My Husband's Wife

1 Lily

September 2000

‘Nervous?’ Ed asks.

He’s pouring out his favourite breakfast cereal. Rice Krispies. Usually I like them too. (Crispy, without milk.) As a child, I was obsessed by the elfin-faced figures on the packet, and the magic hasn’t quite left.

But today I don’t have the stomach to eat anything.

‘Nervous?’ I repeat, fastening my pearl earrings in the little mirror next to the sink. Our flat is small. Compromises had to be made.

Of what? I almost add. Nervous of the first day of married life, perhaps. Proper married life in the first year of a brand-new century. Nervous because we should have taken more time to find a better flat instead of one in the wrong part of Clapham, with a drunk as a neighbour across the landing, where both bedroom and bathroom are so small that my one tube of Rimmel foundation (soft beige) and my two lipsticks (rose pink and ruby red) snuggle up next to the teaspoons in the cutlery drawer.

Or nervous about going back to work after our honeymoon in Italy? A week in Sicily, knocking back bottles of Marsala, grilled sardines and slabs of pecorino cheese in a hotel paid for by Ed’s grandmother.

Maybe I’m nervous about all these things.

Normally, I love my work. Until recently, I was in employment law, helping people – especially women – who had been unfairly sacked. Looking after the underdog. That’s me. I nearly became a social worker like Dad, but, thanks to a determined careers teacher at school and, let’s say, certain events in my life, here I am. A 25-year-old newly qualified solicitor on a minimum wage. Struggling to do up the button at the back of my navy-blue skirt. No one wears bright colours in a law office, apart from the secretaries. It sends out the wrong message – or so I was told when I started. Law can be a great career, but there are occasions when it seems ridiculously behind the times.

‘We’re moving you to Criminal,’ my boss announced by way of a wedding gift. ‘We think you’ll be good at it.’

So now, on my first day back from our honeymoon, I’m preparing to go to prison. To see a man who’s been accused of murder. I’ve never been inside a prison before. Never wanted to. It’s an unknown world. One reserved for people who have done wrong. I’m the kind of person who goes straight back if someone has given me too much change in the newsagent when I buy my monthly copy of Cosmo.

Ed is doodling now. His head is bent slightly to the left as he sketches on a notepad next to his cereal. My husband is always drawing. It was one of the first things that attracted me to him. ‘Advertising,’ he said with a rueful shrug when I asked what he did. ‘On the creative side. But I’m going to be a full-time artist one day. This is just temporary – to pay the bills.’

I liked that. A man who knew where he was going. But in a way I was wrong. When he’s drawing or painting, Ed doesn’t even know which planet he’s on. Right now, he’s forgotten he even asked me a question. But suddenly it’s important for me to answer it.

‘Nervous? No, I’m not nervous.’

There’s a nod, but I’m not sure he’s really heard me. When Ed’s in the zone, the rest of the world doesn’t matter. Not even my fib.

Why, I ask, as I take his left hand – the one with the shiny gold wedding ring – don’t I really tell him how I feel? Why not confess that I feel sick and that I need to go to the loo even though I’ve only just been? Is it because I want to pretend that our week away from the world still exists in the ‘now’, instead of in the souvenirs we brought back, like the pretty blue and pink plate that Ed is now sketching in more detail?

Or is it because I’m trying to pretend I’m not terrified of what lies ahead this morning? A shiver passes down my spine as I spray duty-free Chanel No. 5 on the inside of both wrists. (A present from Ed, using another wedding-gift cheque.) Last month, a solicitor from a rival firm was stabbed in both lungs when he went to see a client in Wandsworth. It happens.

‘Come on,’ I say, anxiety sharpening my usually light voice. ‘We’re both going to be late.’

Reluctantly, he rises from the rickety chair which the former owner of our flat had left behind. He’s a tall man, my new husband. Lanky, with an almost apologetic way of walking, as if he would really rather be somewhere else. As a child, apparently, his hair was as golden as mine is today (‘We knew you were a “Lily” the first time we saw you,’ my mother has always said), but now it’s sandy. And he has thick fingers that betray no hint of the artist he yearns to be.

We all need our dreams. Lilies are meant to be beautiful. Graceful. I look all right from the top bit up, thanks to my naturally blonde hair and what my now-deceased grandmother used to kindly call an ‘elegant swan neck’. But look below, and you’ll find leftover puppy fat instead of a slender stem. No matter what I do, I’m stuck on the size 16 rail – and that’s if I’m lucky. I know I shouldn’t care. Ed says my shape is ‘part of me’. He means it nicely. I think. But my weight niggles. Always has done.

On the way out, my eye falls on the stack of wedding cards propped up against Ed’s record deck. Mr and Mrs E. Macdonald. The name seems so unfamiliar.

Mrs Ed Macdonald.

Lily Macdonald.

I’ve spent ages trying to perfect my signature, looping the ‘y’ through the ‘M’, but somehow it still doesn’t seem quite right. The names don’t go together that well. I hope it’s not a bad sign.

Meanwhile, each card requires a thank-you letter to be sent by the end of the week. If my mother has taught me anything, it is to be polite.

One of the cards has a particularly ‘look at me!’ flamboyant scrawl, in turquoise ink. ‘Davina was a girlfriend once,’ Ed explained before she turned up at our engagement party. ‘But now we’re just friends.’

I think of Davina with her horsey laugh and artfully styled auburn locks that make her look like a pre-Raphaelite model. Davina who works in Events, organizing parties to which all the ‘nice girls’ go. Davina who narrowed her violet eyes when we were introduced, as if wondering why Ed would bother with the too-tall, too-plump, tousle-haired image that I see in the mirror every day.

Can a man ever be just friends with a woman when the relationship is over?

I decide to leave my predecessor’s letter until last. Ed married me, not her, I remind myself.

My new husband’s warm hand now squeezes mine as if reading my need for reassurance. ‘It will be all right, you know.’

For a minute, I wonder if he is referring to our marriage. Then I remember. My first criminal client. Joe Thomas.

‘Thanks.’ It’s comforting that Ed isn’t taken in by my earlier bravado. And worrying, too.

Together, we shut the front door, checking it twice because it’s all so unfamiliar to us, and walk briskly down the ground-floor corridor leading out of our block of flats. As we do so, another door opens and a little girl with long, dark, glossy hair swinging in a ponytail comes out with her mother. I’ve seen them before, but when I said ‘hello’, they didn’t reply. Both have beautiful olive skin and walk with a grace that makes them appear to be floating.

We hit the sharp autumn air together. The four of us are heading in the same direction but mother and daughter are now slightly ahead because Ed is scribbling something in his sketchbook as we walk. The pair, I notice, seem like carbon copies of each other, except that the woman is wearing a too-short black skirt and the little girl – who’s whining for something – is dressed in a navy-blue school uniform. When we have children, I tell myself, we’ll teach them not to whine.

I shiver as we approach the stop: the pale autumn sun is so different from the honeymoon heat. But it’s the prospect of our separation that tightens my chest. After one week of togetherness, the thought of managing for eight hours without my new husband is almost scary.

I find this unnerving. Not so long ago, I was independent. Content with my own company. But from the minute that Ed and I first spoke at that party six months ago (just six months!), I’ve felt both strengthened and weakened at the same time.

We pause and I steel myself for the inevitable. My bus goes one way. His, the other. Ed is off to the advertising company where he spends his days coming up with slogans to make the public buy something it never intended to.

And I’m off to prison in my navy-blue skirt suit and suntan.

‘It won’t be so scary when you’re there,’ says my new husband – how I never thought I’d say that word! – before kissing me on the mouth. He tastes of Rice Krispies and that strong toothpaste of his which I still haven’t got used to.

‘I know,’ I say before he peels off to the bus stop on the other side of the road, his eyes now on the oak tree on the corner as he takes in its colour and shape.

Two lies. Small white ones. Designed to make the other feel better.

But that’s how some lies start. Small. Well meaning. Until they get too big to handle.

