let her go.

But then.

A flicker of eyelids. A murmur from her lips.

I lay next to her, gently rolling her towards me, holding her in my arms. I can’t, I won’t leave her. Family should stick together. Protect each other. Instead, I chose to come here.

This is all my fault.

The drumming in my head grows louder – the sound of footfall. I don’t have to look up to feel their anger, solid and immovable.

The acrid smell of gunpowder hangs in the air along with my fear.

Looking up, my eyes meet the shooter’s; they are still holding the gun and sensations return, hard and fast. The pain in my stomach is cutting and deep and I am no longer sure if the blood I am covered in has come from her.

Or is coming from me.

Her top is soaked crimson, as is mine.

The pain increases.

Terrified, I tug at her clothes, my clothes. Praying. Let her be okay. Seventeen is no age. Let it be me.

At last I find the wound but before I can apply pressure to stem the flow of blood there are hands on my shoulders. My elbows. Pulling.

Darkness flickers at the edge of my vision but still I fight against it. I fight against them.

My hands are restrained, feet kick out, teeth sinking into flesh, but it’s fruitless. I am growing weaker.

Her fingers twitch. Once. Twice.

Nothing.

‘Tilly!’ My scream rips through me as I am yanked to my feet. ‘Tilly!’ I scramble for traction, every fibre of my being straining to reach my daughter.

I can’t.

I am still wrestling to be free as I am dragged, my feet scraping the ground.

I know they’ll never let us leave here now.

Not alive anyway.

Part One

Chapter One

Before

LAURA

Fears. We all have them. That creeping unease. An aversion to something. For me it’s spiders. It stemmed from a nature documentary years before about the black weaver, a matriphagous breed that switches on her babies’ cannibalistic instinct by encouraging her spiderlings to devour her. Unable to tear myself away, I had watched through splayed fingers as the mother circled her lair, tapping and vibrating the web, stimulating her young’s primal instinct until they attacked her in a frenzied swarm. Hundreds of scuttling legs. Sinking fangs. The sound of the adult being consumed after venom had dissolved her from the inside out had stayed with me. What possessed a mother to sacrifice herself like that? How could her children turn on her? Of course that was long before I was a parent.

The instant I saw Tilly, tiny hands fisted, eyes squinting in the unaccustomed light, I plunged headfirst into a love that was absolute. A fierce desire as her mother to shield her from the world however I could. And she needed shielding. I knew how damaging it could be out there.

I had been damaged.

That morning though I had no idea how I was going to shelter her from the contents of the letter. As I drove towards school, I tightened my grip on the steering wheel as if it might somehow stop the sense of everything spinning out of my control. It didn’t.

What was I going to do?

I slotted my rusting Volvo between two shiny 4x4s. Hordes of kids traipsed past the car, spines curved under the weight of the books they carried, dragging their feet towards the black wrought-iron gates. I rubbed my temples, trying to dispel the pounding behind my eyes.

‘Do I have to go back to school, Mum?’

I heard the sadness in her voice. I heard it in my own as I said, ‘It’s been six weeks, Tilly.’ As though that was long enough to make everything right.

It wasn’t.

She wasn’t coping well. Neither was I but, for her, I pretended we’d get through it. We’d be okay. Even if I didn’t know how.

‘We talked about this,’ I said, but not unkindly. ‘It was your idea to come back on a Friday. Ease yourself into it. It’s one day, Tilly.’

She tucked her unruly dark hair behind her ears as she looked anxiously out of the window. Her face looked smaller, skin ashen, black bags nestled beneath bloodshot eyes. She’d refused the offer of counselling, spending so much of her time shut away in her room that now, being outside was overwhelming.

‘You’ve already so much to catch up on but if you really can’t face it I won’t make you. You can come and help me in the shop instead. It’s time to try to re-join the world.’ I spoke slowly, deliberately, although each word was rough, grazing my tongue. Our Family Liaison Officer had said it was best to forge a routine, a semblance of normality, but was it? Sometimes being a parent was torturous. Spinning in circles like a bird with a broken wing. But Tilly was studying for A Levels. It was such an important year. Besides, at school she’d be with Rhianon and, although I knew the cousins were no longer inseparable, I hoped that away from the family drama they could begin to heal.

God knows, we all needed to heal.

‘Fine.’

It was dizzying how quickly she pinballed between sadness and anger, but I knew it was all part of the hard ball of grief that ricocheted inside her.

She flung open the car door. A lengthy sigh escaping the mouth that no longer smiled.

‘Wait,’ I called, snatching her lunch from the backseat. ‘If it becomes too much you can always ring me.’ She snatched the Tupperware from my hands, her expression as hardened as the plastic.

‘Try to have a good—’ The slam of the car door sliced my sentence in two. ‘Day.’ A constriction in my throat prevented me calling her back. What could I have said to make things right? She stalked away without a backwards glance, swamped by her black winter coat, which snapped at her ankles as she walked. Weight had fallen off her. Again, I had found her half-eaten breakfast dumped in the bin. On top of the browning banana skin, a smattering of Rice Krispies ground to dust where she had crushed them with her spoon. She never could stand milk.

She stooped as she crossed the road without waiting for the green man, the weight of both her rucksack and the world on her shoulders. I contemplated calling her back but I knew she couldn’t hide away forever. If she rang me I could be back there within fifteen minutes, no time at all, but I knew sometimes even sixty seconds could feel like an eternity. The desire to protect her, in the way I hadn’t been protected at her age, to whisk her away for a fresh start, was fierce and stabbing, but after that morning’s post, it seemed more out of reach than ever.

Tilly merged with the throng of children crunching over the autumn orange leaves that carpeted the pavement. I was reminded of the times Gavan and I would tramp though the forest searching for gleaming conkers, a wellington-booted Tilly nestled between us, her small gloved hands in ours. The smell of moss and earth. It was still so clear to me, the joy of it.

One, two, three, lift! We’d swing her back and forth as she clung on like a baby monkey, her infectious giggles making Gavan and me laugh. Even when she grew too tall, too heavy, she’d raise her knees to her chest to prevent her feet dragging on the floor, as if she couldn’t quite accept how big she’d grown. I watched her as she stamped up the drab grey steps, finding it hard to equate the carefree, smiling child of seemingly five minutes ago with this solemn seventeen-year-old. She was a young woman now, lost to me, almost. The days of being able to make everything in her world right again with a mug of hot chocolate and a cuddle were long gone, and I longed to have them back.

The Special Constable with the patchy beard and straggly ponytail, who patrolled the secondary school at 8.45 and 3.15 every day with a ferocity that would put a lioness guarding cubs to shame, half-ran towards me. My rational self knew that he was going to tell me off for parking in the wrong place, but still, my hands were shaking as I released the handbrake. Each time I saw a police uniform it evoked such a physical response, sickness rising like a serpent. I zoomed off the yellow lines before he reached the car, and it wasn’t until he disappeared from sight in my rear-view mirror that my breathing began to slow.

I would always associate the police with bad news.

With endless, endless questions.

Sometimes it all blended into a swirling, solid mass. The past. The present. Impossible to separate.

The fear has never really left me. Recurrently concealing itself in the layer between skin and flesh, waiting patiently for another trigger. The chance to attack.

I can’t remember.

And sometimes, consciously, I couldn’t remember. The lie became my truth. The pressure in my head insufferable.

Then, shadowed by night, the bony fingers of the past would drag me back and I would kick and scream before I’d wake. Duvet crumpled on the floor. Pyjamas drenched in sweat. And alone.

Always alone.

The scar on my forehead throbbed a reminder of my helplessness.

Thoughts of the letter filled my mind once more as I drove towards work.

What was I going to do?

Chapter Two

LAURA

The realisation that I was unlocking the door for one of the last times stung like disinfectant being poured onto an open wound.

I drank it all in. The light bouncing off the windows as the day gathered strength. The breeze kissing the ‘Laura’s Flowers’ sign as it creaked its delight. The way the key moulded into my fingers as though it should always be mine. Soon, it would be someone else’s key. Someone else’s dream.

The door was streaked with dried egg yolk. I told myself it must be from the trick-or-treaters that had roamed the streets the previous night cloaked in black; plastic fangs protruding from bloodstained lips. I really should stop reading too much into things.

But my edginess stayed with me, despite the comforting floral smell that wrapped around me like a hug as I stepped inside.

I couldn’t believe it was over.

When I’d opened the shop ten years before I had thought I’d eventually pass the business down to Tilly, or even to my niece Rhianon, who spent as much time at our house as Tilly did at hers. They loved gardening, kneeling side by side, fingernails caked with mud, trowels in hands, digging over the small flower bed that was theirs in the corner of our garden. Nurturing dandelions and buttercups because they were sunshine-yellow bright; pulling anemones and asters which hadn’t yet flowered; flashing me gappy smiles as I handed out cherry ice pops. As they transitioned into teenagers, their corner of the garden grew tangled and wild, their interest in flowers lost. For the first time I was grateful they weren’t wanting to step into my shoes and walk the endlessly worrisome path of the sole trader; declining business and too many bills.

Crouching, I scooped a clutch of brown envelopes from the doormat and saw ‘Final Demand’ stamped in red. I dropped them all onto the once-polished counter that was now coated with a thin film of dust. Over the past six weeks I’d been home more than I’d been at the shop; I wanted to be there for Tilly, of course. But it was difficult to know how to be around her when she said she needed space. I’d wandered around the house like a ghost. Touching Gavan’s possessions as I’d once have touched his face, wondering who I was if I was no longer someone’s wife. I had long since ceased to be anyone’s daughter.

I’d had a sick feeling in my stomach for weeks, akin to thrashing around in a boat on a violent sea, but as I stepped inside the shop it was fleetingly as if I’d found the stillness that comes once a storm has passed. The shop gave me space to let my tears flow, unfiltered and raw, without worrying about being strong for Tilly.

Here I could feel.

As I did every morning I checked the diary, though I already knew it was empty. The pain behind my forehead pulsed harder. It wasn’t only the fact that I’d been closed more than open recently that had affected business. Ten months ago the scandal had hit and the local papers printed their carefully worded vitriol with their ‘allegeds’ and their ‘possiblys’ bringing my family to its knees. It was printed that although Gavan was Welsh, my mother was English; as though that made a difference. Insinuating I didn’t belong in Portgellech, the once-bustling fishing town where nowadays fishermen are as scarce a sight as the red kites that once soared across the grey and barren coastline. The community tightened ranks, some even referred to me as ‘the English girl’ despite me living there all my life. They chose to get their flowers from Tesco, the BP garage, anywhere – it seemed – but from me.

But that wasn’t quite fair. Scrape away the thick layer of self-pity I wore like a second skin and my rational self acknowledged that I couldn’t compete with the prices of supermarkets or the convenience and speed of online delivery services. Perhaps it was inevitable that it would all fall apart sometime, the whole business with Gavan just sped things up. Still, I was probably overthinking it all again. It was a notoriously quiet time of year. Wedding season was over and there was always a lull until December.

But I won’t be here then.

I rummaged through drawers stuffed with ribbon and polka dot cellophane in search of some tablets to ease my headache. Then the bell tinged as the front door opened. I glanced up. My fleeting optimism dissipated when I saw it wasn’t a paying customer, but Saffron for the third time that week.

‘I’m so sorry.’ I popped two paracetamols out of their foil cocoon. ‘I haven’t sold many.’ In truth I hadn’t sold any of the Oak Leaf Farm organic veg bags Saffron had been bringing me in to trial – offering me 20 per cent of all sales – but out of guilt I’d again bought two myself. The drawer in my fridge was stacked with limp carrots and browning parsnips.

‘That’s okay. I guess a florist isn’t the first port of call when you want to buy food.’ Briefly the corners of her mouth curved into a tense smile.

‘It’s not the first port of call when you want to buy flowers nowadays.’ I grimaced as I swallowed the tablets down dry.

