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7

Wednesday, 8 August 2007


St Swithun’s Montessori School is a Victorian building with a clock-tower on its roof and green-painted iron railings separating its playground from the enormous landscaped garden of the old people’s home next door. I can hear children through the open windows as I approach the front door-singing, chanting, laughing, calling out to one another. It sounds as if a party is being thrown in every room.

I stop, confused. It’s the summer holidays. I was expecting to find the place empty apart from the odd secretary. There’s a sign on the door that says ‘Action Week One-Monday 6 to Friday 10 August’. I wonder if it’s some kind of holiday childcare scheme, and have the automatic thought: what are parents supposed to do for the rest of the holidays?

I walk in and find myself in a small square entrance hall with a flagstone floor. Class photographs line all four walls: rows and rows of children wearing green. This startles me; I feel as if I’ve been ambushed by tiny faces. Beneath each picture is a typed list of names and a date. One, to my left, is dated 1989. I see Lucy Bretherick’s green dress, over and over again.

The sight of all these children makes me ache for mine. I found it harder than ever to drop them off at nursery this morning. I didn’t want to let them out of my sight. I kept asking for one last kiss, until Jake eventually said, ‘Go to work, Mummy. I want to play with Finlay, not you.’ This made me laugh; clearly he’s inherited his father’s diplomacy.

I didn’t go to work. I rang HS Silsford, lied to the disgusting Owen Mellish and came here instead. I’ve never phoned in sick before, legitimately or otherwise.

‘Can I help you at all?’ A soft Scottish accent. I turn and find a tall, thin woman behind me. She looks my age but better preserved. Her skin is like a porcelain doll’s and her short, sleek black hair hugs her scalp like a swimming cap. She’s wearing a fitted jacket, the thinnest pencil skirt I’ve ever seen and sandals with stiletto heels. On her ring finger there’s a pile-up of gold and diamond bands reaching almost to her knuckle.

I smile, open my bag and pull out the two photographs that I found hidden behind the ones of Geraldine and Lucy. When I look up, I see that the Scottish woman’s face has been immobilised by shock, and it’s nothing to do with my cuts and bruises. ‘I know,’ I say quickly. ‘I look like Mrs What’s-her-name on the news who died. Everyone’s been telling me.’

‘You…’ She pauses to clear her throat, eyeing me warily. ‘You know her… her daughter was one of our pupils?’

My turn to look shocked. ‘Really? No, I didn’t know. I’m sorry.’ I have no plan other than to keep lying until I come up with a better strategy. ‘I’m sorry if I sounded flippant,’ I say. ‘I had no idea you knew the family personally.’

‘So… you’re not here in connection with the tragedy?’

‘No.’ I smile again. ‘I’m here because of these.’ I pass her the two photographs.

She holds them at a distance, then brings them close to her face, blinking at them. ‘Who are these people?’ she asks.

‘I was hoping you could tell me. I don’t know. I just recognised the uniform as belonging to this school.’ Inspiration rushes to my aid. ‘I found a handbag in the street and the photos were inside it. There was a wallet too, with quite a lot of money in it, so I’m trying to find the bag’s owner.’

‘Weren’t there credit cards? Contact details?’

‘No,’ I say quickly, impatient with my own fictions. ‘Do you know who the girl is? Or the woman?’

‘I’m sorry, before we go any further…’ She extends her hand. ‘I’m Jenny Naismith, the headmistress’s secretary.’

‘Oh. I’m… Esther. Esther Taylor.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Taylor,’ she says, eyeing my wedding ring. ‘This is a bit of a puzzle. I know every child at St Swithun’s and every parent-we’re like a big family here. This girl is not one of our pupils. I’ve never seen the woman before either.’

The bell rings, making my whole body shake as if in response to an electric shock. Jenny Naismith remains perfectly still, unperturbed. Doors all around us start to open, and children pour out. They aren’t wearing the green uniform. Some of them are in fancy dress-pirates, fairies and wizards. Several Spidermen and Supermen. For a few seconds, maybe half a minute, they’re a flood of colour, sweeping past us and out into the playground. As soon as I am able to make myself heard, I say, ‘Are you sure?’

‘Quite sure.’

‘But… why would a child who wasn’t at St Swithun’s be wearing the uniform?’

‘She wouldn’t.’ Jenny Naismith shakes her head. ‘This is very odd. Wait here.’ She points to a pair of brown leather armchairs against one wall. ‘I’d better show these to Mrs Fitzgerald.’

‘Who?’ I call after her.

‘The head.’

I start to follow her, but children are still spilling out of classrooms; by the time I’ve dodged the first lot I’ve lost sight of her.

I sit in a leather chair for a few seconds, then stand, sit then stand. Every time a door opens, I half expect a team of policemen to appear. But nothing happens. I stare at my watch and convince myself that the hands aren’t moving at all.