2 Carla

‘Why?’ Carla whined as she dragged behind, pulling her mother’s hand in a bid to stop this steady, determined pace towards school. ‘Why do I have to go?’

If she went on making a fuss, her mother might give in out of exhaustion. It had worked last week, although that had been a saint’s day. Mamma had been more tearful than usual. Birthdays and saints’ days and Christmas and Easter always did that to her.

‘Where has the time gone?’ Mamma would groan in that heavy, rich accent which was so different from all the other children’s mothers’ at school. ‘Nine and a half years without your father. Nine long years.’

For as far back as she could remember, Carla had known that her father was in heaven with the angels. It was because he had broken a promise when she’d been born.

Once she had asked what kind of promise he had broken.

‘It was the sort that cannot be mended,’ Mamma had sniffed.

Like the beautiful blue teacup with the golden handle, Carla thought. It had slipped out of her hand the other week when she had offered to do the drying up. Mamma had cried because the cup had come from Italy.

It was sad that Papa was with the angels. But she still had Mamma! Once, a man on the bus had mistaken them for sisters. That had made Mamma laugh. ‘He was just flattering me,’ she’d said, her cheeks red. But then she had let Carla stay up late as a special treat. It taught Carla that when Mamma was very happy, it was a good time to ask for something.

It also worked when she was sad.

Like now. The start of a new century. They’d learned all about it in school.

Ever since term had started, Carla’s heart had ached for a caterpillar pencil case, made of soft green furry stuff, like everyone else had at school. Then the others might stop teasing her. Different was bad. Different was being smaller than any of the others in class. Titch! (A strange word which wasn’t in the Children’s Dictionary that she’d persuaded Mamma to buy from the second-hand shop on the corner.) Different was having thick black eyebrows. Hairy Mary! Different was having a name that wasn’t like anyone else’s.

Carla Cavoletti.

Or ‘Spagoletti’, as the other kids called it.

Hairy Carla Spagoletti!

‘Why can’t we stay at home today?’ she continued. Our real home, she almost added. Not like the one in Italy which Mamma kept talking about and which she, Carla, had never even seen.

Mamma stopped briefly as their neighbour with the golden hair walked past, shooting her a disapproving glance.

Carla knew that look. It was the same one that the teachers gave her at school when she didn’t know her nine times table. ‘I’m not good with numbers either,’ Mamma would say, dismissively, when Carla asked for some help with her homework. ‘But it does not matter as long as you do not eat cakes and get fat. Women like us, all we need is to be beautiful.’

The man with the shiny car and the big brown hat was always telling Mamma she was beautiful.

When he came to visit, Mamma would never cry. She’d loosen her long dark curls, spray herself with her favourite Apple Blossom perfume and make her eyes dance. The record player would be turned on so that their feet tapped, although Carla’s weren’t allowed to tap for long.

‘Bed, cara mia,’ Mamma would sing. And then Carla would have to leave her mother and guest to tap their feet around the little sitting room all on their own, while pictures of her mother’s family glared down from the cracked walls. Often their cold faces visited her in the nightmares that interrupted the dancing and made Mamma cross. ‘You are too old for such dreams. You must not bother Larry and me.’

A little while ago, Carla had been given a school project called ‘My Mummy and Daddy’. When she’d come home, fired with excitement, Mamma had done a lot of tongue-clicking followed by a burst of crying with her head on the kitchen worktop. ‘I have to bring in an object for the class table,’ Carla had persisted. ‘I can’t be the only one who doesn’t.’

Eventually, Mamma had taken down the photograph of the stiff-backed man with a white collar and strict eyes. ‘We will send Papa,’ she announced in a voice that sounded as though she’d got a boiled sweet stuck in her throat. Carla liked boiled sweets. Often the man with the shiny car brought her some in a white paper bag. But they stuck to her hand and then she had to spend ages washing off the stain.

Carla had held the photograph reverently in her hand. ‘He is my grandfather?’

Even as she spoke, she knew the answer. Mamma had told her enough times. But it was good to know. Nice to be assured that she had a grandfather like her classmates, even though hers lived many miles away in the hills above Florence and never wrote back.

Carla’s mother had wrapped the photograph in an orange and red silk scarf that smelled of mothballs. She couldn’t wait to take it into class.

‘This is my nonno,’ she’d announced proudly.

But everyone had laughed. ‘Nonno, nonno,’ one boy had chanted. ‘Why don’t you have a granddad like us? And where is your father?’

That had been just before the saint’s day when she’d persuaded her mother to phone in sick to work. One of the best days of her life! Together they had taken a picnic to a place called Hide Park where Mamma had sung songs and told her what it was like when she was a child in Italy.

‘My brothers would take me swimming,’ she had said in a dreamy voice. ‘Sometimes we would catch fish for supper and then we would sing and dance and drink wine.’

Carla, drunk with happiness at having escaped school, wove a strand of her mother’s dark hair round her little finger. ‘Was Papa there then too?’

Suddenly her mother’s black dancing eyes stopped dancing. ‘No, my little one. He was not.’ Then she started to gather the Thermos and the cheese from the red tartan rug on the ground. ‘Come. We must go home.’

And suddenly it wasn’t the best day of her life any more.

Today didn’t look too good either. There was to be a test first thing, the teacher had warned. Maths and spelling. Two of her worst subjects. Carla’s grip on her mother’s hand, as they neared the bus stop, grew stronger.

‘You might be small for your age,’ the man with the shiny car had said the other evening when she’d objected to going to bed early, ‘but you’re very determined, aren’t you?’

And why not? she nearly replied.

‘You must be nice to Larry,’ Mamma was always saying. ‘Without him, we could not live here.’

‘Please can we stay at home together? Please?’ she now begged.

But Mamma was having none of it. ‘I have to work.’

‘But why? Larry will understand if you can’t meet him for lunch.’

Usually she didn’t give him his name. It felt better to call him the man with the shiny car. It meant he wasn’t part of them.

Mamma turned round in the street, almost colliding with a lamp post. For a moment she looked almost angry. ‘Because, my little one, I still have some pride.’ Her eyes lightened. ‘Besides, I like my job.’

Mamma’s work was very important. She had to make plain women look pretty! She worked in a big shop that sold lipsticks and mascaras and special lotions that made your skin look ‘beautiful beige’ or ‘wistful white’ or something in between, depending on your colouring. Sometimes, Mamma would bring samples home and make up Carla’s face so that she looked much older than she was. It was all part of being beautiful, so that one day she would find a man with a shiny car who would dance with her round the sitting room.

That’s how Mamma had found Larry. She’d been on the perfume counter that day because someone was off sick. Sick was good, Mamma had said, if it meant you could step in instead. Larry had come to the shop to buy perfume for his wife. She was sick too. And now Mamma was doing the wife a favour because she was making Larry happy again. He was good to Carla as well, wasn’t he? He brought her sweets.

But right now, as they walked towards the bus stop where the woman with golden hair was waiting (the neighbour who, according to Mamma, must eat too many cakes), Carla wanted something else.

‘Can I ask Larry for a caterpillar pencil case?’

‘No.’ Mamma made a sweeping gesture with her long arms and red fingernails. ‘You cannot.’

It wasn’t fair. Carla could almost feel its soft fur as she stroked it in her mind. She could almost hear it too: I should belong to you. Then everyone will like us. Come on, Carla. You can find a way.

3 Lily

The prison is at the end of the District line, followed by a long bus ride. Its gentle woody-green on the Underground map makes me feel safe; not like the Central red, which is brash and shrieks of danger. Right now, my train is stopping at Barking and I stiffen, searching the platform through rain-streaked windows, seeking familiar faces from my childhood.

But there are none. Only flocks of baggy-eyed commuters like wrinkled crows in raincoats, and a woman, shepherding a small boy in a smart red and grey uniform.

Once upon a time, I had a normal life not far from here. I can still see the house in my head: pebble-dash,1950s build with primrose-yellow window frames that argued with its neighbour’s more orthodox cream. Still remember trotting down the high street, hand in hand with my mother on the way to the library. I recall with startling clarity my father telling me that soon I was going to have a new brother or sister. At last! Now I would be like all the others in class; the ones from exciting, noisy, bustling families. So different from our own quiet threesome.