‘We’ll be okay as long as Amazon doesn’t start selling bouquets.’

‘They already sell flowers.’

‘Then you’re buggered.’ Her hair, a mass of tight black spirals, sprang as her head shook with a laughter that sounded hollow. She looked as tired as I felt and I knew that despite her jokes she was as worried as I was. It was so tough being a small business owner.

‘There’s no hope for the independent retailer is there? Not when customers want everything to be available twenty-four seven,’ I said.

‘You mean it isn’t?’ She titled her chin and shielded her eyes, searching for something in the sky. ‘Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it’s a delivery drone.’

I didn’t laugh.

‘Thanks for the tip you gave me last week, Laura.’ She plucked a white rose from the bucket next to the counter and inhaled. ‘That new coffee shop around the corner placed a regular order for potatoes. I do love a jacket spud.’ She patted her impossibly flat stomach. Give her another ten years and the carbs would settle around her middle, the way they had on mine when I hit thirty.

Saffron chattered on and I tried to maintain my end of the conversation. Normal. I could do normal. But my mind kept returning to the letter. Adrenaline ebbed and flowed. Saffron’s sentences fragmented. The words drifted out of my reach.

‘Laura?’ The way she said my name made me realise she’d asked a question I hadn’t answered. Her voice sounded so very far away. I tried to focus but she had taken on an odd tinge. Even then, I put my disorientation down to stress. To grief. It wasn’t until a sweet, sickly smell tickled my nostrils that it crossed my mind it was happening again, but it was impossible to think that it could, it had been so long. But I knew I was right when I was hit by a spinning sensation. Arms and legs flailing. I wasn’t aware at what stage I fell to the floor, plummeting into blackness, I only found out later that I had. Time became irrelevant. It could have been seconds, minutes, hours later before I became conscious of a distant voice. An odd rasping roared into my ears – my own panicked breath. An angel – a blur of brilliant white light. I thought I was dying.

I thought I was dying again.

But as my hazy vision focused I saw it was Saffron in her white jeans and jumper. Her concerned face loomed towards mine.

‘Are you okay?’ Her hand was on my shoulder.

I tried to speak but my mouth was full of coppery blood where I’d bitten my tongue.

‘I’m calling an ambulance.’ The panic in her voice somehow calmed me.

‘No.’ I sat up. ‘Please don’t.’ Gingerly, I pressed the back of my head where I’d hit it on the floor. I knew from experience that later I’d be sore and covered in bruises, but at the time embarrassment was my overriding emotion as I struggled to my feet. ‘It’s a seizure. I’ve had them before.’ But not for years, since before my parents disowned me. It was like after they’d thrown me out, my body had fallen into a reverse shock almost – instead of breaking further apart, it had fallen back together. Perhaps Gavan had been the cause of my seizures returning. He had been the cause of so many things. I was thinking of the letter again and it all became too much. I began to cry.

‘I’m so sorry.’ She looked stricken. ‘That looked awful. I didn’t know whether to call 999 first or try to help you. It all happened so quickly.’

Although I was fuggy and disorientated and it felt like I’d been out for hours, in reality it had likely lasted less than a minute.

‘How are you feeling?’ she asked doubtfully, still gripping her phone.

Sick. Exhausted. Afraid.

‘Fine.’ I said, the bitter taste of the lie and blood on my tongue.

‘You don’t look it. Are you sure you don’t need checking over?’

‘No. Honestly, there’s nothing the hospital can do for me.’ There was a beat and I thought she’d insist on a doctor and all the implications that would bring. ‘You could fetch me some water though.’ I sat on the stool, elbows on the counter, my head in my hands. Seconds later a glass was placed in front of me and it felt like a dead weight as I lifted it to my dry lips and sipped before wiping the dribble snaking down my chin with my sleeve. ‘You can go. I’m going to lock up and head home myself.’ I was drained of energy; like I’d been powered by electricity and then unplugged.

Saffron hovered uncertainly. ‘I could give you a lift?’

I hesitated. I’d be a danger on the road, but I’d only met Saffron about a dozen times; I didn’t want to put her out. ‘I’ll ring a friend to pick me up.’

It didn’t take long to scroll through my contacts. Even if it weren’t for recent events, Gavan and I had been one of those couples who spent all our time together, so I didn’t have many friends. I hesitated at Anwyn’s name. My sister-in-law and I had been so close once, but our fractured family now barely spoke. Still, I called and it rang and rang before her voicemail kicked in. I pictured her watching my name flash up on the screen, choosing not to answer.

I didn’t leave a message.

The shop bell pealed. I raised my heavy head. Saffron had cracked open the door; I’d almost forgotten she was still here.

‘Are you sure you’re okay? I could drive your car and pick mine up later. It’s no trouble?’

I was feeling so unwell I couldn’t face getting the bus, and I certainly couldn’t afford a taxi.

‘Yes please,’ I said. ‘That would be nice.’

But it wasn’t nice at all.

Three is a power number, although I didn’t know that at the time, I came to learn it later. It took three men to witness three things; a creation, a destruction and a restoration – Noah, Daniel and Job. There were three founders of the Roman Empire. It took three decisions to destroy my life.

Sometimes when something awful happens you sift through memories afterwards, desperate to pinpoint the exact moment things went horribly, horribly wrong.

Saying yes. That was the first mistake I made.

I still had two to go.

Chapter Three

TILLY

They’d changed the classrooms around in the six weeks I’d been off. By the time I’d located my English group I was late.

‘Sorry,’ I muttered to Mr Cranford.

And rather than snapping at me like he normally would with his stale coffee breath he said, ‘That’s okay, Tilly. It’s good to see you back.’ His words were soaked with sympathy and somehow that was harder to bear than his shouting.

All the good seats were taken. Rhianon was sitting at the back with Ashleigh, Katie and Kieron. Katie and Kieron’s bodies were angled together, their heads tilted towards each other, and I knew they were no longer purely friends. The thought of his lips on hers made my heart feel like it was breaking all over again. It was only a couple of months ago that he’d told me he loved me as his fingers strayed under my blouse, into my bra.

For God’s sake, Tilly. Pull yourself together.

I dumped my rucksack next to an empty desk right at the front. The chair leg scraped loudly across the floor as I pulled it towards me. Mr Cranford waited, whiteboard marker in his hand, until I was settled before he carried on.

‘This half term we’re going to be studying Othello.’ There was a collective grumble. ‘No need for that. Plays are one of the oldest forms of entertainment.’ His pen squeaked as it wrote ‘Shakespeare’ across the board. ‘You can’t beat a good tragedy—’ He froze. Our eyes met. His were full of apology. I could feel the tears welling in mine. Quickly, he began to speak again. ‘Plays were accessible, cheap…’

I zoned out. My mind cast back to the ‘theatre’ Dad had made me and Rhianon, cutting the front out of a large cardboard box and painting it red. Mum had hung two pieces of yellowing net curtain from a wire. Our audience of Uncle Iwan, Aunt Anwyn, Mum and Dad would queue at the door until Rhianon collected their shiny fifty pence pieces. The stars of the show were the sock monkeys we’d named Dick and Dom – mine turquoise and white striped, Rhianon’s red polka dot – and we’d move them from side to side as they spouted waffle we thought was hilarious. There was never a script.

I glanced over my shoulder, certain Rhianon would be sharing the same memory, but I was confronted with the back of her head, long blonde hair hanging silkily over her shoulders. She’d twisted around and was whispering something to Katie and Kieron on the back row. My stomach churned as I assumed it was about me.

It was hard to pinpoint exactly when we’d drifted apart. She hadn’t come over recently, but even in the months before that when she’d visited she had spent more time in the kitchen talking to Mum than she did with me. If I snapped at Mum over dinner, when she questioned me endlessly about my day, Rhianon would roll her eyes. Once, she even said, ‘Don’t speak to your mum that way.’ It was rough for her at home, I knew. Her parents were arguing and it was calmer at our house. Mum listened to Rhianon. Mum always found time to listen patiently to everyone. Sometimes I thought Rhianon was jealous of the relationship I had with Mum, when her relationship with Aunty Anwyn was tense and strained, but then teenage girls aren’t always close to their own mums are they? Saying that, even I could see Aunt Anwyn had changed. She had become angry I suppose, resentful almost. I guess it must have started with the shit-storm with Dad and Uncle Iwan’s construction business. Everything circled back to that. I don’t know the ins and outs because my parents only drip-fed me what they thought I needed to know, but Ashleigh’s parents bought one of their houses on a new estate. Problem was they had built it on a former landfill site. Ashleigh got sick. Not like a cold and cough sick but proper ill. Leukaemia. That’s when it all kicked off. It was months ago, but the memory still smarted; Katie standing on her chair, raising both her voice and her thinly plucked eyebrows.

‘Listen up. Ashleigh’s in hospital because Tilly’s dad built on toxic land. It’s his fault Ashleigh is sick. She might literally die.’

The other kids had started shouting abuse. I raised my palms.

‘Honestly, it wasn’t toxic land. Basically, there are all these safety checks before a build starts, aren’t there, Rhianon?’ I turned to my cousin. Our dads were in business together after all.

‘I dunno. My dad had no idea about the history of the land. He only deals with finances.’ I think I was the only one who could detect the fear in her voice, the shakiness of her words, but that was that. I was singled out. Unfriended. Ignored, ironically, by the majority of the school except Ashleigh who, when she came back after her treatment, wasn’t exactly friendly but wasn’t unfriendly either. With her illness and the fact she and her parents had crammed into her grandparents’ house while checks were being carried out on the new build, she more than anyone had a reason to hate me, but she treated me exactly the way she had before. The occasional hello if we stood next to each other at the lockers, a passing nod if we bumped into each other in town. It was her parents that were furious and wanted someone to blame, I got that. Local papers need something to report on, I got that too. It was harder to understand the actions of the people I thought were my friends, and their parents, the community staging a sit-in at the half-finished building site, circulating petitions. In social studies once we’d examined the psychology of those who participated in protests. A lot of the time those people taking part felt deprived in some way, had felt injustice, inequality, and it didn’t even have to be related to the protest they were taking part in. Their shared emotions, sympathy and outrage provided a coming together. A feeling of being part of something that might make a change. Perhaps they were just bloody angry. Or, in the case of our school, scared of Katie. But what was impossible to get my head around was the crack it caused in our family, Aunt Anwyn and Uncle Iwan blaming Mum and Dad for deciding to buy the land, as if they hadn’t had any say.

‘I’m just the money man,’ Uncle Iwan said. ‘You source the plots and I do the costings.’

As the business suffered we all suffered. Nobody wanted to buy from or sell to Dad anymore, and his sites remained half-finished. Uncle Iwan got a job with a rival firm. The separation between us widened until it seemed like it was me and Mum and Dad against the world. My opinion of Dad was shaken but it wasn’t broken. Not then anyway.

The bell rang for lunch. I realised I hadn’t been paying attention to the lesson at all. To look busy, I zipped and unzipped my rucksack until Rhianon reached my desk.

‘Hi.’ I fell into step beside her. She’d never completely ignored me and I hoped she wouldn’t start now.

‘Tilly.’ Mr Cranford beckoned to me. ‘Let me quickly run through what you need to catch up on.’

I made my way over to his desk, hoping Rhianon might wait for me, but instead she slipped out of the door in her new group of four. Katie smirked as she linked her fingers through Kieron’s. With the other hand she mimed slicing across her throat with her finger, and I knew exactly where I stood.

Alone.

Chapter Four

LAURA

Neither Saffron nor I spoke as she drove me home. Exhaustion had carried me beyond the bounds of politeness so when she followed me inside the house and told me she’d put the kettle on, I didn’t object. It should have felt odd someone bustling around my kitchen, pulling open the cupboards, popping the lid off the coffee caddy, but in truth it was comforting to have another adult take charge. Filling my space with heady jasmine perfume and normality. I had never coped well alone. I wished I could relinquish control entirely.