Eventually another bell rings, startling me as much as the first did, and the sea of children pours back into school. My legs get kicked so many times that eventually I pull them up on to the seat of my chair. The pupils of St Swithun’s seem to have selective vision; they see each other but they don’t see me. I could be invisible.

I look at my watch again, swear under my breath. Why did I let Jenny Naismith take the photographs away? I should have insisted on going with her.

I pick up my bag and walk along a series of corridors decorated with children’s artwork, large watercolour paintings of birds and animals. A passage from Geraldine’s diary comes into my mind. I don’t remember her exact words but it was something about spending her days enthusing about pictures that deserved to be shredded. How could she say that about her own daughter’s drawings? I’ve kept every work of art Zoe and Jake have ever produced. Zoe, being organised and imaginative, has a real eye for colour and composition, and Jake’s more casual paint-splats are no less attractive, as far as I can see, than the output of many a Turner Prize-winner.

I walk and walk, getting more lost as I move deeper into the building. St Swithun’s is a maze. How long must it take a child to learn his or her way round? I end up in a big hall with white tape stuck to the floor and wooden climbing frames covering one long wall. Blue mats are arranged in lines that are slightly askew, like stepping stones. This must be the gym. It’s also a dead end. I turn to leave, to go back the way I came, and bump into a young woman wearing red tracksuit bottoms, white pumps and a black Lycra vest-top. ‘Oops, sorry,’ she says nervously, twisting her high ponytail around her hand. Her forehead is large and flat, which gives her a severe look, but overall her face is pretty. Her breath smells of peppermint. When she notices my face, she backs away.

I haven’t got the energy for a repeat performance, so I say, ‘I’m looking for Jenny Naismith.’

A pause. Then, ‘Have you tried her office?’

‘I don’t know where it is. She said she was going to find the head, Mrs Fitzgerald. That was about ten minutes ago. She’s got two photographs of mine and I need to get them back.’

‘Photographs?’ She says it so quietly, I almost have to lip-read. ‘Are you a relative?’

‘Of the Brethericks? No. I know-there’s a strong resemblance. It’s a coincidence.’

‘You obviously know… what happened. Are you a journalist? Police?’ In spite of her soft voice, she’s persistent.

‘Neither,’ I tell her.

‘Oh.’ Disappointment all over her face: there’s no mistaking it.

‘Who are you? If you don’t mind…’

‘ Sian Toms. I’m a teaching assistant. You said two photographs? ’

I nod.

‘Of… of Lucy and her mum?’

‘No. Another woman and girl. I don’t know who they were. The girl was wearing a St Swithun’s uniform, but Jenny Naismith said she definitely wasn’t a pupil here.’

I see a flash of-could it be triumph?-in Sian Toms’ eyes. ‘Jenny won’t tell you anything. She’ll have thought you’re another journalist. They’ve been all over-you can imagine. Wanting us to talk about Lucy and her family.’

‘And did you?’

‘No one asked me.’

‘What would you have told them?’ I hold my breath. I wonder if anyone has ever been as keen to hear what Sian Toms will say next as I am now, and I wonder if she’s thinking the same thing-making the moment last.

‘The only thing that matters.’ Her voice vibrates with suppressed anger. ‘Geraldine didn’t kill Lucy-there’s no way on earth she did it.’ She pulls at her ponytail. A few strands of hair come loose. ‘Never mind how sorry we all are, how devastating it’s been for the school community, what about getting the facts right? I’m sorry. What am I doing?’ She seems astonished to find herself in tears, sinking to the floor in front of a woman she has never met before.


Ten minutes later, Sian and I are both sitting on one of the gym’s dusty blue mats.

‘You get some children-not many-who are a dream to teach,’ she says. ‘Lucy was like that, always keen, whatever she was doing. She’d volunteer for everything, help organise the other children: boss them around, basically, parroting words and instructions she’d heard us say. Used to make us laugh-she was six going on forty-six. We all used to say she’d probably end up as Prime Minister. After she died, we had a special assembly to pay tribute to her. Everyone was in tears. Lucy’s classmates read poems and stories about her. It was horrible. I mean… I don’t mean I didn’t want to remember Lucy, but… it was like, all we were allowed to do was say nice things about her and how much she’d meant to us. Geraldine’s name wasn’t mentioned. No one said anything about what had happened.’

Sian pulled a tissue out of her sleeve and twisted it into the corners of her eyes. ‘Lucy could just as easily have died of… I don’t know, some illness, from the way people here talk about it. Teachers, I mean. It really freaks me out. They’re trying to be tactful, but you can tell they all believe what they’ve heard on the news. They’ve forgotten that they knew Geraldine, personally, for years. Haven’t they got minds of their own?’