For some reason, I am reminded of the whining little girl in the navy-blue uniform from our block this morning, and her mother with those bee-stung lips, black mane and perfect white teeth. They’d been speaking in Italian. I’d been half tempted to stop and tell them we’d just been there on honeymoon.

Often, I wonder about other people’s lives. What kind of job does that beautiful woman do? A model perhaps? But today I can’t stop my thoughts from turning back to myself. To my own life. What would my life be like if I’d become that social worker instead of a lawyer? What if, just after moving to London, I hadn’t gone to that party with my new flatmate, something I’d normally always say no to? What if I hadn’t spilled my wine on the beige carpet? What if the kindly sandy-haired man (‘Hi, I’m Ed’) with the navy cravat and well-educated voice hadn’t helped me to mop it up, telling me that in his view the carpet was very dull anyway and needed ‘livening up’. What if I hadn’t been so drunk (out of nerves) that I told him about my brother’s death when he’d asked about my own family? What if this funny man who made me laugh, but listened at the same time, hadn’t proposed on the second date? What if his arty, privileged world (so clearly different from mine) hadn’t represented an escape from all the horrors of my past…

Are you telling me the truth about your brother? My mother’s voice cuts through the swathes of commuter crows and pulls me on an invisible towline away from London to Devon, where we moved two years after Daniel had arrived.

I wrap my grown-up coat around me and throw her voice out of the window, on to the tracks. I don’t have to listen to it now. I’m an adult. Married. I have a proper job with responsibilities. Responsibilities I should be paying attention to now, rather than going back in time. ‘You need to picture what the prosecution is thinking,’ the senior partner is always saying. ‘Get one stage ahead.’

Shuffling in an attempt to make room between two sets of sturdy, grey-trousered knees – one on either side of my seat – I open my bulging black briefcase. No easy task in a crammed carriage. Shielding the case summary with my hand (we’re not meant to read private documents in public), I scan it to refresh my memory.

CONFIDENTIAL

Pro Bono case

Joe Thomas, 30, insurance salesman. Convicted in 1998 of murdering Sarah Evans, 26, fashion sales assistant and girlfriend of the accused, by pushing her into a scalding-hot bath. Heart failure combined with severe burns the cause of death. Neighbours testified to sounds of a violent argument. Bruises on the body consistent with being forcibly pushed.

It’s the water bit that freaks me out. Murder should be committed with something nasty like a sharp blade or a rock, or poison, like the Borgias. But a bath should be safe. Comforting. Like the woody-green District line. Like honeymoons.

The train jolts erratically and I’m thrown against the knees on my left and then those on my right. My papers scatter on the wet floor. Horrified, I gather them up, but it’s too late. The owner of the trousers on my right is handing back the case summary, but not before his eyes have taken in the neat typed writing.

My first murder trial, I want to say, if only to smooth the wary look in his eyes.

But instead I blush furiously and stuff the papers back into my bag, aware that if my boss was present I would be sacked on the spot.

All too soon, the train stops. It’s time to get out. Time to try and save a man whom I already loathe – a bath! – when all I want is to be back in Italy. To live our honeymoon again.

To get it right this time.

Whenever I’ve thought about a prison, I’ve always imagined something like Colditz. Not a long drive that reminds me of Ed’s parents’ rambling pile in Gloucestershire. I’ve only been there once, but that was enough. The atmosphere was freezing, and I’m not just talking about the absence of central heating.

‘Are you sure this is right?’ I ask the taxi driver.

He nods, and I can feel his grin even though I can’t see it from behind.

‘Everyone’s surprised when they see this place. Used to be a private home till Her Majesty’s Prison Service took over.’ Then his voice grows dark. ‘Pack of bleeding nutters in there now, and I don’t just mean the criminals inside.’

I sit forward. My initial worry about putting a taxi on expenses (the bus didn’t go far enough, as it turned out) has been dissipated by this rather intriguing information. Of course I knew that HMP Breakville has a high proportion of psychopaths and that it specializes in psychological counselling. But a bit of local knowledge might be useful.

‘Are you talking about the staff?’ I venture.

There’s a snort as we carry on up the drive, past a row of what appear to be council houses. ‘You can say that again. My brother-in-law used to be a prison officer here before he had his breakdown. Lived in one of those, he did.’

My driver jerks his head at the council houses. Then we round another corner. On the left rises one of the most beautiful houses I’ve seen, with lovely sash windows and a stunning golden-red ivy climbing up the outside. At a rough guess, I’d say it was Edwardian. It’s certainly a complete contrast to the crop of Portakabins on my right.

‘You check in there,’ says the taxi man, pointing at the house. I scrabble in my purse, feeling obliged to tip him if only for the extra information.

‘Ta.’ His voice is pleased but his eyes are troubled. ‘Prison visiting, are you?’

I hesitate. Is that what he has me down as? One of those do-gooders who feel it’s their duty to befriend the wicked?

‘Sort of.’

He shakes his head. ‘Take care. Those blokes… they’re in there for a reason, you know.’

Then he’s off. I watch the taxi go back down the drive, my last link to the outside world. It’s only when I start to walk towards the house that I realize I forgot to ask for a fare receipt. If I couldn’t get that right, what hope is there for Joe Thomas?

And, more importantly, does he deserve any?

‘Sugar? Sellotape? Crisps? Sharp implements?’ barks the man on the other side of the glass divide.

For a moment, I wonder if I’ve heard right. My mind is still reeling from the strange journey I’ve just taken. I’d gone towards the lovely house, relieved that prison wasn’t that terrifying after all. But when I got there, someone directed me back across the grounds, past the Portakabins and towards a high wall with curled-up barbed wire on top that I hadn’t noticed before. My heart thudding, I walked along it until I reached a small door.

Ring, instructed the sign on the wall.

My breath coming shorter, I did so. The door opened automatically and I found myself in a little room, not that different from the waiting area in a small domestic airport. On one side was a glass partition, which is where I am right now.

‘Sugar, Sellotape, crisps, sharp implements?’ repeats the man. Then he looks at my briefcase. ‘It saves time if you get them out before you’re searched.’

‘I don’t have any… but why would it matter if I had the first three?’

His small beady eyes bore into mine. ‘They can use sugar to make hooch; Sellotape to gag you. And you might be bringing in crisps to bribe them or make yourself popular with the men. It’s happened before, trust me. Satisfied?’

He certainly seems to be. I know his sort. Rather like my boss. The type who relish making you uncomfortable. He’s succeeded, but something inside me – a strength I didn’t know I had – makes me determined not to rise to it.

‘If, by “they”, you’re referring to your inmates, then I’m afraid they’re out of luck,’ I retort. ‘I don’t have anything on your list.’

He mutters something that sounds like ‘bleeding-heart defence lawyers’ before pressing a bell. Another door opens and a female officer comes out. ‘Arms up,’ she instructs.

Again I’m reminded of an airport, except this time nothing bleeps. For a minute I’m back in Rome where my silver bracelet – Ed’s wedding present to me – set off the alarm at security.

‘Open your case, please.’

I do as instructed. There’s a stack of documents, my make-up bag and a packet of Polos.

The woman seizes on the last two as if trophies. ‘Afraid we’ll have to confiscate these until you’re out. Your umbrella too.’

‘My umbrella?’

‘Possible weapon.’ She speaks crisply, but I detect a touch of kindness that was absent in the man behind the glass partition.

‘This way, please.’

She escorts me through another door and, to my surprise, I find myself in a rather pleasant courtyard garden. There are men in Robin-Hood-green jogging bottoms and matching tops, planting wallflowers. My mother is doing the same in Devon: she told me so on the phone last night. It strikes me that different people might be doing exactly the same thing all over the world, but that a united task doesn’t mean they have anything in common.

One of the men glances at the leather belt around the officer’s waist. There’s a bundle of keys attached and a silver whistle. How effective would that be, if these men attacked us?