The ground seemed fluid rather than firm as I made my way unsteadily into the lounge, still wearing my coat and shoes. I flopped onto the sofa, but despite on some level being aware of the soft sigh of the frame as my weight hit the doughy cushions, I still didn’t feel fully present – physically or mentally. I had forgotten how disorientating the period after a seizure is. How debilitating.

‘I wasn’t sure if you take sugar?’ Saffron carried two mugs and a packet of ginger nuts tucked between her elbow and waist. ‘And I couldn’t find any milk but I take mine black anyway. Do you want a biscuit? I don’t know if food helps? I know I’m probably thinking of diabetes but… Are you feeling any better? What happened?’

‘A seizure.’ I didn’t want to call it epilepsy. I’d been free of that label for almost seventeen years. Living without medication for the past ten. My consultant warned me there was a possibility of a relapse. One in twenty-six people will experience a seizure in their lifetime, and with over forty different types they are impossible to predict.

‘What brought it on?’ The worry on her face made her appear younger than she usually did and sparked my maternal instinct. She shouldn’t be the one looking after me.

It was likely that stress had brought it on, but I didn’t tell her that. Instead I closed my eyes and counted to ten – your turn to hide – hoping that when I opened them, I would have again found the me of a few weeks ago, who was fit and healthy.

And loved.

Instead, I was confronted with a lonely beam of sunlight pushing through the slats in the blinds, illuminating Gavan’s empty chair. The circular stain on the Moroccan orange arm, where he would always rest his after-dinner coffee, despite me sliding a coaster across the side table each evening. The things that had irritated me, I’d now have welcomed; that abandoned tube of toothpaste on the windowsill squeezed from the middle, the toilet seat left up, my razor blunted and clogged with foam and thick black hair. Had I nagged him too much? I tried to think of the last time I told him I appreciated him. Almost every day there had been a new kindness for me to unwrap; the way he’d peel a satsuma for me so the juice didn’t sting the sore skin around my fingernails, the giant bar of Galaxy he’d always arrive home with when my period was due, de-icing my windscreen while I was luxuriating under the hot pins of the shower, his patience with Tilly after teenage hormones rendered her snappy and uncommunicative.

And they were just the little things. The big thing, the truth, was that he saved me all those years ago after my parents cast me adrift. He’d be heartbroken to know that I was once again drowning, but this time it was his fault. My eyes were drawn to the letter on the sideboard. I had to save myself, save Tilly. But how? So much was broken, I didn’t know where to start.

‘Laura?’ Saffron’s voice was soft. It was a statement, a question, an inviting of confidence, all of this and more. Saffron seeing me at my most vulnerable at the shop had negated the need for social niceties, and all at once I wanted to weep into my coffee. I glanced at her, on the brink of opening up but, for a moment, afraid of what she might think of me.

‘What is it?’ Her concern gently tugged me over the edge until I plunged headfirst into the unvarnished truth.

‘I’m broke. I’m going to lose my house. My business. And I’ve a daughter to support. Tilly’s doing her A Levels and she’s already had so much disruption this year.’ I didn’t elaborate what. Momentarily, I had a fleeting hope that releasing the words from my churning stomach would calm the almost constant nausea I had felt lately. It didn’t.

‘Oh, Laura. I’m so sorry.’ There was a beat. Her eyes flicked to the huge collage in the ‘Live, Laugh, Love’ frame, hanging above the fireplace. A wall of duck-egg paint and smiling faces. Me and Gavan toasting our fifteen-year anniversary, our blonde heads touching; Tilly and Rhianon starting school, brandishing matching pink lunchboxes and toothy grins; Gavan arched over Tilly’s cot, her hair already a shock of black curls, a look of wonder on his face; my wedding dress that clung too tightly to my stomach – seventeen years later, I was still carrying my baby weight. We had wanted to get married before she was born but we couldn’t afford it. The photos show us jumbled and out of order, we hop from adults to teenagers, toddlers to babies, and back again. ‘It looks like you have a loving family? I’m sure—’

‘My husband died six weeks ago.’ Chilled, I pulled the coat I was still wearing tighter.

‘Christ, Laura, I’m so sorry. And there was me wittering on about fruit and veg boxes.’

There was a pause, her question crackled in the air before she voiced it. ‘How did it happen? If you don’t mind me asking?’

I plucked out the only answer my mind could make sense of and offered it to her.

‘It was an accident.’

‘I’m so sorry.’ The regret in her voice was genuine. I’d never seen her look so sombre before. It encouraged me to tell her more.

‘He fell from some scaffolding at work. The coroner adjourned the inquest pending enquiries, and in the meantime issued an interim death certificate that I sent to our life insurance company. But I’ve had a letter from them today saying they won’t pay out until I’ve had the death certificate proper.’

‘Why? Surely if he’s…’ her voice dropped. ‘If they’ve proof he died.’

‘Apparently they need to establish a cause of death. It’s ridiculous. He fell. It was an accident.’

It was. It had to be.

‘How long will it be before you get the actual death certificate?’

‘I don’t know. The coroner said they endeavour to hold all inquests within six months.’

Another court case, and I knew I shouldn’t feel so frightened this time – I was an adult now – but somehow I still did.

I swear by almighty God to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

But God hadn’t protected me then and he still wasn’t protecting me.

‘I need that money.’ My voice cracked. ‘I can’t pay the rent. We were in arrears anyway and my landlord is threatening eviction. I’ve reached my overdraft limit. My credit cards are all maxed out. The florist doesn’t provide an income anymore. There was an incident a few months ago…’ I choked back a sob. ‘It’s all such a mess. I’d been counting on the insurance money to sort everything out.’

‘You must have grounds to appeal? To get an interim payment to see you through at least?’

I rested my head back, staring at Gavan’s photo, willing my fight to return. When she was small, Tilly was obsessed with The Wizard of Oz. She’d clench her tiny hands into fists and jig from foot to foot like a boxer – ‘put ’em up’ – the lion found his courage in the end. Where was mine?

‘You’re right. I must. I only found out this morning. It’s so hard, being alone. Everything seems ten times more mountainous than it would otherwise.’

‘Perhaps I can help? The man I live with, he used to be a solicitor –’

‘That’s nice of you but I don’t think your boyfriend –’

‘He’s not a romantic partner. He’s…’ This time it was her who hesitated, who seemed afraid of being judged. Fiddling with the fraying hem of her jumper. Looking vulnerable away from the wall of jokes that usually shielded her. ‘We both live at Gorphwysfa. The farm on Oak Leaf Lane.’

‘Of course.’ Oak Leaf Organics grew the produce they sold on their farm outside of town. A small community lived there– bunch of bloody hippies some of the locals called them – but I didn’t know much about them.

‘Anyhoo. Alex.’ Her features softened as she talked about him. I wondered then if they were more than friends, or if she wanted them to be. ‘He might be able to help you with the insurance company. The legal jargon.’

‘I can’t afford a solicitor.’

‘He wouldn’t expect you to pay. At the farm it’s not just living together, it’s… a pulling together I suppose. We share and trade resources. There’s always someone on hand with the necessary skill. You’re never alone.’

Alone. It was just a word but those five letters triggered such an intense longing, my heart ached.

‘But I don’t live there.’

‘That doesn’t matter. You can pay it forward when you can. Help out with growing the veg.’

It was a chance. A possibility. A bright shining star in a dark sky of despair, but although I parted my lips, I couldn’t release the yes that was stuck to the roof of my mouth. Asking for favours was like stripping back the layers until I was vulnerable and exposed. Open to rejection once more.

‘The offer’s there anyway. Look. It’s almost lunchtime, I’d better go. Let you get some rest.’ Saffron stood and smoothed down her top. The words that had poured from me had left my throat and mouth dry. I was more accustomed to the silence that once more filled the room. I pictured Tilly at the cafeteria prising the lid off her Tupperware, and my chest prickled with heat. What had seemed like a good idea at 6.30 this morning, suddenly felt like a horrible mistake. I had a feeling she’d be furious with me after school. Again.

‘It’s going to be okay,’ Saffron said when, lost in thought, I hadn’t made a move to see her out.

But I didn’t have her certainty. All I had were fears and doubts that threatened to sink me entirely.

‘You can’t know that unless you can predict the future.’ But still, I pleaded with my eyes, wanting her words to be a prophesy. A promise.

Fleetingly, I saw something in her indigo gaze that I didn’t understand. I searched her face but couldn’t see anything except kindness and understanding.

‘Laura, I’ve been…’ She glanced at the floor. ‘Low. If it weren’t for Alex I honestly don’t know where I’d be.’ She slipped on her crimson coat and the colour was such a contrast to her stark white outfit it reminded me of another time. Another place. Streaks of blood on virgin white snow.

‘I’ll jot down my mobile number for you.’ She rooted around in her bag. ‘If you change your mind, just ask.’ And, momentarily, that small, square piece of paper she pushed into my hand was strong enough to keep the tide of hopelessness at bay. Enough to pull me to my feet.

In the hallway I tucked the paper into my handbag while Saffron slipped on shoes that were sturdy and dependable and I told myself I could trust her. She opened the door. A frigid wind gusted through the gap. A shiver trailed its fingers down the back of my neck. I know now it wasn’t the icy air that made my hairs stand on end. It was my intuition. That feeling in my gut warned me to stay away from Gorphwysfa.

If only I hadn’t ignored it.

Chapter Five

TILLY

Mr Cranford took forever to load me with homework. By the time I got to the canteen the queue for food was long, not that I had to join it since I had my packed lunch. Mum said we couldn’t afford to buy lunch out anymore, like £2.50 would really break the bank.

The spicy pepperoni and melted cheese made my stomach rumble. I was always a fan of pizza day. I slid onto an empty bench, dumping my rucksack at my feet. I scanned the room. Rhianon was at the till paying for her food. Our eyes met. Invisible strands of years of friendship hung between us, frayed and worn. We were so much more than cousins.

I raised my hand. Mouthed, ‘Hi’.

Her hand twitched by her side and I willed her to wave at me. Instead, after glancing to see where Katie was, she offered me a weak smile and a barely discernible nod. I’d only spoken to her once since Dad died. After Mum said the post mortem had been carried out and we were free to bury him.

‘I can’t bear to think of him all cut up,’ I had sobbed down the phone. Rhianon had cried too and, for a moment, we were close again.

Now, I patted the seat next to me in a sit-here gesture. She chewed her lip in that way of hers when she couldn’t decide what to do.

Katie strode in front of her and then they were all walking in my direction. My stomach tightened and, to make myself look busy, I opened my Tupperware and pulled out a sandwich. Too late I realised my mistake.

‘Oh. My. God.’ Katie stopped in her tracks. ‘Tilly!’ She paused for effect, to make sure everyone was looking. ‘Has Mummy cut your sandwiches into hearts? How sweet!’

My body burned with embarrassment. What had Mum been thinking?

‘It’s like you’re seven, not seventeen. No wonder Kieron dumped you.’

Kieron studied his shoes. He used to tell me my eyes were beautiful, but now he couldn’t meet them.

Katie began to sing that old song, ‘Don’t go breaking my heart…’ but trailed off when she realised no one was joining in. Rhianon was staring at the floor, an odd expression on her face, and I wondered if she was remembering the same memory as me. The way her mum and mine used to belt out that song whenever they made dinner together, when everyone got along.

‘Go and take a running jump, Katie,’ I said.

‘Like your dad did?’

All the breath left my body in one sharp release. I tried to not picture Dad broken and bleeding on the floor, but the image had snuck into my mind and was scorched there for evermore.

‘Katie, don’t,’ Rhianon said quietly.

‘You’re sticking up for her?’ Katie raised her perfectly drawn eyebrows.

‘He was my uncle.’

I screwed the sandwich up so tightly in my fist that tuna mayo splattered all over the sleeve of my black top.