‘A lot of people haven’t,’ I tell her, thinking of Esther, of her automatic disapproval before she’d given me a chance to explain. ‘How… how can you be so sure Geraldine didn’t kill Lucy? Did you know her well?’

‘Very. I take the minutes at the Parents and Friends meetings. Geraldine joined the committee when Lucy started at the school’s nursery nearly four years ago. We always go for a drink afterwards, and sometimes a meal. We knew each other really well. She was a lovely person.’ Sian presses the tissue into her eyes again. ‘That’s what’s doing my head in. I’m not allowed to say I’m upset about Geraldine being dead-they’d all think I was betraying Lucy’s memory. I’m sorry.’ She covers her mouth with her hand. ‘Why am I telling you all this? I don’t even know you. You look so much like her…’

‘Maybe you should speak to the police,’ I say. ‘If you’re so sure.’

Sian snorts contemptuously. ‘They haven’t noticed I exist. I’m only the teaching assistant. They talked to Sue Flowers and Maggie Gough, Lucy’s teachers. Never mind that I’m in the classroom too five mornings a week. I work as hard as anyone. Harder.’

‘You’re the teaching assistant for Lucy’s class?’

She nods. ‘What could I have told them anyway? They’d never have understood. They didn’t see the way Geraldine’s eyes lit up whenever Lucy was there. I did. You get some parents who-’ She stops.

‘What? Go on.’

‘It’s usually the mums, especially the ones who use the after-school club,’ she says. ‘You see them waiting at the gates at half past five-they’re standing there, chatting away, and when we let the children out, just for a second you can see the strain on their faces; it’s like they’re gearing up for… some kind of obstacle course. Don’t get me wrong, they’re pleased to see their kids, but they’re also dreading the hassle of wrestling them into the car.’

I nod eagerly. Sounds familiar.

‘Then of course the children get tetchy. They don’t want their mums to be tired, they want them to be excited and energetic. Well, Geraldine always was. She was raring to go-it was as if being with Lucy gave her this special energy. And she’d always arrive early for pick-up; usually by twenty past three she was hopping up and down outside the classroom. She’d peer through the window, waving and winking like a teenager with a crush or something. We used to worry about how she’d cope when Lucy left home. Some mums go to pieces.’

‘You could tell the police all that,’ I say. ‘Why do you think they wouldn’t listen to you? It sounds as if you know what you’re talking about.’

Sian shrugs. ‘They must have a reason for thinking what they think. I’m hardly going to change their minds, am I?’ She looks at her watch. ‘I’ve got to go in a minute.’

‘The photographs Jenny Naismith’s got, the ones I brought in, they came from Lucy Bretherick’s house,’ I blurt out, not wanting her to leave yet.

‘What? What do you mean?’

I tell Sian an edited version of the story: the man at the hotel who pretended to be Mark Bretherick, my trip to Corn Mill House, finding the frames with the two photographs hidden beneath ones of Geraldine and Lucy. I’m hoping she’ll be flattered that I’m telling her so much, that it’ll make her feel important, make her want to stay and carry on talking to me. I don’t mention that I stole the pictures. ‘Did Lucy’s class go on a school trip to the owl sanctuary at Silsford Castle?’ I ask. It didn’t occur to me to ask Jenny Naismith.

It’s a while before I get an answer. Sian is still trying to take in what I’ve told her. ‘Yes. Last year. Every year we take our reception class.’ She looks at me. ‘I’m not being funny, but… even if Jenny knew who the other girl was, she wouldn’t have told you.’

Because she thinks I’m a gutter press hack. Great. For a school secretary, Jenny Naismith is a more than averagely talented actress. If she thought I was planning a big, emotive story in one of the tabloids, perhaps to publish pictures of other St Swithun’s pupils, what would she have done? I press my eyes shut. She’d have taken the two photographs, locked them away somewhere, then made herself scarce.

I have no proof that those pictures exist, that I ever had them. ‘So, if this girl is a pupil at St Swithun’s, she’s probably in Lucy’s class,’ I say.

‘Not necessarily,’ says Sian. ‘The photo of the other girl might have been taken the previous year. Any year, really. How old did she look?’

‘I don’t know. I assumed she was Lucy’s age because of where I found the photo, because the other woman looked roughly the same age as Geraldine.’ I hear myself admitting to having made assumptions on the basis of no facts, connections that probably don’t exist, and feel embarrassed. ‘Is there a girl at St Swithun’s whose surname is Markes?’ I ask. ‘Whose father is called William Markes?’

‘No. I don’t think so, no.’

Why would there be? My brain is rushing ahead of itself; I’m speaking without thinking.

‘Did the Brethericks seem like a happy family?’