We’ve crossed the square towards another building. My companion takes the keys from her pouch, selects one and opens up. We’re in another hall. Two more doors are in front. Double doors and also double gates, separated by an inch or so of space. She unlocks them and then locks them again after we’ve gone through. ‘Make sure you don’t trap your fingers.’

‘Do you ever wonder if you’ve done it properly?’ I ask.

She fixes me with a stare. ‘No.’

‘I’m the kind of person who has to go back and double-check our own front door,’ I say. Quite why I admit this, I don’t know. Maybe it’s to introduce a note of humour into this weird world I’ve found myself in.

‘You have to be on top of things here,’ she says reprovingly. ‘This way.’

The corridor stretches out before us. There are more doors on either side with signs next to them: ‘A Wing’, ‘B Wing’, ‘C Wing’.

A group of men is coming towards us in orange tracksuits.

One of them – bald with a shiny scalp – nods at the officer. ‘Morning, miss.’

Then he stares at me. They all do. I blush. Hotly. Deeply.

I wait until they’ve passed. ‘Are they allowed to wander around?’

‘Only when it’s freeflow.’

‘What’s that?’

‘When the men are off the wing and on their way somewhere like gym or chapel or Education. It requires less supervision than a situation where officers escort each prisoner individually.’

I want to ask what kind of situation that might be. But instead, partly from nervousness, I find a different question coming out of my mouth.

‘Can they choose the colours they wear? Like that bright orange?’

‘It’s to show what wing they’re on. And don’t ask them questions like that or they’ll think you’re interested in them. Some of these men are dangerously smart. They’ll try to condition you if you’re not careful. Make friends with you to get you onside or make you less vigilant. The next thing, they’re getting information out of you without you realizing it, or making you do things you shouldn’t.’

That’s ridiculous! What kind of idiot would fall for something like that? We’ve stopped now. D Wing. Another set of double doors and gates. I step through as the officer closes both behind us. A wide gangway stretches out before us, with rooms on both sides. Three men are waiting, as if loitering on a street. They all stare. A fourth man is busy cleaning out a goldfish tank, his back to us. It strikes me as being incongruous – murderers looking after goldfish? – but before I can ask anything, I’m being taken into an office on the left.

Two young men are sitting at a desk. They don’t look very different from those in the corridor – short hair and inquisitive eyes – except they’re in uniform. I’m aware that my skirt band is cutting into my waist, and once again I wish I’d been more disciplined in Italy. Is comfort-eating normal on a honeymoon?

‘Legal for Mr Thomas,’ says my companion. She pronounces the ‘Mr’ with emphasis. It sounds sarcastic.

‘Sign here, please,’ says one of the officers. His eye travels from my briefcase to my chest and then back to my briefcase again. I notice that in front of us is a tabloid, sporting a scantily clad model. Then he glances at his watch. ‘You’re five minutes late.’

That’s not my fault, I want to say. Your security delayed me. But something tells me to hold my tongue. To save it for battles that matter.

‘Heard Thomas was making an appeal,’ says the other man. ‘Some people, they just don’t give up, do they?’

There’s a polite cough behind us. A tall, well-built, dark-haired man with a short neat beard is standing at the door of the office. He was one of those waiting in the corridor, I realize. But instead of staring, he is smiling thinly. His hand is extended. His handshake squeezes my knuckles. This is a practised salesman, I remind myself.

Yet he doesn’t look like an archetypal prisoner, or, at least, not the type I’d imagined. There are no obvious tattoos, unlike the prison officer beside me, who is sporting a red and blue dragon’s head on his arm. My new client is wearing an expensive-looking watch and polished brown brogues which stand out among the other men’s trainers and are at odds with his green prison uniform. I get the feeling that this is a man who is more used to a jacket and tie. Indeed, I can see now that there is a crisp white shirt collar peeping out from under the regulation sweatshirt. His hair is short but well cut, revealing a high forehead above a pair of dark eyebrows. His eyes suggest someone who is wary, hopeful and slightly nervous all at the same time. His voice, when it comes, is deep. Assured but with an accent that is neither rough nor polished. He could be a neighbour. Another solicitor. Or the manager of the local deli.

‘I’m Joe Thomas,’ he says, letting go of my hand. ‘Thank you for coming.’

‘Lily Macdonald,’ I reply. My boss had told me to use both names. (‘Although you need to keep a distance,’ he’d said, ‘you don’t want to appear superior. It’s a fine lawyer/client balance.’)

Meanwhile, the look on Joe Thomas’s face is quietly admiring. I flush again, although less from fear than embarrassment this time. On the few occasions I’ve received any kind of attention, I’ve never known how to respond. Especially now, when it’s so clearly inappropriate. I can never rid myself of that constant taunting voice in my head from schooldays. Fat Lily. Big-boned. Broad. All things considered, I still can’t believe I have a wedding ring on my finger. Suddenly, I have a vision of Ed in bed on honeymoon in Italy. Warm sun streaming in through creamy-white shutters. My new husband opening his mouth, about to say something, and then turning away from me…

‘Follow me,’ says one of the officers tightly, jerking me back to the present.

Together Joe Thomas and I walk down the corridor. Past the stares. Past the man cleaning out the goldfish tank with a care that might seem touching anywhere else. And towards a room marked ‘Visits’. It’s small. The barred window looks out on to a concrete yard. Everything inside is grey: the table; the metal chairs on either side; the walls. There’s just one exception: a poster with a rainbow and the word HOPE printed under it in big purple capital letters.

‘I’ll be outside the door,’ says the officer. ‘OK with you?’ Each word is fringed with a distaste that appears to be directed towards both of us.

‘Prison officers aren’t very keen on defence solicitors,’ my boss had warned me. ‘They think you’re poaching their game. You know. Trying to get them off the hook when it’s taken blood, sweat and tears on the police and crown prosecution’s part to get them banged up in the first place.’

When he put it like that, I could see his point.

Joe Thomas now looks at me questioningly. I steel myself to look back. I might be tall, but he’s taller. ‘Visits are usually in sight of but not necessarily in hearing of a prison officer,’ my boss had added. ‘Inmates tend to reveal more if there isn’t an officer actually in the room. Prisons vary. Some don’t give you the choice.’

But this one had.

No, it’s not OK, I want to say. Please stay here with me.

‘Fine, thank you.’ My voice belongs to someone else. Someone braver. Someone more experienced.

The officer looks as though he’s going to shrug, although he doesn’t actually do so. ‘Knock on the door when you’ve finished.’

Then he leaves us together.

Alone.

4 Carla

Time was dragging slowly. It felt like ages since she’d seen the golden-haired fat woman staring at her this morning, thought Carla. But already her stomach was rumbling with hunger. Surely it must be lunchtime soon?

She stared despondently at the classroom clock. The big hand was on the ten and the small hand on the twelve. Did that mean ten minutes past twelve? Or twelve minutes past ten? Or something completely different because, as Mamma always said, ‘in this country, nothing is the same’.

Carla’s eye travelled to the desks around her. Each one had a green caterpillar, bulging with pencils, felt-tip pens and fountain pens with real ink. How she hated her own cheap plastic case with a sticky zip and just a biro inside, because that’s all Mamma could afford.

No wonder no one wanted to be her friend.

‘Carla!’

The teacher’s voice made her jump.

‘Perhaps you can tell us!’ She pointed to the word on the board. ‘What do you think this means?’

P U N C T U A L? This wasn’t a word she’d come across before, even though she sat up every night in bed, reading the Children’s Dictionary. She was on the ‘C’s already.

C for cat.

C for cold.

C for cunning.

Underneath her pillow, Carla had carefully written down the meaning of each word and drawn a little picture next to it, to remind her what it meant.

Cat was easy. Cunning was more difficult.

‘Carla!’ Teacher’s voice was sharper now. ‘Are you daydreaming again?’