‘Aww, never mind.’ Katie said. ‘I’m sure Mummy will wash it for you.’ She sashayed away while I rubbed at the stain with my fingers, but that only made it worse. I watched as Rhianon and Kieron trailed after her, cramming themselves onto an almost-full table on the other side of the hall.

We had learned about a leper colony in Greece in history once, and as I sat alone, surrounded by empty seats, I realised that I wasn’t just a social leper, I was that entire island.

Angrily, I flicked a piece of sweetcorn onto the floor and then felt guilty. Mum tried so hard. I’d been such a bitch to her lately. I wished I could tell her everything. How lonely I was. How afraid. Sometimes I heard her crying in the night. I’d bury my head underneath my pillow. Each day I tried to avoid her. I was frightened that as soon as I started talking to her the truth would just come out. I didn’t want to do or say anything that might ruin Mum’s memory of Dad; she had enough to deal with. I didn’t want her to think badly of me, but I wondered if she did know, would she hate him and miss him less? It was impossible to know what the right thing to do was.

As I thought of the way I’d ignored her goodbye and slammed the car door that morning, I began to panic. She was literally all I had left and I wasn’t sure what I’d do if she turned her back on me too. I balled my hands as I bit down hard on my lip to stop myself crying. I was shrinking the way Alice did when she drank the potion in Wonderland. The rain hammered down on the corrugated roof and the noise of that, and of the chatter and laughter and the clattering of trays, was unbearable.

‘We’re off to see the wizard.’ I filled my head with Mum’s soft voice singing one of our favourite songs.

The pressure released from my lungs, leaving a desire to make up with Mum. I pulled my mobile out of my bag. Straight away it beeped with a message notification from Rhianon.

Take it from the cute sandwiches you STILL haven’t told your mum the truth about your dad?

Dread filled my empty stomach. How much longer would it remain a secret?

Dad’s hands cupping my face.

Promise you won’t tell, Tilly.

Chapter Six

LAURA

I hugged the pillow tighter, the feathers moulding against the curves of my body. The curves Gavan would kiss on a Saturday morning while I wriggled further under the covers, protesting that it was too bright with the sun glaring through the thin curtains, shining its fiery spotlight on every lump and bump.

‘Laura, I’ve eaten marshmallows off your belly, licked chocolate body paint off your thighs, sucked whipped cream from everywhere.’ He’d pin my wrists above my head. ‘You’re beautiful. Don’t hide.’

If he were still with me I’d stand in all my naked glory, cellulite and stretch marks on display, and let him love me the way he wanted to. The way I needed him to. I pressed my face against the pillowcase and inhaled, long and slow. Each night I sprayed Boss aftershave on Gavan’s side of the bed. The sheets smelled of him, and yet somehow, they didn’t. The cologne came from his bottle, the bottle I bought him last Christmas, but it wasn’t quite the same. The underlying muskiness of him. His own unique Gavan smell had gone and I just couldn’t recreate it.

Music blasted. A thumping bass shaking the wall between Tilly’s bedroom and mine, but I didn’t shout at her to turn it down. It reminded me that despite the hollow in my chest, I was not alone. She was up early for a Saturday. Her door crashed open, and seconds later the bathroom door slammed. Seventeen and destined for uni and she still couldn’t operate a door handle. Tearing myself away from my too-big-for-one bed I slipped my feet into slippers and shrugged on my dressing gown. It was chilly.

‘Morning,’ I called from the landing. ‘I’m making toast. Do you want some?’

‘Not going to cut it into a heart, are you?’ she fired through the plasterboard separating us. I hesitated. There was so much I wanted to say but I didn’t know where to start, so I jammed my words and my hands into my pockets and traipsed downstairs to put the heating on.

By the time my breakfast was ready the ancient boiler was chugging into life. I ate at the table, the syrupy thick coffee and the sticky tang of marmalade chasing away the last traces of sleep. Once again I read the letter from the insurance company:

Dear Mrs Evans, After careful consideration we regret to inform you that in the absence of…

The words skipped and hopped behind the blur of tears covering my eyes until they rearranged themselves into something different. Something better. A future. I peered into the envelope in case I could find some hope. A second sheet of cheap white paper telling me it was a mistake. Of course they would be paying out. Fulfilling the promises of their slick advertising campaign, featuring impossibly beautiful actors with just the right amount of tension etched into their too-perfect skin. Their smiles chasing away their frowns as Ironstone Insurance reassured, ‘We worry, so you don’t have to.’

Fucking, fucking liars.

I couldn’t wait weeks or even months until the inquest, and what if the coroner didn’t think it was an accident?

The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

I had almost been shattered before. I couldn’t be again. I had Tilly to look after.

‘Mum?’

I dragged my sleeve across my cheeks, mopping my tears, and attempted a smile. Tilly looked young and uncertain without the thick, black lines she normally drew under her eyes, clad in her polar bear pyjamas and penguin slippers.

‘I’m fine. I’m popping over to Aunt Anwyn and Uncle Iwan’s this morning. Do you want to come?’

Emotions flickered across her face – she had always been so easy to read. Surprise, trepidation, a longing that perhaps everything would be okay. It would go back to the way it was before – sleepovers with Rhianon and family lunches. It worried me that the girls had drifted apart. I could understand Rhianon’s loyalty to Anwyn and Iwan, while they unfairly blamed Gavan for the whole sorry mess, but I’d hoped after Gavan died that she’d be there for Tilly. Kieron had dumped her before we’d even had the funeral. I was glad they’d only been together for a few weeks, and I don’t think she cared with everything else that was going on, but I was angry with him for letting her down. I knew from experience how uncomfortable death can make adults – avoiding eye contact, avoiding speaking Gavan’s name – perhaps it was unfair to expect a seventeen-year-old to be able to offer support. But now that Tilly was back at school I was sure Rhianon would do the right thing. She was a good girl really.

‘It would be nice if you came.’ I swept the crumbs that littered the table onto my empty plate. If Tilly was by my side, surely there couldn’t be a repeat of last time me and Anwyn were in a room together. The lightning-sharp insults, thundering rage, accusations flung like hail against a windowpane. To my surprise and relief, Tilly said yes.

I had showered, dressed, squeaked the worktops clean with lemon cleaner and clattered too-many-for-one empty wine bottles into the recycling bin, and Tilly still wasn’t ready. Upstairs, I tapped on her door and urged her to hurry up before I lost my nerve. It took another half an hour before she stomped down the stairs in a fug of overpowering perfume, wearing a top and trousers that didn’t match. She looked like she’d slung on the first things she found on the floor – what had she been doing up there?

My Volvo always smelled of flowers, even when the backseat was empty. I pulled out of our road, opposite the park with the baby swings I used to push Tilly on – higher, higher, higher – as her pudgy hands gripped the metal bar, her head thrown back in laughter. The route to Anwyn’s was familiar. I drove on autopilot, oblivious to it all; the traffic lights we must have passed, the rain pattering against the car roof, the swish of the windscreen wipers. I wasn’t even conscious of Tilly in the passenger seat as I rehearsed what I’d say over and over, choosing my words carefully, rearranging them into some semblance of order. The last thing I wanted to do was offend them, cause another scene. It wasn’t until I parked and yanked the handbrake on that I became aware of the awful heavy metal music Tilly was playing. Some band wanting someone to pour some sugar on them, whatever that meant. Still, as long as she was happy.

It felt odd to be walking up the driveway without holding a bottle of wine for dinner, a homemade trifle for dessert. Without wearing a smile. Rather than heading around the back and walking straight in with an ‘it’s only us!’ I rapped on the front door.

From inside, the muffled sound of shouting. I exchanged a glance with Tilly. We’d arrived at a bad time but I couldn’t afford to give up. I knocked again.

It seemed an age before the door opened. Usually well-groomed, I was shocked by Anwyn’s appearance. Her hair greasy and unbrushed, the whites of her eyes tinged pink. Around her hung the pungent tang of stale alcohol.

‘Laura.’ Confused, her gaze flickered between Tilly and I. Before she could react I stepped forward.

‘Can we come in? Please.’

‘It’s not a good time.’ The door began to swing towards me and I wedged my foot inside before it fully closed.

I wasn’t leaving without a fight.

‘Please,’ I said, glancing at Tilly. It looked like she was trying not to cry, and Anwyn must have thought the same because she silently turned. I took that as an invitation to step inside, following her down the narrow passageway into the kitchen.

‘Tilly, do you want to go and find Rhianon?’ It wasn’t a question.

In the kitchen Iwan leaned against the worktops, his arms crossed defensively. Two against one. The air was prickly. I closed the door so the girls wouldn’t be able to hear. Anwyn wordlessly filled the kettle, lifted milk from the fridge. I used the time it took her to make our drinks to decide where to start, but by the time she slopped the mugs onto the table and we all sat down I still didn’t know what to say.

Silently, I slid the letter over to Iwan, studying his face as he read it. He looked terrible. His skin hanging looser around his jowls. His eyes sunken in their blackened sockets. Grief had aged him too.

‘Sorry, Laura,’ he said after he’d digested it. Anwyn snatched it from his fingers.

She scanned it. ‘I can’t see what this has to do with us.’

‘Anwyn,’ Iwan’s voice rumbled

‘What? I’m not allowed an opinion on anything now?’ She let out a sigh and a cloud of cheap wine fumes.

I addressed Iwan. ‘Is there anything you can do?’

‘I don’t see what I can do. I can’t make the inquest happen any quicker.’ He ran his fingers through thinning hair.

‘Have you been interviewed by the coroner yet? They want to go through the events leading up to that night, as well as find out exactly where everyone was when Gavan fell.’

Anwyn and Iwan exchanged an uncomfortable glance. It was always going to be emotional talking about Gavan’s death. I pushed on.

‘Iwan, I’m going to lose my home.’ I wanted to lay down the facts, clear and concise, but my voice splintered under the strain of my uncertain future. ‘Isn’t there anything else? Business insurance?’

‘There isn’t a business anymore.’ Anwyn chipped in. ‘You’ll have to get a job like the rest of us, Laura.’

‘I’ve been applying for—’ I began but she cut me off.

‘Iwan swallowed his pride and began working for someone else after all that hoo-ha with the land. Oh, take that look off your face,’ she snapped at me. ‘Who cares if it was with a rival firm? He had a family to support. Gavan should have admitted defeat and got a proper job too.’

‘Gavan knew he’d done nothing wrong. It didn’t matter that the estate was being built on a former landfill site. If it wasn’t safe the council wouldn’t have sold it to us, or granted planning permission. He didn’t give up because he believed in the business. He believed in you, Iwan.’ I stretched out my fingers towards him but Anwyn placed her hand on his before I could reach him. He snatched it away. ‘He never stopped trying.’ Tears filled my eyes as I remembered his determination. His optimism that he could turn things around. ‘He’d lined up a deal he said would get everything back on track the night he died. He loved what he did. He loved you, Iwan. You were his brother…’

‘I think Iwan knows that. Family is important to him.’

‘But we’re your family. Tilly and I…’

Anwyn snorted. Iwan glared at her. The tension that sat heavy between them when I arrived thickened.

‘Laura, I can’t help you.’ His words were soft but they struck a blow.

‘Can’t or won’t? Please, Iwan. Just be honest with me.’

‘Honest!’ Anwyn stood so fast her chair toppled backwards and crashed to the ground. ‘Don’t come here cap in hand and bloody talk to us about being honest, Laura. Don’t forget we know the lengths you’ve gone to in the past to get what you want. The lies you’ve told. I know you.’

I couldn’t believe she’d dragged that up and thrown it in my face. I stood too. My hands flat on the table supporting my weight as I leaned forwards.

‘That’s a nice way to talk to your family.’ My voice was low.

‘You’re not family.’ Her face was inches from mine. Her rancid breath made my stomach roil. ‘And neither is that daughter of yours.’