Sian nods. ‘That’s why I can’t get my head round this thing with the photos. Mark would never… He and Geraldine were really sweet together. They always held hands, even at parent consultations.’ I wince. Sweet? The adjective seems inappropriate as a way of describing two adults. ‘Most of the parents sit with their arms folded, looking deadly serious, as if we’ve done something wrong. Some even take notes while they interrogate us. Sorry, shouldn’t have said that, but they do harp on: is their child more than averagely creative, are we doing everything we can to stimulate them, what special talents have they got that the other children don’t have? The usual competitive rubbish.’

‘But not Mark and Geraldine Bretherick?’

Sian shakes her head. ‘They asked if Lucy was happy at school-that was it. If she had friends, and enjoyed herself.’

‘And did she? Have friends?’

‘Yeah. This year the class-Lucy’s class-is friendly as a whole, which is nice. Everyone plays with everyone. Last year it was a bit more cliquey. Lucy was one of the three oldest girls in the class, and they tended to hang round together. Lucy, Oonagh-’

‘Wait.’ I recognise the name instantly; it was in the diary Mark Bretherick made me read. Oonagh, daughter of Cordy. Could she be the girl in the picture? I open my bag, pull out my notebook-home to my many lists-and a pen. I write down the names as Sian says them, the two girls in Lucy’s gang last year: Oonagh O’Hara and Amy Oliver. There were no references to Amy in Geraldine’s diary.

‘Is either of them skinny?’ I ask, remembering the swollen-looking knees, the bony legs.

Sian looks taken aback. ‘They’re both thin. But…’

‘What?’

For the first time, she seems to be holding something back. ‘The woman-what did she look like?’

I describe her: short brown hair, square face, blunt features. Leather jacket. ‘Why?’ I say. ‘Tell me.’

‘I’ve really got to go in a minute.’ Sian ’s eyes move to the door. ‘I think the pictures you found might be of Amy and her mum. Amy’s painfully thin. We used to worry about her.’

‘Used to?’

‘She left St Swithun’s last year. Her family moved away.’

Moved away. For some reason, the words make my skin prickle.

‘It’d explain why Jenny Naismith didn’t recognise her,’ says Sian. ‘Jenny only started here in January.’

My heart is pounding. ‘Tell me about Amy’s family,’ I say, trying not to make it sound like an order. ‘The O’Haras too.’ Amy Oliver could well be the girl in the photograph, but Oonagh was the one mentioned in Geraldine’s diary, and there’s part of me that can’t allow anything to be neglected or overlooked. It’s the same part that won’t let me walk past a cupboard or drawer that Nick has left open and climb into bed, no matter how exhausted I am. ‘You’re too thorough,’ he regularly tells me. ‘It’s easy to fall asleep even if the bedroom’s a mess-look.’ Three seconds later he’s snoring.

Sian looks at her watch and sighs. ‘You didn’t get any of this from me, right? The O’Haras split up last year. Oonagh’s mum went off with another man.’ She rolls her eyes to indicate that she has no time for that sort of thing. Instantly, I feel defensive on behalf of Cordy O’Hara, a woman I’ve never met. ‘Amy’s parents…’ Sian shrugs. ‘We didn’t see much of them, to be honest. They both worked. It was always Amy’s nanny who dropped her off and picked her up. But I believe they’re separated too. I’m not sure, though. You know what schools are like for rumours. It wouldn’t surprise me if they’d split up.’

‘Why?’

Sian rubs the strap of her watch, distracted by her need to be somewhere else. ‘I’ll walk with you to wherever you’re going,’ I say. ‘Please. You have no idea how much you’re helping me.’

A flush of pleasure spreads across her face, and I find myself hoping that Zoe is never so grateful for a snippet of praise from a stranger. If I could secure one thing for my children it would be confidence. The confidence to lie, cheat on their partners, skive off work and stick their noses in where they aren’t wanted? Yes, I say silently. If necessary, yes.

Sian and I leave the gym, head out into the maze of corridors. ‘Amy’s dad’s lovely but her mum’s a bit funny,’ she tells me, eager to talk now that we’re moving. ‘She used to make Amy write all sorts of strange things in her news-book that couldn’t possibly have come from Amy. The children are supposed to do it themselves from reception age onwards-’ She breaks off, seeing the question in my eyes. ‘Oh, it’s like a little notebook. All the children have one-the school provides them. Every weekend they’re supposed to fill them in. They bring them in on Monday morning and read them out to the class: what I did at the weekend, that type of thing.’

‘What kind of strange things?’ I ask.

Sian scrunches up her face. ‘Hard to describe, really. You’d have to see it for yourself.’

‘Can I? Is it here, at school, or did Amy take it with her when she left?’

‘I’m not sure…’

‘If it’s here, you’ve got to find it and send it to me.’ I stop, tear a page out of my notebook, write down Esther’s name and my address. Even though Sian is in a hurry, she waits beside me without complaining. I hand her the piece of paper.