There was a ripple of laughter around her. Carla flushed. ‘She doesn’t know,’ chanted a boy behind her, whose hair was the colour of carrots. Then, a bit quieter, so the teacher wouldn’t hear, ‘Hairy Carla Spagoletti doesn’t know!’

The laughter grew louder.

‘Kevin,’ said the teacher, but not in the same sharp voice she’d used earlier on Carla. ‘What did you say?’

Then she swung back, her eyes boring into Carla in the second row. She’d chosen to sit there so she could learn. Yet it was always the ones at the back who made trouble and got away with it.

‘Spell it out, Carla. What does it begin with?’

‘P.’ She knew that much. Then a ‘U’. And then…

‘Come on, Carla.’

‘Punk tool,’ she said out loud.

The squeals and shouts of laughter around her were deafening. ‘I’ve only got to C at home,’ she tried to say. It was no good. Her voice was drowned out – not just by the taunts but also by the loud bell. Immediately, there was a flurry of books being put away, feet scuffling on the ground, and the teacher saying something about a new rule during lunchtime play.

Lunch? Then it must be ten past twelve instead of twelve past ten! Carla breathed in the peace. The classroom was empty.

The boy with the carrot hair had left his green caterpillar on his desk.

It winked at her. Charlie, it said. I’m called Charlie.

Scarcely daring to breathe, she tiptoed over and stroked its fur. Then, slowly (scared-slowly), Carla placed Charlie inside her blouse. She was ‘nearly ready’ for her first bra, Mamma had said. Meanwhile, she had to make do with a vest. But things could still be hidden inside, just as Mamma often hid paper money ‘in case of emergency’.

‘You’re mine now,’ she whispered as she pulled her cardigan down over the top. ‘He doesn’t deserve to have you.’

‘What are you doing?’ A teacher poked her head round the door. ‘You should be in the canteen. Go down immediately.’

Carla chose to sit away from the rest of the children, conscious of Charlie nestling against her breast. Ignoring the usual spiteful remarks (‘Didn’t you bring your own spaghetti, Carla?’) she worked her way through a bowl of chewy meat. Finally, when it was time to go into the playground, she walked to the far end where she sat down on the tarmac and tried to make herself invisible.

Usually she’d feel upset. Left out. But not now. Not now she had her very own green caterpillar who felt so warm and comforting against her skin. ‘We’ll look after each other,’ Carla whispered.

But what will happen when they find you’ve taken me? Charlie whispered back.

‘I will think of something.’

Ouch!

The blow to her head happened so fast that Carla hardly saw the football hurtling through the air. Her head spun and her right eye didn’t feel like it belonged to her at all.

‘Are you all right? Carla, are you all right?’ The teacher’s voice was coming at her from a long way off. In the blurry distance, she could see another teacher telling off the carrot-haired boy. The one who really owned Caterpillar Charlie.

‘Kevin! You were told quite clearly about the new rule, this morning. No ball games in this part of the playground. Now look what you’ve done.’

This is our chance, hissed Charlie. Tell her you need to go home and then we can make our escape before they realize I’m missing.

Carla staggered to her feet, careful not to make a sudden movement that might dislodge her new friend. Folding her arms to hide Charlie’s shape, she managed a smile. One of her brave smiles that she practised in front of the mirror. This was a trick she had learned from Mamma. Every evening, her mother ran through a series of different looks in front of her dressing-table mirror before the man with the shiny car arrived. There was the happy smile when he was on time. There was the slightly sad smile when he arrived late. There was the smile with the nose slightly tilted when she asked if he would like another glass. And there was the smile that didn’t quite meet her eyes when she told Carla to go to bed so she and Larry could listen to some music on their own.

Right now, Carla assumed the slightly sad smile. ‘My eye hurts. I would like to go home.’

The teacher frowned as she took her to the school office. ‘We will have to ring your mother to make sure she’s in.’

Aiuto! Help! She hadn’t thought of that. ‘Our telephone, she is not working because we have not paid the bill. But Mamma, she is there.’

‘Are you sure?’

The first part was the truth. Mamma was going to tell Larry about the phone when he came round next. Then he would pay for it to work again. But the second part – about her mother being in – wasn’t true. Mamma would be at work.

But somehow, she had to get home before Charlie was discovered inside her school blouse.

‘There’s a work number here,’ announced the teacher, opening a file. ‘Let’s try, just in case.’

She’d had it now. Trembling, she listened to the conversation.

‘I see.’ The teacher put down the phone. Then she turned back to Carla, sighing. ‘It appears your mother has taken the day off. Do you know where she is?’

‘I told you. She is at home!’ The lie slid so easily into her mouth that it was as if someone had put it there. ‘I can walk back on my own,’ she added. Her good eye fixed itself on the teacher. ‘It is not far.’

‘We can’t allow that, I’m afraid. Is there anyone else we can ring? A neighbour, perhaps, who can go and fetch your mother?’

Briefly she thought of the golden lady and her husband. But she and Mamma had never even spoken to them. ‘We must keep ourselves to ourselves.’ That’s what Mamma always said. Larry wanted it that way. He wanted them for himself.

‘Yes,’ Carla said desperately. ‘My mother’s friend. Larry.’

‘You have his number?’

She shook her head.

‘Miss. Miss!’ One of the other children in her class was knocking on the door. ‘Kevin’s hit someone else now!’

There was a groan. ‘I’m coming.’ On the way, they passed the woman who helped out in her class. She was new and always wore sandals, even when it was raining. ‘Sandra, take this child home for me, will you? She’s only a couple of stops away. Her mother will be there, apparently. Kevin? Stop that right now!’

By the time she turned into her road with the sandal woman, Carla was really beginning to feel wobbly. Her eye was throbbing so badly that it was difficult to see out. There was a pain above the eyebrow which was pulsing through her head. But none of this was as bad as the certain knowledge that Mamma would not be in and that she’d then have to go back to that horrid school.

Do not worry, whispered Charlie. I will think of something.

He had better hurry up!

‘Do you know the code?’ asked sandal woman as they stopped at the main entrance to the flat. Of course. The doors swung open. But just as she’d expected, there was no answer when they knocked on number 7.

‘Maybe my mother has gone out for some milk,’ she said desperately. ‘We can let ourselves in until she comes back.’

Carla always did this, before Mamma returned from work. She’d get changed, do a bit of tidying up (because it was always a rush for Mamma in the mornings) and start to make risotto or pasta for supper. Once, when she had been really bored, she’d looked under Mamma’s bed, where she kept her ‘special things’. There she had found an envelope containing photographs. Each one showed the same young man with a hat at a funny angle and a confident smile. Something told her to put him back and not say anything. Yet every now and then when Mamma was out, she went back to take another look.

Right now, however, she could see (after fetching the chair that sat at the end of the corridor) that the key wasn’t in its usual place on the ledge above their door. Number 7. It was a lucky number, Mamma had said when they moved in. All they had to do was wait for the luck to arrive.

If only she had a key for the back door, by the rubbish behind the flats. But that spare key was for Larry so he could come in whenever he wanted and have a little rest with Mamma. Her mother joked it was like his private ground-floor entrance!

‘I can’t leave you.’ The sandal woman’s voice was all whiny, as though this was Carla’s fault. ‘We’ll have to go back.’

No. Please no. Kevin scared her. So did the other children. Charlie, do something!

And then she heard the distinct padding of heavy footsteps coming towards them.

5 Lily

APPEAL.

A PEAL.

A PEEL.

Joe Thomas is writing on a piece of paper opposite me.

I push back my hair, normally tucked behind my ears, try to ignore the smell of cabbage drifting in from the corridor outside and take another look at the three lines on the desk between Joe Thomas and me. The charming man I met an hour ago has disappeared. This man has barely uttered a word. Right now, he is putting down his pen, as if waiting for me to speak. Determined that I should play by his rules.

For anyone else it might be unnerving.

But all that practice, when I was growing up, is now standing me in good stead. When Daniel was alive (I still have to force myself to say those words), he would write words and phrases in all kinds of ways. Upside down. The wrong way round. In an odd order.

