Czytaj książkę: «The Family»

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.