‘Let’s all calm down,’ Iwan said. ‘Tilly’s family, and Laura is—’

‘Laura, you’ve made your own bed.’ Anwyn cut in. ‘You’re not family to us anymore.’

Those were the same words my dad used all those years ago and hearing them felt like ripping off a plaster, raw and painful, the wound gaping wide open once more. Instinctively I slapped her.

‘Oh God, Anwyn. I didn’t… I…’ Shocked, my hand dropped to my side as hers rose to press against her cheek.

‘Get out!’ she screamed.

But I was already leaving the room, pulling on my coat. Feeling sick, I called for Tilly.

The front door opened. ‘Aunt Laura?’ Rhianon hesitated halfway across the threshold, sensing the atmosphere. ‘Is everything okay?’

Tilly pushed past me, then pushed past Rhianon, and I squeezed my niece on the shoulder as I followed my daughter to the car, knowing I would never set foot in that house again.

Knowing there was only one option left for me, even if the thought of doing it made me feel ill.

But we do what we have to for our children, don’t we?

Chapter Seven

TILLY

I was annoyed I couldn’t sleep in. It was Saturday for God’s sake. Monday to Friday, Mum had to literally drag me out of bed but that day, with nothing to do and no one to do it with, I was up at eight. I hadn’t slept well, thanks to my inability to stop scrolling through Instagram. Sometimes I even put my phone down, only to snatch it up seconds later in case another post had appeared: Rhianon and Ashleigh trying on clothes in New Look; Kieron and Katie sharing a pitcher in the Moon on the Square where they never ask for ID. It was a world where everyone was thinner, happier, more popular than I was. Eating better meals, wearing nicer clothes. I was the stray ginger cat who prowled our garden and sat on the patio, pressing his nose against the glass, purring to be invited in. I could have explained all that to Mum, but I never did. I knew I wasn’t the only one having sleepless nights. I could hear the squeak of Mum’s bed frame as she tossed and turned. Her footsteps as she padded downstairs for another cup of tea. In the first few days, after Dad died, I wanted to climb into bed with her but it was so weird being in their room without him. His clothes still piled over the elliptical trainer which Mum never used. His brush on top of the chest of drawers. Once I had tugged some of his hair free of the bristles and hidden it in a shoe box at the bottom of my wardrobe, along with a strip of black and white photos of me and Rhianon in one of those old-school photo booths.

I had tried to get back to sleep, but couldn’t, so had stomped to the bathroom instead. Mum asked if I wanted toast. I snapped ‘not if it’s in a heart shape’ or something. It was a low blow, but my foul mood was uncontrollable and the words had come out before I could swallow them back down. I had gone downstairs to offer to make her a cup of tea or something. She was sitting at the table crying, and to know I had caused that with my stupid toast remark made me feel like a prize bitch. Mum had tried to do something nice with my sandwiches after all, and I did appreciate it. Some mums don’t even bother.

It was a surprise when she asked me to go to Aunt Anwyn’s with her. We hadn’t seen much of them socially since Ashleigh got sick, and Dad and Uncle Iwan’s business stupidly got the blame. I thought it was really unfair because I saw Aunt Anwyn in a coffee shop in town with Cathy Collins, Ashleigh’s mum, so they must have still been friends. Mum said things would settle down and everyone would move on. Dad was a scapegoat because Mr Collins needed someone to blame; dads feel like they have to protect their daughters and he must think that he let her down. When I thought of that it made me want to cry. Why didn’t my dad want to protect me?

Thinking of the reception we might get, I almost changed my mind about going but Aunt Anwyn and Uncle Iwan were so kind to me at the funeral I thought if we could all come together like a family I might become best friends with Rhianon again, which would make things easier at school. I knew she couldn’t completely hate me; if she did she’d never have kept quiet about what I’d told her. Anyway, I owed Mum after the whole heart-shaped toast thing so I agreed to go with her. It was my sorry without saying sorry.

It took ages to decide what to wear. It was the same every morning. Deciding who I wanted to be, painting my skin, covering my body, not wanting anyone to see the real me. Not really sure who the real me was anymore. When we were younger, Rhianon and I were given these books one Christmas. The front page had a paper doll you could pop out, the rest of the pages contained her outfits and accessories. She could be anyone you liked. Biker chick. Catwalk model. Must-go-to-the-ball-and-kiss-a-prince-at-midnight princess. I was that paper doll as I pulled clothes from my wardrobe and stood in front of the mirror trying on new identities; flimsy and fragile. Just like her, I had been so easy to screw up and throw away.

Mum thumped on my door and shouted. I was browsing Instagram as I tried on various combinations of clothes. There was an art to clashing prints and patterns. Finally, I squeezed my feet into my baby blue, suede shoe boots and I was, if not satisfied, resigned that this was the best I was going to do. I opened the sample of too-expensive-for-me perfume I’d found in a copy of Cosmo that someone had left in the sixth form common room and rubbed it over my wrists, behind my ears, over my neck.

Mum didn’t say anything when I came downstairs, let alone bother to tell me I looked nice or that she was pleased I had made such an effort. In fact she didn’t speak to me once during the drive. She was either annoyed I had taken so long to get ready, or was still hurt by my toast comment. Who knew?

On the journey I started to think of all the ways my turning up at Rhianon’s unannounced was a bad idea. The swarm of bees that constantly filled my head buzzed noisily. Needing a distraction I fiddled with the ancient radio, twisting the dial past the crackle and hiss until I found Planet Rock. Def Leppard vibrated through the terrible speaker in the car door. It wasn’t really my sort of music, but I left it on knowing that Mum would hate it, not really understanding why I was compelled to irritate her. But she ignored the music and she ignored me. She clearly thought it wasn’t worth the fight, that I wasn’t worth the fight.

It was when Mum knocked on the front door as if we were strangers that we heard all the shouting coming from inside the house. Aunt Anwyn threw open the door. I was too anxious to speak as we went inside. I couldn’t remember ever entering this way, through the cramped hallway with its dark red walls and bookcases, and I had to turn sideward to squeeze past them. Usually we spilled through the light, bright conservatory with the old sofa with a hole in its arm, and the games console Rhianon and I used to play on until we discovered makeup and boys. When we reached the kitchen, Mum ordered me to go and find Rhianon, and virtually slammed the door in my face before I could even say hi to Uncle Iwan. Charming.

Although I’d wanted to see Rhianon, once I was there I had felt too awkward to go upstairs. Instead I sat on the sofa in the lounge. The first thing I noticed was that all the photos of me, Mum and Dad had been removed. There were darker patches on the peacock walls, where the frames used to be. It was quiet at first. But then, from the kitchen, the whisper-shouting started. They didn’t think I could hear them, but of course I could. Needing to block out their arguing I pulled the twisted mess of my earbuds from my pocket, and worked the knots free before stuffing them into my ears. My Spotify daily mix played Nina Nesbitt’s ‘18 Candles’. I would be eighteen next year. An adult. The thought of leaving school calmed me. I started scrolling through Instagram and spotted a new post from Rhianon. A photo of her, Katie and Ashleigh sitting cross-legged on sleeping bags, wearing pyjamas. I think it was taken at Katie’s house. ‘Great sleepover last night #BFF’

Again that lump in my throat. I’d tell Mum I’d walk home. But when I removed my earbuds I heard Anwyn scream, ‘You’re not family and neither is that daughter of yours.’

If I wasn’t family.

If I wasn’t a friend.

Who was I?

I stepped into the hallway and Mum came barging out of the kitchen, just as Rhianon sauntered through the front door with her overnight bag. Her silent yawn shouting she’d had a brilliant sleepover.

I pushed my way past Mum and her, running out towards the car. I never got to tell Aunt Anwyn that even without Dad around to tie her to Mum, I was still her niece. Somehow, even then, I knew I would never be back.

I would never see her again.

Chapter Eight

LAURA

Tilly thundered upstairs as soon as we got back from Anwyn’s. I didn’t follow her, knowing I had to make the call straight away before my courage drained away. I sat in the kitchen still wearing my coat. My knee jigging up and down as I conjured up the keypad on my mobile. This wasn’t a number that was stored in my contacts, instead it was stored in the dark corners of my mind where cobwebs hung, and memories that were too painful to revisit gathered dust.

Acid rose in my throat as my shaking finger pressed the digits slowly. Through the stretch of time I could see the phone vibrating on the mahogany table with the vase of fake flowers with their too-shiny leaves. I could hear my mother’s voice reciting the number every time she answered, in the unlikely event the caller was unaware of who they were trying to reach.

A soft click.

‘Hello.’ The voice was bright and breezy. Too young to belong to my dad. Too cheerful.

‘Hello. I… I’m trying to reach Donald or Linda?’

‘You’ve got the wrong number.’

‘Sorry. I… I don’t suppose that line is still connected to fourteen Acacia Avenue is it?’

‘Yes. But we’ve been here eight years—’

Numb, I ended the call. Stupid that I’d expected everything in my childhood to have remained the same. Stupid that I’d ever thought my parents would help me, even if they still lived there.

‘Laura, you’ve made your own bed. You’re not family to us anymore,’ my father had spat after he’d ordered me out of his life. I had hefted a black bag crammed with my possessions over my shoulder, my duvet rolled under my arm, as my scared and confused seventeen-year-old self had stumbled out into the cutting night air. The door slammed behind me but I didn’t move. Couldn’t co-ordinate my legs and brain to work together. Minutes later I had been flooded with relief as there was the sound of unlocking, my mum framed in the doorway, honeycomb light spilling out into the porch. ‘Mum!’ Slowly, uncertainly, I had stepped towards her but she had shaken her head, creating an invisible barrier between us, before stretching out her palm.

‘Give me your key,’ were her last words to me before I handed over my keyring and my identity as a daughter. The door closed once more, leaving me standing alone on the step, my breath coming too fast, white clouds billowing from my mouth like mist, instantaneously disappearing like it had never existed. The kitchen light brightened the garden. I had crouched in the flower bed and peeped through the window as Mum stuck a couple of pork chops under the grill while Dad laid the table for two, and as I turned away I knew – for my parents – it was as if I had never existed.

Still, I couldn’t believe how much it hurt to learn they had moved, and I had no idea where they were. If they were alive even. My eyes cast around the tiny kitchen as though somehow I might find them there, coming to rest by the back door. The pencil marks made by Gavan as he balanced a ruler on Tilly’s head while she asked, ‘How tall am I now, Daddy?’ We’d outgrown this house years ago, but I always had an excuse not to move. It was too convenient for Tilly’s nursery; for her school. Later, we’d spent the deposit we’d saved to buy our own house on setting up Gavan’s business. We’d saved again, but that time our hard-earned cash went on the florist shop. Gavan never complained. Now and then he’d grumble about renting being a waste of money, and that it was ridiculous we didn’t own a home when he built them for a living, but he knew that deep down the reason I didn’t want to leave was because there, my parents knew where I was. We’d sent them a photo of Tilly asleep in her pram after she was born, with our address scrawled on the back. How could they resist her sweet face? Somehow they did. The void of loss had never fully left me, but gradually over the years I had filled it with a new family: Gavan, Tilly, Iwan, Anwyn, Rhianon; but I always retained the tiniest sliver of hope that one day they might come for me and if that day came I wanted them, I needed them, to be able to find us.

And now they’d moved.

When Tilly thumped downstairs hours later, proclaiming that she was starving, I was still sitting at the kitchen table.

Still wearing my coat.

The following day, I was rifling through the fridge, seeing which withering vegetables from the Oak Leaf Organics bag I could salvage for Sunday lunch, when the doorbell chimed.

‘Iwan!’ My eyes darted left and then right. He was alone. ‘Come in.’ I stepped back and gestured for him to go into the lounge as I returned to the kitchen to make tea, putting some space between us. I gathered my thoughts as I gathered the milk and the sugar. I needed to repair my shrinking family. Iwan was my last link to Gavan. Their dad had passed from cancer two years ago, and their mum followed six months later. A cardiac arrest, the young doctor had said, but privately we thought that grief had broken her heart in two. There were no other relatives.