He can’t help it, my mother used to say. But I knew he could. When it was just the two of us together, my brother wrote normally. It’s a game, his eyes would say, sparkling with mischief. Join me! Us against them!

Right now I suspect that Joe Thomas is playing a game with me. It gives me an unexpected thrill of strength. He’s picked the wrong person. I know all the tricks.

‘Appeal,’ I say crisply and clearly. ‘There are several ways of interpreting it, aren’t there?’

Joe Thomas is clicking his heels together. Tap, tap. Tap, tap. ‘There certainly are. But not everyone thinks that way.’

He gives a half-laugh. A dry one. As if those who don’t think along those lines are missing something important in life.

I wonder who put up the purple HOPE poster. A well-meaning officer perhaps? Or a do-good prison visitor? Already I’m beginning to learn that you get all sorts inside.

Like my client.

I could do with a bit of hope myself. I glance down at my paperwork. ‘Let’s take “peel”. The report says that the scalding bathwater peeled the skin off your girlfriend.’

Joe Thomas’s face doesn’t flinch. Then again, what do I expect? He must be used to accusations and recriminations by now. That is what this particular prison is all about. You might also call it ‘discussion’. Psychologists talking to prisoners about why they committed their crimes. Other men in peer groups doing the same. One rapist demanding to know why another slit his mother’s throat. The latter tackling the former on why he took part in a gang-rape of a thirteen-year-old.

My boss took great pleasure in filling me in. Almost as if he wanted to frighten me. Yet now I’m here, in prison, I sense an unbidden curiosity slowly creeping over me. Why had Joe Thomas murdered his girlfriend in a scalding bath?

If indeed he had.

‘Let’s go over the prosecution’s argument at your trial,’ I say.

His face is impassive, as if we’re about to check a shopping list.

I glance down at my notes, although my gesture is more to avoid that black gaze than refresh my mind. A good lawyer needs a photographic memory; mine recalls every detail. There are times when I wish it didn’t. But right now, it’s vital.

‘You and Sarah moved in together, a few months after you met in the local pub. You were described in court, by her friends, as having an “up-and-down relationship”. Both her parents took the stand to say that she had told them you were controlling and was scared you would hurt her. The police report verified that Sarah actually lodged a complaint against you on one occasion for pushing her down the back-door steps and breaking her right wrist. However, she then withdrew the complaint.’

Joe Thomas gives a quick nod. ‘That’s right. She fell because she’d been drinking even though she’d promised to stop. But she initially blamed me because she didn’t want her family to know she was back off the wagon.’ He shrugs. ‘Drinkers can be terrible liars.’

Don’t I know it?

‘But a previous girlfriend made allegations against you too. Said you stalked her.’

He makes an irritated noise. ‘I wouldn’t call it stalking. I just followed her a few times to check she was going where she said she was. Anyway, she dropped her complaint.’

‘Because you threatened her?’

‘No. Because she realized I was only following her because I cared for her.’ He gives me a blank stare. ‘Anyway, I gave her the shove shortly after that.’

‘Why?’

He fixes me with an ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ look. ‘I stopped caring for her because she didn’t live by my rules.’

Talk about a control freak.

‘And then you met Sarah.’

He nods. ‘One year and two days later.’

‘You seem very certain.’

‘I’m good at numbers and dates.’

He doesn’t say this in a brash way. More as a statement which is so obvious that it barely needs mentioning.

I continue. ‘On the night of her death, your neighbours said they heard screaming.’

Joe shakes his head. ‘That Jones couple? Those two would have said anything against us. I told my lawyer that at the time. We had endless problems with them after we moved in.’

‘So you think they made it up? Why would they do that?’

‘I’m not them, so I don’t know, do I? But like I said, we didn’t get on. Their television was so loud. We never got any peace. We complained to them, but they didn’t listen. And old man Jones didn’t like it when I told him off about his garden. Talk about being run-down! Reflected badly on ours, which, I might add, I kept in pristine condition. After that, they got really unpleasant. Started threatening us. Threw litter in our garden.’ His mouth tightens. ‘Mind you, accusing me of murder was taking it a touch too far.’

‘What about your fingerprints on the boiler?’ I point to the relevant lines on the report. ‘The prosecution said you turned up the water temperature to maximum.’

Those dark eyes don’t even flicker. ‘I told my defence at the time. Do I need to repeat this? The pilot light was always going out, so I had to keep relighting it. So of course my fingerprints were on the boiler.’

‘So how did Sarah die if you didn’t murder her? How can you explain the bruises on her?’

Those fingers begin to drum the table as though to a silent beat. ‘Look. I’m going to tell you exactly how it happened. But you have to let me tell you in my own way.’

I realize that this man needs to be in control. Perhaps I’ll let him for a while; see what I can uncover that way. ‘Fine.’

‘She was late getting back from work. It was two minutes past eight when she got back. Usually it’s 6 p.m. On the dot.’

I can’t stop myself from butting in. ‘How can you be so certain?’

His face suggests I’ve just said something very stupid. ‘Because it took her precisely eleven minutes to walk home from the shop. It’s one of the reasons I encouraged her to take the job, just after we moved in together. It was convenient.’

My mind goes back to Sarah’s profile. ‘Fashion sales assistant’. It sums up a stereotypical picture. Immediately I rebuke myself. I am no typical lawyer. Ed is not a typical advertising man. And Joe? Is he a typical insurance salesman? I’m not sure. He’s certainly very precise about figures.

‘Go on,’ I say encouragingly.

‘She was drunk. That was obvious.’

‘How?’

Another ‘Are you stupid?’ look.

‘She could barely stand straight. She reeked of wine. Turned out she’d had half a bottle of vodka too, but it’s difficult to smell that stuff.’

I check my file. He’s right. Her blood alcohol level was high. But it doesn’t prove he didn’t kill her. ‘Then?’

‘We had an argument because she was late. I’d made dinner, like I always did. Lasagne with garlic, basil and tomato sauce. But it was all dry and nasty by then. So we had a row. Raised our voices, I admit. But there was no screaming like the neighbours said.’ His face wrinkles with disgust. ‘Then she was sick, all over the kitchen floor.’

‘Because she was drunk?’

‘Isn’t that what people do when they’ve had too much? Disgusting. She seemed better after that, but the vomit was all over her. I told her to have a bath. Said I’d run it, like I always did. But she wasn’t having any of it. She slammed the door on me and turned up the bathroom radio. Radio 1. Her favourite station. So I left her to it while I washed up.’

I interrupt. ‘Weren’t you worried about her being alone in a bath if she was drunk?’

‘Not at first. Like I said just now, she seemed better after being sick – more sober – and anyway, what could I do? I was worried she’d report me to the police again. Sarah could be very imaginative.’

‘So when did you go and check on her?’

‘After half an hour or so I did get worried. I couldn’t hear her splashing and she wouldn’t answer when I knocked. So I went in.’ His face goes blank. ‘That’s when I found her. Almost didn’t recognize her, even though her face was up. Her skin was purple. Dark red and purple. Some of it was peeled back. There were these huge blisters.’

My body shudders involuntarily.

Joe goes quiet for a minute. I’m glad of the break. ‘She must’ve slipped and fallen in. And the water was so hot,’ he continues. ‘Much hotter than you’d expect after thirty minutes, so I can’t even guess what it was like when she got in. I burnt myself lifting her up. I tried to resuscitate her, but I’ve never done a first aid course. I didn’t know if I was doing the right thing. So I dialled 999.’

He is saying the last bit in an even, steady tone. Not distraught. But not totally detached either. Like someone trying to hold it all together.

‘The police said you didn’t seem very upset when they arrived.’

His eyes are back on mine. ‘People show emotion in different ways. Who is to say that the person who wails loudest is the most distressed?’

He has a point there.

‘I’m telling you the truth,’ he adds firmly.

‘But the jury found you guilty.’

I sense a tightening behind the eyes. ‘They got it wrong. My defence were idiots.’

The HOPE poster stares mockingly down.