Unbelievably, she thanks me. ‘If I do find Amy’s news-book, it didn’t come from me, okay?’

‘Of course.’

Sian pulls her ponytail loose and shakes out her hair. ‘For what it’s worth, I didn’t much like Amy’s mum. Worked for a bank, she did. In London,’ she adds, as if this detail makes it worse. I wonder if Sian was born and raised in Spilling. A lot of Spilling people seem to bear a grudge against London for being the capital when clearly their home town is more deserving of the honour. ‘Like Amy, she could get angry very easily, for no good reason.’

‘What made Amy angry?’ I ask.

Sian sways beside me, keen to get moving again. Suddenly, she stops. Opens her mouth, then closes it. ‘Lucy,’ she says. ‘Funny, that’s only just occurred to me. They were good friends, don’t get me wrong, but they could rub each other up the wrong way. Amy was a bit of a dreamer-imaginative and over-sensitive-and Lucy could be a bit… well, bossy, I suppose. Sometimes they clashed.’

‘Over what?’ A pulse has started to throb behind my left eyebrow.

‘Oh, you know, Amy’d say, “I’m a princess with magic powers,” and Lucy’d say, “No, you’re not, you’re just Amy.” Then Amy’d have the screaming abdabs and Lucy would pester us to tell Amy off for pretending to be a princess when she wasn’t. Look, I’ve seriously got to make a move,’ Sian says.

I nod reluctantly. If I keep her here for a million years, I still won’t get through all the questions I want to ask. ‘One more thing, quickly: when did Amy leave St Swithun’s?’

‘Um… end of May last year, I think. She didn’t come back after the half-term break.’

End of May last year. I was at Seddon Hall with a man who called himself Mark Bretherick from the second of June to the ninth. Can it be a coincidence?

Sian opens her grey bag and pulls out a large, old-fashioned brick of a mobile phone. She presses a few buttons. ‘Write this down,’ she says. ‘07968 563881. Amy’s old nanny runs our after-school club-that’s her number. She knows more than I do about the family, much more.’

While I’m writing, Sian takes the opportunity to escape. She stretches out an arm behind her to wave at me as she hurries away.


An hour later I’m no longer lost. I feel as if I know St Swithun’s as well as any teacher or pupil-I could draw a detailed map of the place and not miss out a single crevice or passageway. What I can’t seem to do is find Jenny Naismith. Everyone I’ve asked has ‘just seen her a minute ago’. I also can’t find the headmistress, Mrs Fitzgerald. I’m so angry with myself for letting go of those photographs that I can hardly breathe.

My throat is dry and my feet are starting to ache. I decide it can’t hurt to go back to the car, where I’m sure there’s an old bottle of water lying around in one of the footwells or wedged under a seat. At least three people have assured me that Jenny Naismith won’t leave until at least four o’clock, so I can afford to have a break.

Outside, I switch on my phone and listen to four messages, two from Esther and two from Natasha Prentice-Nash. I delete them all, then key in the number Sian gave me. A chirpy female voice with a Birmingham accent says, ‘Hi, I can’t take your call at the moment, but leave a message and I’ll get back to you.’ I swear under my breath and toss the phone back in my bag. I can’t bear to wait and do nothing. I need everything to happen now.

Sian ’s words buzz around my worn-out brain. I try and fail to make sense of everything I now know: bossy, literal-minded Lucy Bretherick with her perfect family, her adoring parents who wanted nothing but her happiness, who held hands all the way through parents’ evenings; and Lucy’s two friends, both from families that sound not quite so perfect… Yet Lucy is the one who ends up dead. Murdered by her mother. I think about envy, how it is fed by inequality.

Amy’s old nanny runs our after-school club. That was what Sian said. Old as in she’s no longer Amy’s nanny? Why not? If the Olivers moved away, why didn’t they take her with them? I’ve got friends and colleagues who would cut their own limbs off sooner than lose a trusted nanny.

I wish I’d thought to ask Amy’s mother’s name and the name of the bank she works for. Amy’s mum, Oonagh’s mum-did Sian mention any of them by name? It drove me mad after Zoe was born, the way I quickly became ‘Zoe’s mummy’, as if I had no identity of my own. To annoy the midwife and the health visitor I used to make a point of calling Zoe ‘Sally’s daughter’. They had no idea why I was doing it and looked at me as if I was insane.

Sian said ‘worked’, not ‘works’-Amy Oliver’s mother worked for a bank in London. That’s what you say when you haven’t seen someone for a while, when you’re describing what they did or how they were when you were last in touch with them. There’s nothing unusual about it. So why do I fear that the Oliver family has vanished off the face of the earth?