My breath caught in my throat as I carried the mugs through. Iwan was filling Gavan’s chair, his elbows resting on the arms, fingers steepled together in front of his mouth the way Gavan used to sit when I’d laugh and tell him it looked like he was praying.

‘Praying for a kiss,’ he’d say and I’d roll my eyes but kiss him anyway.

I’d never noticed before how similar their fingers were, their mannerisms. Iwan cleared his throat. The brothers even had the same husky undertone and I had a crazy impulse to close my eyes. To ask him to whisper ‘I love you,’ just to hear it one more time.

‘Laura, I’m sorry about yesterday, about Anwyn,’ he said and the spell was broken.

‘I’m sorry too. I should never have slapped her.’ Just the thought of it made my palm sting.

‘She has a knack of bringing out the worst in people sometimes.’ It was a strange thing for him to say about his wife. Again, I wondered what they had been arguing about before we had arrived. The silence stretched. He spoke first. ‘I miss him too. It was never… It should never have ended that way. He was my brother and I let him down.’

‘He understood.’ I told him what he needed to hear. ‘That night… He was excited about the business.’

‘There was a deal agreed in principle,’ he said.

‘And now?’ Iwan couldn’t meet my eye. He didn’t speak. ‘You’ve taken the deal to your new firm haven’t you?’ There was a sour taste in my mouth.

‘It’s not that, it’s… complicated. Look, I’ll make some enquiries. See if there’s anything I can do. If I can get you some money, Laura, I will. You know what Tilly means to me, what you both mean to me.’ He rubbed his fingers over his lips the way Gavan used to whenever he felt uncomfortable. Trying to press the words back inside.

‘Thank you.’ The pressure on my chest eased.

‘Don’t thank me yet. Even if I can do anything, it will be a slow process. Months if not longer. There’s a situation.’ He sipped his tea which was still steaming and I knew it was a delaying tactic.

‘Anything I should know about?’ I asked.

‘Laura.’ His eyes met mine. ‘Sometimes there are things you’re better off never knowing.’

‘Sorry, there’s nothing we can do.’

That was the phase I heard over and over that week. Each day was a battle. After I’d drop Tilly at school there were endless phone calls and visits. The benefits office was sorry but there was a backlog and they couldn’t process my claim for weeks. My landlord wouldn’t accept housing benefit tenants. There were some flats which would but they were in a rough area and quite far from Tilly’s school. The insurance company smothered me with terms and clauses and legalities I couldn’t understand. Citizen’s Advice couldn’t fit me in until the New Year. The landlord of the shop was sorry, but in light of the arrears he’d found a new tenant and he’d be keeping my deposit to cover some of the rent I’d missed.

Sorry. Everyone was sorry.

It was Friday that finally broke me. Although I’d applied for every job going, from cleaning to waitressing, it was the position in the flower department of my local supermarket I had pinned all my hopes upon. I knew it would only be unpacking cellophane-wrapped bouquets from boxes and dumping them in plastic buckets but I was certain I’d get the job.

The white envelope imprinted with the shop’s logo dropped onto the doormat. I pounced on it eagerly.

We regret to inform you…

The rejection punched the back of my knees, tore sobs from my throat. I slid to the floor, curling myself as small as possible. The hessian doormat bristled against my cheek as I cried for the things I didn’t have; a job, money, a home, but most of all I cried for Gavan, his name rising from the pit of my stomach, spilling out into the cold empty hallway where he would never again kick off muddy boots and trail brick dust over the carpet.

Eventually, I exhausted myself. I shuffled on my knees to the bottom of the stairs and unhooked my handbag from the bannister. It was while I was rooting around for a packet of tissues that my fingers brushed against the piece of paper Saffron had given me.

‘If it weren’t for Alex I honestly don’t know where I’d be.’

Was there such a thing as a truly altruistic person?

I had nothing to lose by asking, but still it was gargantuan to tentatively dial her number, not allowing myself to hope.

‘Hello.’

‘Saffron, it’s Laura. From the florist.’

‘I was just thinking about you! The shop’s been locked all week. Are you okay?’

‘No,’ I whispered. The rivers I’d cried had dried my throat. ‘No, I’m really not.’

‘We can help,’ she said.

And those three words were enough for me to drive to Gorphwysfa the following day.

It’s easy, with the benefit of hindsight, to realise that taking Tilly was my second mistake. We may have been broke, homeless, longing for support, but nobody had died then.

Nobody had killed.

Chapter Nine

LAURA

What sort of people shun society and build their own community? I tried to discuss it with Tilly during our scenic journey to Abberberth but the further out of town we drove, the quieter she became. Tufts of grass sprung in the centre of the unfamiliar road that twisted and turned as it led away from the coast towards Mid Wales. We dipped into a valley, the rolling hills swallowing the car, the tips of their peaks hidden by mist. Free from the buildings that crowded our town, it seemed we were driving into the vast slate-grey sky.

Tilly had her face turned away from me, staring absently out of the window at the bleak and empty fields, her mood as low as the clouds that threatened rain. I wanted to ask her what she was thinking, what she was feeling, but I didn’t know how to reach her. I was seventeen when she was born, little more than a child myself. My best friend at the time, Natasha, told me it was really cool I had a daughter. ‘You can go shopping together, hang out, you’ll be mates.’ But I didn’t feel like Tilly’s friend right then, and with all the ways I was letting her down I didn’t feel quite like her mum either. Gavan was always the calmer parent, right from when she arrived red-faced and squalling into the world. He had held her against his bare chest, as he’d read about the importance of skin-to-skin contact, while I was mopped up, stitched up. I fought against climbing down from my cloud of pethidine into reality, where I was responsible for this tiny creature with fisted hands and a furious cry. I wondered how we’d cope, but Gavan was the perfect balance of discipline and fun at each and every stage, coaxing Tilly to finish her vegetables without the onslaught of World War Three. Effortlessly moulding papier-mâché into a castle for her history project, throwing together a fancy dress costume with things he plucked out of the airing cupboard. Although there had been a definite shift in their relationship before he died, a tension which wasn’t there before, I put it down to the changes she was going through. Seventeen was impossibly difficult. For me it was an age full of memories I’d locked away.

We’d been driving for forty-five minutes when, almost too late, I noticed the opening between the trees. I swung a hard left, bumping down a rutted track that tapered until hanging twigs scraped against my paintwork. I thought I must have taken a wrong turn. Slowly, I edged forward, looking for a place to turn around. The track widened again. A weatherworn sign speared the ground, a crow perched atop so still at first I thought he was a statue. ‘Tresmasers yn Ofalus’ in black peeling letters, and then almost as an afterthought, the English translation, ‘Trespassers Beware’. A second sign shouted ‘Ffens Trydan’, ‘Electric Fence’, and a third, newer sign, ‘Oak Leaf Organics’. I’d found it. Gorphwysfa. Resting place.

An ominous thunder cloud hung suspended over the impossibly tall fences spiked with razor wire. Padlocked chains twisted around the metal gate.

Apprehensively I sat, engine ticking over. In the shadows, a movement. A figure dressed in black strode out of a small wooden cabin and moved towards us. His head shaven, tattoos wrapped around his neck; a snake, barbed wire, something written in sharp letters that I didn’t recognise.

He flung open the gates. Timorously, I cracked open my window. He was younger than I’d initially thought, late 30s I would guess. Shadow fell across his chin that could equally have been bruising or stubble.

‘You must be Laura.’ He was well spoken. I chided myself for being so judgemental as we shook hands. ‘Saffron told me you’d be coming. I’m Reed. Can I just say, we’re all very happy that you’re here.’

‘Umm, thanks.’

‘Really. I came here when I was in need and…’ He shook his head. ‘Anyway, I know you’re in a bit of a bind and if anyone can help, Alex can. Carry on straight.’ He pointed down the track and his sleeve fell back exposing his forearm, the skin barely visible under his inkings. ‘You can’t go wrong.’

Still, I didn’t move. Wondering how he knew I was in trouble, and wishing he hadn’t said anything in front of Tilly. The last thing I wanted was for her to find out just how bad things were. Just what was I driving us into?

‘It’s okay.’ He caught my worried expression. The way my eyes flicked to the rear-view mirror at the signs. ‘The fence isn’t electrified. Don’t be afraid.’

‘Mum! What are you waiting for?’ Tilly asked.

Flustered, I put the car into gear and released the handbrake. We bunny-hopped forward and I tried not to flinch as the gates creaked shut behind us.

Trapped. I hated feeling trapped.

Out of the cover of the trees it was lighter. In the far distance I spotted smoke spiralling from a chimney, and even without the sun smiling down, the stone farmhouse surrounded by a scattering of outbuildings looked chocolate-box idyllic. I left my sense of foreboding behind with the flattened undergrowth and the worrying amount of security.

That just made it safer, didn’t it?

One snowy Sunday afternoon last winter, I had curled up with Gavan on the sofa after too many roast potatoes and herb-crusted pork loaded with apple sauce, and watched a documentary on the Amish.

‘It must be lovely to live without technology.’ I’d thrown a sideward glance at Tilly. She was tucked up in the armchair, mesmerised by her phone. It was nice to have her in the same room as us, but I doubt she registered we were there, let alone what we were watching. The modern day Pied Piper wouldn’t need a magic pipe, he could just wave an iPad. Through my 42 inch flat screen, fingers of tranquillity reached out and caressed me, and as I drove into Gorphwysfa that day there was the same sense of being transported back in time. I wouldn’t have been surprised to pass a horse and cart. Men in hats and braces. Women in capes and aprons. Children playing with hoops and sticks. Free-range chickens dipping their beaks for seed. Instead Saffron leaned against a Land Rover, waving as she saw us approach. I slotted my car next to a battered old minibus.

‘Laura!’ The second my feet touched the ground outside the car I was swept into a hug. Momentarily I stiffened. I didn’t like being touched, particularly by strangers, but then I relaxed into her embrace. It had been so long since I had been held. Besides, after she’d witnessed me twitching and writhing on the floor last week, the kindness she showed, it seemed churlish to try to maintain a distance between us. ‘I’m so pleased you’re here,’ she said. ‘I’ve been so worried. I’ve a feeling everything’s going to be all right now.’

The energy buzzing from her lifted me.

‘Saffron, this is Tilly, my daughter.’

Tilly muttered something incompressible and I shrugged a teenagers – what can you do to Saffron who melted my embarrassment with her hundred-watt smile. ‘Tilly I can’t tell you how good it is to meet you! You’re genuinely very welcome here. Now, Laura, I’ll take you across to Alex.’ She gestured away from the farm house, towards a woodland. ‘Did you want to wait here, Tilly? I’d hate for you to ruin those suede boots. They’re fabulous!’

Instead of giving a proper answer, Tilly shook her head. I threw her a where-are-your-manners glance.

We all set off, striding across the open field, the first spots of rain blowing into my eyes. My head bowed as I pushed against the blustery wind that snatched my breath. The bitter breeze biting my nose, the tips of my ears.

‘Not far now.’ Saffron led us into the woods where it was sheltered. I pushed down my hood, breathing in the scent of pine.

Sticks snapped underfoot as we weaved in and out of the autumn stripped branches and the evergreens. Trees towered above us, blocking the already receding light. Tilly was walking so close to me, our arms brushed.

‘I hope you know where you’re going,’ I said in the tone people use when they’re seeking reassurance, but pretending not to.

‘You see these?’ Saffron pointed to the bright white stones snaking through the gloom. ‘They’re kind of a path. It does all look the same here, particularly at night.’

A shudder ran through me at the thought of being out there in the pitch-black with the scuttling animals and the rustling bushes.