‘An appeal is generally only launched if there’s new evidence. The bones of what you have said are already in the files. Even if what you’re saying is true, we have nothing to prove it.’

‘I know that.’

I’m losing patience now. ‘So do you have new evidence?’

He is staring hard at me. ‘That’s for you to find out.’ He picks up the pen again. ‘PEAL,’ he is writing now. Over and over again.

‘Mr Thomas. Do you have new evidence?’

He just continues writing. Is this some sort of clue?

‘What do you think?’

I want to snap with frustration. But I wait. Silence is another trick I learned from my brother.

There’s the steady sound of ticking from a clock I hadn’t seen before. It has a handwritten notice stuck up underneath it: DO NOT REMOVE. Unable to stop myself, I give a short snort of laughter. It’s enough to break the silence.

‘One of the men stole the last one.’ Joe Thomas is clearly amused too. ‘He took it to bits to see how it worked.’

‘Did he succeed?’ I ask.

‘No. It was finished.’ His face becomes hard again and he draws an imaginary line across his throat. ‘Kaput.’

The action is clearly designed to intimidate me. It does. But something inside me makes me determined not to show it. Carefully, I look across at the piece of paper on the desk. ‘What’s the significance of “peal”? The one with “e” and “a” in it.’

‘Rupert Brooke.’ He speaks as if it was obvious. ‘You know. “And is there honey still for tea?” Church bells pealing across the village green and all that.’

I’m surprised. ‘You like the war poets?’

He shrugs, looking out of the window towards the exercise yard. ‘I didn’t know them, did I? So how can I say I like them? But I can guess how they felt.’

‘How?’

His face swivels back to mine. ‘You haven’t done your homework very well, have you, Miss Hall?’

I freeze. Didn’t he hear me when I introduced myself as Lily Macdonald? And how does he know that Hall is my maiden name? I have a flash of Ed’s warm hand holding mine at the altar. This meeting had been arranged before my marriage, so maybe Joe Thomas had been given my previous name. Maybe he wasn’t listening properly when I introduced myself. A niggling instinct tells me that it would be safer not to correct him at this stage. A correction might not get us off to the right start.

Besides, I’m more concerned with the reference to the homework. What did I miss? A lawyer can’t afford to be wrong, my boss tells us all, again and again. So far, I’ve been all right. Not like one of the newly qualified lawyers who was taken on in the same month as me and sacked for failing to lodge an appeal within the given time.

‘It won’t be in your notes,’ he adds, observing me glance down. ‘But I’d hoped that your lot would have done more digging. Think about it. War poets. What did they go through? What behaviour did they display when they came home?’

I feel like a struggling student on University Challenge. ‘Shock,’ I say. ‘Many refused to talk because of post-traumatic stress.’

He nods. ‘Go on.’

Desperately, I try to dredge up my A-level memories. ‘Some of them were violent.’

Joe Thomas sits back, arms folded. A satisfied smile on his face. ‘Exactly.’

This isn’t making sense. ‘But you weren’t in the army.’

‘No.’

‘So why did you kill your girlfriend?’

‘Nice try. I pleaded innocent. Remember? The jury made a mistake. That’s why I’m appealing.’ He jabs at my notes with a long artistic finger that doesn’t match his substantial frame. ‘It’s all there. Apart from this extra clue, that is. Now it’s over to you.’

There’s a scraping of the chair on the floor as Joe Thomas stands up unexpectedly. For a moment, the room spins and my mouth goes dry. What is happening? All I know is that those very dark, almost black, eyes appear to be looking right through me. They know what’s inside me. They see things that Ed doesn’t.

And most important of all, they don’t condemn.

He leans towards me. I catch the smell of him. I can’t put my finger on it. Not a pine or lemon cologne smell like my husband’s. More like a raw, wet, earthy animal smell. I feel a strange shortness of breath.

BANG!

I jump. So does he. Stunned, we both look at the window where the noise has come from. A large grey pigeon appears to be frozen in the air, just outside. A white feather blows gently in the breeze: the bird must have flown into the glass. Miraculously, it is now flying away.

‘It’s alive,’ says Joe Thomas flatly. ‘The last one died. You’d think they’d be put off by the bars, wouldn’t you? But it’s as if they know better. Maybe they do. After all, birds reach heights that we know nothing about.’

Criminals, my boss warned me, can be remarkably soft in certain areas. Don’t let it fool you.

‘I want you to go away and come back next week.’ The instructions clip out of Joe Thomas’s mouth as if this scene hasn’t taken place. ‘By then, you need to have worked out the connection between the war poets and me. And that will give you the basis of my appeal.’

Enough is enough. ‘This isn’t a game,’ I say shortly to hide the inexplicable mixture of fear and excitement beating against my ribcage. ‘You know as well as I do that legal visits take time to organize. I might not be able to come back so soon. You have to make the most of this one.’

He shrugs. ‘If you say so.’ Then he glances at my still-tanned wrists with my silver bracelet and then down to the shiny gold wedding ring, heavy with newness. ‘By the way, I got it wrong just now, didn’t I? It’s Mrs Macdonald, isn’t it? I trust you had a good honeymoon.’

I’m still shaking when the taxi driver drops me off at the station. How did Joe Thomas know that I’d been on honeymoon? Was it possible that my boss had told someone when organizing the visit paperwork while I was away? If so, it was in direct contradiction to another piece of advice he’d given me: ‘Make sure you don’t give any personal details away. It’s vital to keep boundaries between you and the client.’

The advice, rather like the warning about ‘conditioning’ from the officer, had seemed so obvious as to be unnecessary. Like most people (I would imagine), I’d been shocked by the odd news story about prison visitors or officers having affairs with prisoners. Never once had I read about a solicitor doing the same. As for those strange thoughts in my head just now, it was nerves. That was all. Along with my disappointment over Italy.

As for Joe’s ‘mistake’ over my name, I can’t help wondering if it was on purpose. To wrongfoot me perhaps? But why?

‘Five pounds thirty, miss.’

The taxi driver’s voice cuts into my head. Grateful for the diversion, I fumble in my purse for change.

‘That’s a euro.’ His voice is suspicious, as though I’d intentionally tried to put one over on him.

‘So sorry.’ Flushing, I find the correct coin. ‘I’ve been abroad and must have got my money muddled up.’

He takes my tip with bad grace, clearly unconvinced. A mistake. A simple mistake. Yet one that could so easily be taken for a lie. Is that how Joe Thomas feels? Is it possible that he made a mistake and is so fed up with being misunderstood that he decided to play games with me? But that doesn’t really make sense.

I glance at my watch. It’s later than I thought. Surely my time would be better spent going back to the flat, rather than the office, and typing up my notes. Besides, it would give me the opportunity to look into Rupert Brooke. My client might have unnerved me with his knowledge about my private life. But he also intrigues me in that uncomfortable way when you feel you ought to know the answer to a question.

‘Get as much from him as possible,’ my boss had said. ‘He was the one who approached us to make an appeal. That means there has to be fresh evidence – unless he just wants some attention. That happens quite a lot. Either way, we might seek counsel advice.’

In other words, a barrister would be consulted.

But I’m painfully aware that I haven’t got very far. On what grounds can we appeal? Insanity perhaps? Or is his behaviour merely eccentric? How many other clients would set a puzzle like this for their lawyers? Still, there’s something in Joe’s story that rings true. Drunks do lie. Neighbours can tell lies. Juries can get it wrong.

The different arguments in my head make the train journey back much faster than it seemed this morning. In no time at all, or so it feels, I am on the bus back home. The word sends a thrill through me. Home! Not home in Devon, but our first home as a married couple in Clapham. I’ll be able to get a meal on. Spaghetti bolognese perhaps? Not too complicated. Change into that mid-blue kaftan my mother bought me for the honeymoon. Tidy up a bit. Make the place look welcoming for when Ed gets home. And yet something still doesn’t feel right.