I’m halfway across the car park when I catch sight of my Ford Galaxy. There’s a jagged silver line across the paintwork, stretching the length of the car. The two tyres I can see are flat, and there’s something orange lying behind one of the wheels. I swing around, breathing hard, expecting to see a red Alfa Romeo, but the only other cars in the visitors’ car park are three BMWs, two Land Rovers, a green VW Golf and a silver Audi.

I move closer. The orange lump is a ginger cat. Dead. Its eyes are open, in a head that’s no longer attached to its body. There’s a red mess where its neck should be. A rectangle of brown parcel tape has been stuck over its mouth. I bend double, retching, but nothing comes up; there’s nothing in my body apart from sharp fear. Dark spots form on the insides of my eyes.

This is when it hits me: someone wants to harm me. Oh, God, oh, God. Boiling-hot panic courses through me. Someone is trying to kill me and they can’t, they absolutely can’t because I’ve got two young children. After a few seconds I come down from the wave of high-pitched terror and feel only numb disbelief.

I need water. I fumble for my car keys, realise I forgot to lock the damn thing and drop them back in my bag. Keeping my head turned so that I don’t have to see the cat, I struggle to open the driver door. My arms and hands have no strength; it takes me three tries. Once I’ve done it, I look under the driver’s seat and the front passenger seat for my bottle of water. It’s not there. I’m about to slam the door when I notice it sitting upright on the passenger seat. I blink, half expecting it to disappear. Thankfully it doesn’t. Standing with my head tilted back, I pour what’s left of the water into my mouth, glugging it down, spilling some on my neck and shirt. Then I lock up the car and, without looking back at the cat, start to run towards the centre of town.

Brown parcel tape over its mouth. A warning to me to say nothing. What else could it mean?

I run until I get to Mario’s, Spilling’s only remaining cheap and cheerful caf'e. Its owner, who has two-tone black and white hair like a skunk, sings opera arias at the top of her voice all day long and thinks she’s being ‘a character’. Usually this makes me want to demand a discount, but today I’m grateful for her tuneless outpourings. I force a smile in her direction as I walk in, order a can of Coke so that she’ll leave me alone, and find a table that’s not visible from the street.

First things first: phone nursery to check Zoe and Jake are all right. I am barely able to sit still as I listen to the ringing. Eventually one of the girls answers and tells me my children are fine-why wouldn’t they be? I almost ask her to check the street outside for dead cats, but I manage to restrain myself.

I’m not scared of you, you bastard.

I open my Coke and take several big gulps that fill my stomach with uncomfortable air. Then I pull two pages out of my notebook and start to write another letter to the police. I write quickly, automatically, without allowing myself to stop and think. I’ve got to get it all down on paper before the dizziness at the edges of my mind gets any worse. I grip the edge of the table, a pins and needles sensation prickling the skin all over my body. I really ought to eat something. Instead, I write and write, everything I think the police need to know, until I can no longer ignore the twitching in my throat. I’m going to be sick. I grab my letter and my bag and run to the ladies’ toilet, where all the Coke I’ve drunk comes back up. Once my stomach is empty, I close the toilet lid, sit down and lean my head against the partition wall. It occurs to me that I could collect Zoe and Jake early today. I’m not working; I could go and collect them now.

My letter isn’t finished. I wanted to write more, but I can’t remember what. Strange, dark shapes move in front of my eyes, blurring my vision. I open my bag and pull out a white envelope that has been in there for at least a year. It’s addressed to Crucial Trading, the carpet company. I was supposed to fill in a customer satisfaction questionnaire and return it to them. Nick and I spent seven thousand pounds on new wool carpets and leather and sisal rugs for our lovely old house, before we went mad and decided we needed to move next door to Monk Barn Primary School. This makes me cry. Then I realise I can’t collect Zoe and Jake because my car tyres have been slashed, and cry harder.

I pull the uncompleted questionnaire out of the envelope, put my letter in, cross out Crucial Trading’s name and address, and write ‘POLICE’ in capital letters. I can’t manage any more than that one word. Stumbling back to my table, sweating, I admit to myself that I am seriously unwell. It must be the shock. I should pick up the kids and get home before I start to feel worse. ‘I need a taxi,’ I say to skunk-opera woman.

She eyes me with suspicion. ‘Rank is outside health shop,’ she says. ‘You no eat?’

‘Sally?’ A deep, male voice comes from behind me. I turn and see Fergus Land, my next-door neighbour. He beams at me, jolly as ever, and I feel even weaker. ‘I can give you a lift,’ he says. ‘Are you going home? Not working today?’

‘No. Thanks,’ I force myself to say. ‘Thanks, but… I’d rather get a taxi.’

‘Are you all right? Gosh, you’re a bit off-colour. Been overindulging? Celebration last night, was it?’