‘We have to be careful.’ She gestured with her hand over to the right. ‘There’s a ravine over there. Don’t want anyone falling down it. Hey, what do you call a nun lost in the woods? A Roamin’ Catholic. Geddit?’

I groaned.

‘Not one of my best! Anyhoo, we’re almost there.’

We followed our Hansel and Gretel trail for a few more minutes until we rounded a corner and there it was. A small whitewashed cottage. Smoke curling from the chimney. Storybook perfect. Gingerbread House enticing.

‘This was a weaver’s cottage,’ Saffron said as she pushed open the latched door. ‘It’s over a hundred years old.’

She kicked off her boots onto the mat in the porch. Tilly and I wobbled as we pulled off our footwear in the confined space. Elbows jabbing into walls. Into each other.

In the lounge, a fire crackled and hissed. The smell of wood smoke was comforting. Dark beams striped the low ceiling. A battered black leather sofa with a cross of duct tape over one cushion was angled by the cracked window. To its side, a coffee table stained with white rings. Two faded, mustard armchairs flanked the fireplace.

‘Wait here, Tilly,’ Saffron said. ‘I’ll take your mum through and then I’ll show you around the farm.’

Tilly’s gaze met mine, a don’t-leave-me expression on her face, but it was better that I talked to Alex in private. I didn’t want her to know how bad things really were.

‘You’ll have a lovely time, Tilly.’ I dragged myself away from her pleading eyes.

‘This was a dining room but it’s more of an office now,’ Saffron said as she pushed open the door to the adjoining room, and there he was.

Alex.

Dark hair curling over the neck of his cream fisherman’s jumper. A beard framing lips that spoke my name as if he’d said it a million times before.

‘Laura.’ His voice a soothing balm on a sting. ‘Nice to meet you.’ He was only around thirty but he carried the sense of confidence you’d expect from somebody older. He took my hand, his skin rough. His nut-brown eyes, flecked with gold, held mine. I was barely aware of Saffron saying goodbye. Her footsteps receding. The slamming of the front door. Hers and Tilly’s voices growing fainter.

‘Hello.’ It seemed rude to pull my hand away, and if I’m honest, I didn’t want to. Instead, I squeezed his fingers, not wanting to feel them slip away from mine. He released me first. Embarrassed, I did what I’d always done in uncomfortable situations; I babbled, cramming the tiny gaps of silence with words, but my voice trailed away when I noticed the shotgun propped against the desk.

In the far depths of my mind a memory slithered to the surface.

There’s nowhere to run to.

I couldn’t tear my eyes away from it. Panic rising as I remembered the fences, the wire, the locked gate.

‘I… I’m not sure I should be here.’ I hated weapons of any description. I knew how it felt to be on the wrong end of one. ‘I’m going to go.’

‘No you’re not,’ Alex said softly as he reached for the gun.

Chapter Ten

TILLY

It had been a shit week at school.

On Monday I’d gone into the sixth form common room. Rhianon was there, alone.

‘Hi.’ I grabbed a plastic cup and poured water from the cooler.

‘Hey.’ Her voice was flat. I noticed how pale she was.

‘So, the weekend? What was that about?’ I tried to act casual as I leant against the wall, uncertain whether I should sit next to her.

‘Like, I literally have zero clue. Mum and Dad basically fight all the time at the moment.’

‘Your mum told mine we’re not family anymore.’ I shrugged feigning nonchalance.

Before she could answer, Katie burst into the room. ‘You’ll never guess what Kieron said?!’ She noticed me and sat next to Rhianon, cupping her hand against Rhianon’s ear and whispering in the way five-year-olds did.

‘See you later then,’ I said snarkily.

‘Yeah. Whatever.’ She didn’t even look at me as I left.

I hadn’t had the chance to speak to her again, spending my free periods in the library. I had only missed six weeks but there was mountains of coursework to catch up on.

And then it was Saturday. I should have been writing up my notes on Othello but I was so bored. Mum asked if I wanted to go with her and visit a friend who lived on a farm. I said yes. I’d pictured somewhere pretty with animals I could feed, but we stopped at these massive gates with threatening signs and everything. Honestly, it was as creepy as hell. The man who let us through started talking about how if anyone could help us Alex could, a bit like we were off to see the wizard. I almost expected there to be a road paved with yellow bricks.

We got out of the car. Mum hugged this woman who was stunning. It’s so hard to pull off white in the winter but she managed it, with skinny jeans disappearing into black Uggs. She turned to me. I immediately felt six sizes larger than I was, and I wanted to put a paper bag over my head.

‘Saffron, this is my daughter, Tilly,’ Mum said and I only just managed to push out a shrill ‘hi’. I could feel Mum glaring at me and was about to say something really lame about the weather to appease her, but then Saffron commented on my boots. I was so happy I couldn’t say anything at all.

It began to rain as we walked across a field. I was glad the wind snatched away the chance of conversation. In the woods it was sheltered. Peaceful. Through the trees there was a cottage. Familiarity soothed my anxious stomach. It looked so similar to the one pictured in the fairy-tale book Mum used to read to me when I was small. I tried to remember the name of the story but I couldn’t.

It was bubble bath warm inside the cottage. I sniffed as my nose began to run. Mum pushed a tissue into my hand.

‘Wait here, Tilly,’ Saffron said. ‘I’ll take your mum through and then I’ll show you around the farm.’

‘You’ll have a lovely time,’ Mum said, in her fake happy voice, as Saffron ushered her through to a different room.

I perched on one of the chairs that was threadbare and faded. The sideboard was chipped on its corner. A dark stain on the carpet near the fireplace. The walls were probably white once, but now had an odd yellow tinge. Somehow all its faults made it look homely, or perfectly imperfect, as someone would say on Instagram.

Saffron returned a minute later.

‘Shall we head off, Tilly?’

The buzzing in my mind increased along with my anxiety. Before I could tell her that I didn’t mind waiting there for Mum, she flashed me a smile full of white teeth and something I hadn’t seen for a long time – friendliness.

Outside, the smell of damp earth hit my nostrils. When I was small I’d love to crunch through autumn-coloured leaves in my wellies, Dad hoisting me onto his shoulders when my legs grew too tired to walk. Now, everything was soggy and limp. The rain sleeting down harder than it had before, the wind gusting it into my face. I knew my makeup would run and my hair would go frizzy. As we hurried through the woods I smoothed my hands over my scalp, wishing my palms could absorb the moisture.

‘Your hair is amazing,’ Saffron said. My body stiffened as I waited for the punch line. ‘No really,’ she said when I didn’t reply. ‘It’s really striking.’

‘Katie says it looks like pubes.’ I inhaled sharply as if I could suck the words back in.

‘And Katie is?’

‘She’s friends with Rhianon. She’s my cousin. And best friend. Well she was. My best friend, I mean. She’s still my cousin.’

You’re not family anymore.

‘Katie sounds… delightful.’ Saffron laughed. My jaw tightened until she nudged me with her elbow and I realised she was laughing with me, not at me. And then I was laughing too.

‘Your hair’s prone to frizz like mine.’ She reached out and rubbed the strands that framed my face between her fingers. ‘I can give you some tips.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I was bullied.’ She drew her hand away and stuffed it into her coat pocket, leaving me that little bit colder. ‘At school. It was a few years ago now and it stopped after I’d moved to a new area but…’ She stopped and turned to face me and held my gaze. ‘It hurt. There are scars we carry, Tilly. Scars that can’t be seen but it doesn’t make them any less painful.’

I had never really understood what a soul was. Mum used to say mine was old, I was wise beyond my years, but in that moment I was sure Saffron could see into mine. There was this weird kind of connection between us. We were rooted in the woods like the trees, still and silent. There was so much I wanted to say. It had been such a long time since I’d had someone to talk to properly, not just Mum asking me how school was, or if I wanted ketchup with my tea, but to share just how bloody awful everything felt since Dad died.

I parted my lips, wanting to tell Saffron about Dad dying, about what he did before he died, but no words came. Instead I let the rain fall light and cool on my tongue before I swallowed it down with the painful lump that had risen in my throat.

‘I’d got to the stage where I didn’t know who I was anymore, you know?’ Saffron said. I nodded. ‘Where I’d spent so long pretending to be someone else I had lost sight of the real me. Putting on an act to impress people who didn’t give a toss about me. Joking all the time became a sort of defence mechanism I guess. Pretending I didn’t care. Of course now I do care, but I’ve realised I’m hilarious so the jokes have stayed.’ She laughed. I loved that she didn’t take herself too seriously.

I stopped worrying about the rain, my hair, as we started to walk again.

‘Living here has changed me.’ She was serious once more.

‘You’re lucky,’ I said. ‘I always wanted to live on a farm.’ I had badgered Mum and Dad endlessly when I was small, longing for piglets, lambs, chicks of my own. It wasn’t until Rhianon told me where meat came from that I stopped asking.

‘It’s not a working farm anymore. It’s a place for communal living. Do you know what that is?’

Instinctively, I started to nod my head the way I do when I don’t know something but don’t want to appear stupid. But something told me I didn’t need to try to impress Saffron.

‘No. What is it?’

‘We’re a group of like-minded people who have chosen to live together. There’re fourteen of us.’

‘Why?’ I was curious.

‘For different reasons. Some because it’s just too damn expensive to get on the property ladder. There’s a chance of a better quality of life here, splitting the bills, sharing the chores. Daisy is hugely into all that save the planet stuff. Hazel is here because she got divorced. We also get drop-ins. People that temporarily want to step out of their daily grind whether for a weekend or a week.’

‘And you? Why are you here?’

‘I lost my mum when I was small, and then later I lost my dad. I was confused. I wanted to find out who I was, away from all the pressures of society. Where I fit. What I want to do with my life.’

We were heading towards the farmhouse. Fields and sky merging on the horizon. Without the hum of constant traffic I got at home the world seemed slower. Stiller. Smaller. Or maybe I just felt bigger without the incessant noise and movement.

‘It’s hard to explain,’ Saffron said. ‘And I know it sounds a bit arsey to say I’d lost my identity, but that’s how I felt.’

‘Yeah. I get that,’ I said. It was how I had been feeling for months. Mum and Dad had been watching a documentary a while back when she said, ‘It must be nice to live without technology.’ I thought she was having a dig at me because I was on social media, but when I looked up I saw these women in long dresses and hats on the TV making a quilt. They looked so content and their happiness formed a knot of envy in my chest. I spent so much time taking selfies for Instagram. Running them through a filter to make myself as flawless as possible. Posting them with captions that had to be funnier, snappier than the previous one. It was in that moment I realised I had become a patchwork version of myself. Each photo, each square, had to be brighter, more vibrant, more beautiful than the last. So dazzling people didn’t know where to look first, didn’t see things too closely. The stitching coming apart. The hem where it’s starting to fray. The material dull and fading from constantly being in the light. What everyone saw on the outside never matched how I felt on the inside. I had become a black and white, washed out version of myself. Tattered and threadbare.

Thunder clapped. Saffron grabbed my hand. ‘Run!’

A stitch burned in my side as we tumbled through the door of the farmhouse into the kitchen.

I didn’t know what to make of what I saw inside.

Chapter Eleven

LAURA

There’s nowhere to run to.

‘You can’t leave,’ Alex said. ‘I know it’s incredibly difficult to ask for help but you’ve taken the first steps coming here. Don’t go before we’ve talked about your situation. Seen if I can help.’ He waved the gun. ‘I’ll put this away. Sorry. I forget it’s there.’ He must have caught my horrified expression. ‘It’s Dafydd’s, he owns the farm.’

‘Is it loaded?’ I was repelled and yet strangely fascinated.

‘No. Do you want to hold it?’

I couldn’t help taking it from him. I’d never held a gun before and it felt cold and heavy in my hands. My finger curved around the trigger. Although it was harmless I couldn’t bring myself to squeeze.

‘Here.’ Abruptly, I handed it back to him.

While he took it out of the room I noticed the clock on the mantelpiece was displaying seven when I knew it was nearly lunchtime.

‘I think your clock needs winding,’ I said when Alex came back in.

‘I purposefully keep it like that,’ he said as he sat at the table, gesturing for me to join him. We’re too governed by time. When we should eat. When we should sleep. We should listen more to our bodies. Our instincts.’

‘I can’t see my daughter’s head teacher being pleased if I rolled up late because I hadn’t set the alarm.’

He laughed, although it didn’t reach his eyes. I could see a gap in the back of his mouth where he was missing a tooth, but it didn’t detract from the obvious. He was incredibly handsome.

‘Time is unavoidable in some circumstances, but life is a series of moments and if we clock-watch and plan, we miss the here and now. If you think about it, each moment could be our last and I don’t want to spend mine thinking about what I have to do next. It’s what I’m doing now that’s important.’

I couldn’t help trying to picture what Gavan’s last moment was like. What his final thought was. Me? Tilly? Did he know he was going to die as he plummeted from the scaffolding?

‘Sorry, have I upset you?’ Alex lightly touched my arm and I blinked away the film of tears glazing my eyes.

‘It wasn’t you. It’s just…’ The choke in my throat was held back by the rest of my words. I pinched the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger. It was several seconds before I could speak again. ‘God. I’m glad Saffron took Tilly to look around so she didn’t have to see me like this. Everything seems so hopeless.’

‘I know how that feels.’ This time it was his eyes that filled with tears.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes. Sorry. It’s been one of those weeks. What I was clumsily trying to say is that nothing is hopeless, Laura. And you’re not alone.’

There’s no one to help you. The sour-breathed truth in my ear so many years before had rung true again in recent months.

But perhaps, now, there was someone to help me.

‘Saffron told me you have a dispute with your insurance company. I’m so sorry. Let’s have a look, shall we? See what we can do?’ The way he said ‘we’ was as warming as the fire. He clicked the end of a ballpoint pen and flicked through his notebook containing rows of figures before he came to rest at a blank page.

‘I’ve been writing a business plan,’ he said.

‘Look.’ I was torn between need and good manners. Politeness won out. ‘I know this is an imposition. If you’ve too much on…’

‘Not at all. Sometimes helping someone else is just what you need to take your mind off your own problems.’

‘Oak Leaf Organics is a wonderful idea. It just needs time to find its feet,’ I said.

‘Let’s help you find your feet. Tell me all.’

‘We’ve been paying into a joint life insurance policy for years, and never missed a monthly premium. They’re supposed to pay out £500,000, but they’ve said they won’t settle on an interim death certificate. The inquest could take months.’ Anxiety lifted my voice an octave higher. ‘I just don’t know what to do. It’s all too much.’ I dropped my head into my hands. ‘We’ve only just had the funeral and I just want everything to slow down. Stop.’

‘The first thing is don’t panic.’ Alex paused until I lifted my head and nodded. ‘It’s not unusual to get a no before you get a yes. Some companies will pay out on an interim certificate. Some won’t. Who are you with?’

‘Ironstone.’ I pulled a letter from my bag and thrust it towards him. His eyes scanned the page.

‘Evans? Your husband was Gavan from Evans Construction. Saffron didn’t mention that.’

‘I didn’t tell her.’ A sinking feeling in my stomach. How stupid to think he wouldn’t have heard of us. Toxic waste is probably something they campaign about here. ‘Look, I know building on a landfill probably goes against all your principles but…’ I fiddled with the wedding ring on my finger. The gold digging into my flesh as I twisted it round and round trying to find the right words.

‘We’re quick to judge others.’ His brow furrowed. ‘Too quick.’ He placed a hand on my arm and my fingers stilled. ‘Here we practice acceptance. I’m sorry for all you’ve been through.’

He turned his attention back to the letter. The wait for him to speak again was painfully slow.

‘Ironstone is one of the newer companies, so it’s likely they won’t pay out on a suicide. The modern ones rarely do.’

‘Gavan didn’t jump.’ He wouldn’t have chosen to leave us.

‘Of course not. I’m just running through their thought process. They’ll be wanting to know what caused the accident. Did he have a blackout from some previously undiagnosed condition? Did he have a heart attack and then fall? Did he have a brain tumour that burst?’

‘The post mortem didn’t say any of those things. He had a subdural haematoma and midline shift.’ Phrases I’d only previously heard on Casualty tripped off my tongue. ‘It was the fall that killed him.’ It was impossible to discuss the love of my life with a detachment I didn’t feel. I fished a tissue from my pocket as I asked, ‘I don’t understand why that’s not enough.’

‘Gavan was an experienced builder?’

I nodded as I blew my nose.

‘Then the inquest will also be asking why he was up on the roof in bad weather? If he’d been drinking? Taking drugs?’

‘He had 50 milligrams of alcohol in his blood.’ I don’t know why; he was supposed to have been at work all day.

‘I can’t imagine how you feel, losing your husband and… I’m so sorry.’ A beat, then, ‘Look, I’m not saying it will be easy but it’s certainly not impossible to get an interim payment.’

‘Do you think…’ I trailed off, hoping he would fill in the gaps but he didn’t. I started again. ‘Do you think you could help me please? I can’t afford to pay you right now but Saffron said I could perhaps help out with planting or something.’ Even to me, my offer seemed inadequate.

He studied me.

‘Here’s the thing,’ he began, and my spirits sunk even lower. ‘The policy is in your name, Laura, and I can’t speak on your behalf so I can either walk you through the process or you can sign a permission form so Ironstone have to deal with me. I’d need a copy of your policy of course.’

I could have kissed him. ‘If you could speak to them directly that would be great. How long do you think it might take to get an answer?’

‘I’m not going to lie to you, Laura.’ He spoke with such sincerity. ‘The inquest might happen sooner than I can get any sort of pay-out.’

I turned away to blow my nose, not wanting him to see my disappointment.

His stomach growled. ‘That’s my internal body clock letting me know it’s lunchtime. Are you hungry? Shall we head over to the main house? Find Tilly?’

‘Yes.’ We stood. I tried not to show my disappointment that the insurance wouldn’t be resolved quickly enough to cover the arrears on my rent, but he saw it anyway.

‘Oh, Laura.’ He pulled me into a hug. ‘I can promise you I will do my absolute best for you and your daughter.’

His arm encircling my waist. The feel of him. The smell of him. I shivered.

Oddly, even then, something pulled me towards him. The only way I can explain it was that I’d spent weeks dealing with death and all its aftermath. Somewhere, inside my core, I wanted to feel alive.

Alex was magnetic but it wasn’t only me he was attracting. I wasn’t the one willing to kill for him.

Willing to die for him.

Chapter Twelve

TILLY

I had thought Saffron was wearing white because she was funky enough to carry it off, but in the kitchen were two other women also dressed in white. Honestly it felt a bit weird, it was winter after all, but I tried not to stare.

‘This is Tilly,’ Saffron said. ‘And this is Daisy. She’s the youngest here at twenty-three, as she keeps reminding me, because I’m so ancient at twenty-seven.’

‘Not at twenty-seven,’ Daisy said. ‘But just wait until you get to twenty-eight! Hi, Tilly.’ She gave a little wave. I mumbled ‘hello’. She didn’t look much older than me with her hair hanging in two long dark plaits either side of her heart-shaped face. She reminded me of Tiger Lily in Peter Pan. As an only child I was always envious of the Darling family. Siblings. I used to beg Mum for a brother or sister. She always laughed and said she had her hands full with just me, but her eyes would cloud and I wondered if she meant I was too much.

‘Croeso, Tilly. Welcome.’ Hazel had the biggest smile and rosy red cheeks. Grey hair bobbed to her shoulders but her face only had the odd line. She didn’t look properly old and I wondered why she didn’t dye her hair.

‘And Hazel is—’ Saffron began.

‘Saffron, don’t tell her how old I am!’

‘What’s it worth?’ Saffron held out her hand. ‘I was just going to say a fabulous cook.’ She blew a kiss.

‘You can see how much I love my food.’ Hazel patted her rounded stomach and there was something so cuddly about her I wanted to see if my arms would fit around her waist and hug her.

‘We all live in this house, along with Dafydd who owns the farm, because we’re special.’ Saffron fluffed her hair. ‘And there are eight others who bunk down in the stables across the way.’

‘In a stable?’ I couldn’t help blurting out.

‘It’s not a stable in the traditional sense. It’s huge and it’s been converted into dorms. They’ve a kitchen and bathroom too. They don’t always eat with us, unsociable bunch. Speaking of eating…’ She raised her eyebrows.

‘I’ll start preparing lunch. Do you like soup, Tilly?’ Hazel asked.

‘Yeah.’

‘Vegetable okay?’

‘Can I help?’ I asked.

‘If you want to wash the soil off the veg,’ Hazel said.

I must have looked confused because Daisy said, ‘We grow our own produce here which reduces our carbon footprint.’

‘Mum shops at a greengrocer sometimes.’ I didn’t know how, but I was sure that must be better than buying everything from a supermarket chain. Supporting local business.

‘And where do they get their stock from? It’s still a huge amount of fossil fuel to transport food to a local business. On average about one and a half thousand miles is travelled before the food is consumed,’ she said, but she wasn’t patronising.

‘Daisy’s our resident environmentalist. Diolch. Thank you,’ Hazel said as I took the carrots she was holding out towards me. After rinsing them clean, I began to chop. There was something almost therapeutic about the process. Before long, herby soup simmered on the Aga which was nothing like the gas hob we had at home.

‘Farmers often put weak lambs in the top oven if their mothers have died,’ Saffron told me as I stirred the pot. I must have looked horrified as she quickly added, ‘To keep them warm and give them a chance of survival’. She squirted washing-up liquid into running water. Hazel clanked a lid on the soup. I sat at the table listening to the gentle sloshing of water, the rain pattering against the window. The warm, safe feeling weighted my eyelids until they began to droop, only opening properly when Saffron spoke again.

‘Here’s Alex,’ she said, pulling her hands out of the bowl, suds floating to the floor as she dried her hands. Her face brightened, ‘Typically he’s just in time for lunch.’

Daisy smoothed her hair.

I turned towards the door as it opened. The room disappeared around me. I barely threw a cursory glance over Mum, her hair dripping wet. I didn’t register anything but Alex. He was beautiful in a way I never knew boys could be. Once, in biology, we had learned about processing. It takes on average fifty milliseconds for the retina to send visual information to the brain, but those fifty milliseconds were all I needed. The instant I saw Alex, I knew.

I wanted to be in his orbit.

Chapter Thirteen

ALEX

Alex had known as soon as he laid eyes on her that she was the one, the one who would save him. Save them all. As he kicked off his muddy boots he breathed in the soup and he knew home was more than a building. It was a smell, a feeling. The people you surrounded yourself with.

Her.

The bread timer dinged. He crossed to the sink to wash his hands so he could cut the loaf while it was still warm.

As he scrubbed his fingernails, outside the window a crow swooped – the crow swooped – ink-stained wings stretched like a malevolent angel. It perched on the tree stump, claws spiking the rotting wood, head tilted as it appraised him.

Alex tried to look away, but the beady eyes of the bird bored into his. It cawed, the sound sudden and sharp, its head tilted in judgement.

I know. It seemed to say. I know what you did.

It was the same crow, Alex knew, that had watched him that day, but this wasn’t the same situation. He turned away, facing her instead, and although he could no longer see the bird he could feel it screeching in his head, scratching and pecking behind his eyes, clambering to be free.

She looked at him, already adoring, and the gentleness in her eyes made him want to weep.

He smiled at her but it was forced and tight while, inside, a longing unfurled. More than anything he wanted to drop to his knees, bury his face in her lap and allow her to soothe him. Cool fingers raking his hair, her voice as soft as down. But he had to keep it together.

He couldn’t lose control.

Not again.

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