He looks so kind, so concerned. If he offered to drive me to nursery and then home in silence, I’d gladly accept, but I can’t face the prospect of making conversation.

‘Did you tell Nick I’ve got his driver’s licence? He hasn’t-’

‘Fergus.’ I grab his hand and press the envelope into it. ‘Will you do me a favour? It’s important. Post this for me. Don’t say anything to Nick, or anyone, and don’t read it. Just post it. Please?’

‘The police?’ He says it in a loud whisper, as if they’re a controversial secret society, unmentionable in polite company.

‘I can’t explain now. Please,’ I say, on my way out of the door.

‘Sally, I’m not sure. I…’

I run out on to the street, thinking that if I can only get to Nick’s work, everything will be all right. I need to speak to him. I need to tell him someone is leaving headless animals next to my car. I walk as quickly as I can to the taxi rank outside the health food shop, looking behind me every few seconds to check I’m not being followed, and pretending I can’t hear Fergus, who is standing outside Mario’s shouting, ‘Sally! Sally, come back!’

I stagger along the pavement. My legs feel as if they’re made of wool. No red Alfa Romeo that I can see. Other red cars, though-their brightness hurts my eyes. And one green VW Golf that’s driving behind me, just an inch or two behind. In the pedestrianised, access-only part of the street. I stop walking, turn back towards Mario’s. Fergus has gone.

The green VW stops and the driver door opens. ‘Sally.’ I hear relief. ‘Are you okay?’

It’s as if I’m looking at him through running water, but I’m still sure: it’s the man from Seddon Hall.

‘Mark,’ I say faintly. The street spins.

‘Sally, you look terrible. Get in.’

He hasn’t changed at all. His face is round and unlined, a mischievous schoolboy’s face. Like Tintin. Worried, though.

‘Sally, you’re… I’ve got to talk to you. You’re in danger.’

‘You’re not Mark Bretherick.’ I blink to straighten out my vision, but it doesn’t work. Everything’s wobbly.

‘Look, we can’t talk now, like this. What’s the matter? Are you ill?’

He gets out of the car. The scene in front of me is going grey around the edges; all the shops are shaking, distorted. I’m vaguely aware-as if it’s a dream I’m watching through a gauze veil, someone else’s dream-of looking up at Mark Bretherick, of his arms supporting me. Not the real Mark Bretherick. My Mark Bretherick. I’ve got to get away from him. I can’t move. It must be him-the cat, the bus, everything. It must be.

‘Sally?’ he says, stroking the side of my face. ‘Sally, can you hear me? Who was the man shouting your name outside the caf'e? Who was he?’

I try to answer, but nobody’s there any more. Nobody’s anywhere apart from me, and I’m only in my head, which is getting smaller and smaller. I let the nothingness pull me down.

Police Exhibit Ref: VN8723

Case Ref: VN87

OIC: Sergeant Samuel Kombothekra


GERALDINE BRETHERICK’S DIARY, EXTRACT 4 OF 9 (taken from hard disk of Toshiba laptop computer at Corn Mill House, Castle Park, Spilling, RY29 0LE)


29 April 2006, 11 p.m.


On the news tonight there was an item about two little boys in Rwanda. Their parents had been murdered by an enemy tribe a few years ago. The boys were only seven or eight years old but had worked for years in a mine, doing heavy manual work in order to survive. Unlike us pampered Westerners, they had no days off. They were on the news because finally (perhaps thanks to some charitable initiative-I missed some of the report because Mum phoned) they are able to stop working and go to a new school that has opened nearby. The BBC reporter asked them how they felt about this new phase of their lives and they both said they were delighted; both are eager to learn and grateful for an opportunity they thought they’d never have.

While Mark mumbled next to me-all the predictable responses: how sad, how shocking, how moving-I thought to myself, Yes, but look how civilised and mature they are. We should pity them, of course, but we should also admire what they have become: two wise, polite, sensitive, substantial young men. You only had to look at them to see what a pleasure they would be to teach, that they would give nobody any trouble. It was hard not to marvel at the vast gulf between these two lovely, respectful boys and the two children with whom I’d spent the afternoon: my own daughter and Oonagh O’Hara. If ever two people would benefit from a few weeks’ forced labour in a Rwandan mine… well, I know it’s a terrible thing to think, but I do think it so I’m not going to pretend I don’t.

So, this afternoon, a Saturday. Cordy and I are at Cordy’s house, trying to persuade our children to eat. Sausages and chips, their favourite. Except Oonagh won’t eat hers because there is some ketchup on a chip, and Lucy won’t eat hers because the sausages are mixed in with the chips instead of on separate sides of the plate. By the time the complex negotiations have been concluded and all the necessary amendments have been made, the food is cold. Oonagh whines, ‘We can’t eat our food now, Mummy. Stupid! It’s cold.’

Cordy was evidently hurt, but she said nothing. Her idea of discipline is Sweetie-come-for-a-cuddle. If Oonagh called the Queen of England a scabby tart, Cordy would praise her democratic slant of mind and her confident colloquialism.

She threw away the sausages and chips and made more. I counted what, of the second batch, was eaten: four small cylinders of sausage, eight chips. Between two of them. If those two dignified Rwandan boys had been presented with the exact same spread, they would have cleared their plates and then offered to load the dishwasher-no question about it.

Later, while Cordy was upstairs trying to introduce the concept of sharing into a squabble over dressing-up clothes and Oonagh’s reluctance to let Lucy wear any of her pink frilly dresses, I decided a punishment was necessary. No child should get away with calling her mother stupid. I crept into the lounge and took Oonagh’s Annie DVD out of its case. Love of Annie has spread like a forest fire through the girls in Lucy’s class. It makes me sick they way they’ve all latched on to it, as if there’s cause for any of them to identify with children who have a genuinely hard time rotting in an orphanage. The craze started with Lucy, I’m ashamed to say. It’s Mum’s fault. She’s the one who bought Lucy the DVD. I thought it would be appropriate for me to confiscate Oonagh’s copy, then quickly decided that removing it wasn’t enough: I wanted to destroy it.

(In the end I brought it back home, locked myself in the bathroom and attacked it with the small knife I use to chop garlic. I suffered a mild pang of guilt when it occurred to me that I was destroying Miss Hannigan-the only character in the film that I like and admire-and I sang her song under my breath as a tribute, the one about how much she hates little girls. The lyrics are the work of a genius, especially the rhyme of “little” with “acquittal”. I’m sure I’m not typical or representative, but I would certainly acquit Miss Hannigan if she wrang those orphans’ necks. Every time I sit through the film with Lucy, I pray that this time the orphanage will catch fire and all those whiny-voiced brats will be burned to a crisp.

I nearly stole Cordy’s Seinfeld DVD collection and destroyed that too when she told me she was pregnant. ‘It was a total accident, but we’re really pleased,’ she said. She’s only had this new boyfriend for a few weeks. She and Dermot are still living in the same house, though in separate beds. Last I heard they were trying to work things out.

I smiled furiously. ‘We?’ I said. ‘You mean you and Dermot, or you and your new man? Or all three of you?’

Her face crumpled. ‘It was an accident,’ she said in a forlorn tone.

Accident! How was it an accident, exactly? I felt like asking. Did a member of a local archery society fire an arrow that travelled from a distance to pierce New Boyfriend’s condom? Did a bird of prey swoop down and use its sharp beak to extract Cordy’s diaphragm when she wasn’t looking? Of course not. If you choose to use no contraception and you get pregnant, that’s not an accident: it’s trying very hard to get pregnant in a way that you hope will ‘out-casual’ the enormity of pregnancy and the possibility of failure.

Let me tell you, I nearly said, what not wanting to have another child means: it means using extra-safe Durex every single time, no exceptions, and still, in spite of the condoms, sneaking to the chemist after each fuck to buy the morning-after pill-at twenty-five pounds a time, I might add-as an extra insurance policy. I’ve never told anyone and I probably never will (unless one day I feel like worrying Mum a bit more than usual) but I think I’m hooked on Levonelle the way some people are hooked on painkillers. My hormones must be well and truly frazzled, but I don’t care; call it my sacrifice for the greater good that is childlessness.

It isn’t only about avoiding pregnancy, since Gart knows I subject each condom to a rigorous examination before I allow it anywhere near me. I know I don’t need the Levonelle. I also know I could go on the pill for free and save a fortune, but that wouldn’t be as satisfying, wouldn’t scratch the right psychological itch. The paying of the twenty-five pounds is important to me, as is the ritual of lying to pharmacist after pharmacist about when I last took Levonelle, nodding solemnly through their earnest speeches about nausea and other possible side-effects. Every time I hand over the money, I feel as if I’m paying my subscription to the only club in the world that I’m interested in belonging to.

I’ve often thought I ought to volunteer (not that I’ve got the time) to counsel infertile women. Their misery, from what I’ve seen, certainly seems genuine, and it occurs to no one to give them anything but sympathy by way of emotional support. Give me an hour or two and I could persuade them of how lucky they are. Has anyone ever told them, for example, that for a mother to be with her child or children in the company of child-free women is the worst kind of torture? It’s like being at the best party in the world, but being forced to stand on a chair in the middle of the room with a noose round your neck and your hands tied behind your back. Around you everyone is sipping champagne and having a raucous (wild?) old time. You can see their fun, smell it, taste it, and you can even try to have a bit of fun yourself as long as you make sure not to lose your balance. As long as no one knocks your chair.


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