On the few occasions I’ve left work early, I’ve felt like a naughty schoolgirl. And that wasn’t me. My reports were always covered with the word ‘conscientious’, as if a salve for the absence of more convincing accolades such as ‘intelligent’ or ‘perceptive’. It was no secret that everyone – most of all, myself – was astounded when I got into one of the most prestigious universities in the country through sheer hard slog. And again when I got taken on at a legal firm despite the competition. When you’re constantly prepared for things to go wrong, it’s a shock when they go right.

‘Why do you want to be a lawyer?’ my father had asked.

The question had hung, unnecessarily, in the air.

‘Because of Daniel, of course,’ my mother had answered. ‘Lily wants to put the world to rights. Don’t you, darling?’

Now, as I get off the bus, I realize I’ve thought more about my brother today than I have for a very long time. It must be Joe Thomas. The same defensive stance. The arrogance which, at the same time, comes across as distinctly vulnerable. The same love of games. The same refusal to toe the line in the face of clear opposition.

But Joe is a criminal, I remind myself. A murderer. A murderer who has got the better of you, I tell myself crossly as I walk towards our flat, having paused to pick up the post from the mailboxes by the front door. A bill? Already?

I feel a flutter of apprehension – I told Ed we shouldn’t have taken out such a big mortgage, but he just twirled me in the air and declared that we would get by somehow – and then stop. There’s a disagreement going on between a woman and a child by number 7. I’m pretty sure it’s the same girl in the navy-blue school uniform I saw this morning. But the adult is definitely not the mother with those black cascading curls. She’s a plain woman in her thirties – at a guess – with open red sandals even though it’s not the right kind of weather.

As I draw nearer, I spot a massive blue bruise on the child’s eye. ‘What’s going on?’ I say sharply.

‘Are you Carla’s mother?’ asks the woman.

‘I’m a neighbour.’ I glance at that terrible bruise. ‘And who are you?’

‘One of the teaching assistants at Carla’s school.’

She says this with some pride.

‘I was told to take her home after a bit of an accident in the playground. But Mrs Cavoletti doesn’t appear to be in, and her boss says she isn’t at work today, so we’ll have to go back to school.’

‘No. No!’

The child – Carla, did she say? – is tugging at my arm. ‘Please can I stay with you? Please. Please.’

The woman is looking uncertain. She seems out of her depth to me. I recognize the feeling. Of course she’s right to be uncertain. I don’t know this child, even though she is acting as though she knows me. But she has clearly been hurt at school. I know what that’s like.

‘I think she needs to go to casualty,’ I say.

‘I haven’t time for that!’ The eyes widen as if in panic. ‘I’ve got to pick up my own kids.’

Of course this is none of my business. But there’s something about the distress in the child’s face that makes me want to help. ‘Then I’ll do it.’

I take out my business card. ‘You might want my details.’

Lily Macdonald. LLB. Solicitor.

It seems to reassure the teaching assistant. Even though perhaps it shouldn’t.

‘Let’s go,’ I say. ‘We’ll get a cab to the hospital. Want me to drop you off somewhere?’

She declines, although the offer seems to appease her further.

It occurs to me that it would be very easy to take a child if the circumstances were favourable.

‘My name’s Lily,’ I say after the woman has gone and I’ve slipped a note under the door of number 7 to tell Carla’s mother what has happened. ‘You know you shouldn’t really talk to strangers.’

‘Charlie said it was all right.’

‘Who’s Charlie?’

She brings out a green pencil case from under her jumper.

How sweet! I had a wooden one when I was at school, with a secret drawer for the rubber.

‘What happened to your eye exactly?’

The child looks away. ‘It was a mistake. He didn’t mean it to happen.’

‘Who made a mistake, poppet?’

But even as I ask the question, I hear voices.

The jury made a mistake, Joe Thomas had said.

There’s got to be a mistake, my mother had sobbed when we found Daniel.

Is this a mistake? I’d asked myself as I’d walked down the aisle.

No more mistakes, I say to myself, as I take Carla into our flat to call the local taxi firm.

From now on, I’ve got to be good.

6 Carla

‘Who made a mistake, poppet?’ said Lily with the golden hair as they went into number 3. Her voice was very clear. Like one of those actresses on television. Posh, Mamma would have called it.

‘Kevin. A boy in my class. He threw a ball at me.’

Carla nuzzled Charlie’s fur. It felt warm and cosy against her skin. She glanced around the flat. It was the same shape as theirs but there were more pictures on the walls. Untidier, too, with pieces of paper on the kitchen table and a pair of brown shoes underneath, suggesting that someone had forgotten them. They looked like they belonged to a man, with those thick soles and laces. Shoes, Mamma always said, were one of the most important weapons in a woman’s wardrobe. When Carla said she didn’t understand, Mamma just laughed.

‘If your mother isn’t at work, where do you think she might be?’

Carla shrugged. ‘Maybe with Larry, her friend. Sometimes he takes her out for lunch near the shop. She sells nice things to make women beautiful.’

‘And where is this shop?’

‘A place called Night Bridge.’

There was a smile as if she’d said something funny. ‘Do you mean Knightsbridge?’

‘Non lo so.’ When she was tired, she always lapsed into Italian, even though she tried to make Mamma speak English at home.

‘Well, we’ve left her a note to say where we are. The taxi will be here in a minute.’

Carla was still stroking the soft green fur. ‘Can Charlie come too?’

‘Of course it can.’

‘He can. Charlie’s a he.’

The woman smiled. ‘That’s nice.’

See, whispered Charlie. Told you we’d find a way.

They were nice to her at the hospital. One of the smiley nurses gave her a barley sugar that stuck to the roof of her mouth. Carla had to put her finger in to poke it out. Mamma didn’t allow her to have sweets at home unless Larry gave them to her. They made you fat like cakes and then you wouldn’t get a boyfriend to pay the rent.

She hoped the golden-haired woman wouldn’t tell.

‘Think of something nice and it won’t hurt as much,’ her new friend said, holding her hand as the nurse put something stingy on her eyebrow.

So Carla thought of her new friend’s name. Lily! So pretty! When Larry came to visit, he sometimes brought lilies. Once, her mother and Larry had danced so hard when she was in bed that the lilies fell on to the ground and stained the carpet bright yellow. When she’d come out to see what had happened, Larry said it was ‘nothing’. He’d arrange for it to be cleaned. Maybe he’d arrange for Mamma’s blouse to be mended too. The top three buttons had lain scattered by her feet like little red sweets.

She told Lily this story as they got into the taxi to go home. They went a long way back because the driver said there was something called a diversion.

Lily was quiet for a while. ‘Do you ever see your daddy?’ she asked.

Carla shrugged. ‘He died when I was a baby. Mamma cries if we talk about him.’ Then she looked out of the window at the flashing lights. Wow!

‘That’s called Piccadilly Circus,’ said Lily.

‘Really?’ Carla pressed her nose against the window. It was beginning to drizzle. She could pretend that her nose was running with rain. ‘Where are the lions?’

‘Lions?’

‘You said it was a circus. I can’t see any lions or ladies in skirts walking on wires.’

There was a muffled sound of laughter. It was like the noise that Mamma made when Larry visited. Carla always heard it through the wall that divided her bedroom from Mamma’s.

‘Don’t laugh like that! It’s true. I know what circuses look like. I’ve seen pictures in books.’

Maybe she shouldn’t have shouted. Lily’s smile had become a straight line now. But instead of being cross, like Mamma when Carla did something she shouldn’t, she looked kind and gentle and nice.

‘I’m sorry, but you reminded me of someone.’

Instantly Carla’s curiosity was aroused. ‘Who?’

Then Lily turned away. ‘Someone I used to know.’

They were going under a bridge now. The taxi grew dark inside. Carla could hear Lily blowing her nose. When they came out the other side, her eyes were very bright. ‘I like your pencil case.’

‘It’s not a pencil case. He’s a caterpillar.’ Carla stroked the green fur lovingly; first one way and then the other. ‘Charlie can understand every word you are saying.’

‘I used to feel that way about a doll I had once. She was called Amelia.’

‘Do you still have her?’

The face turned away again. ‘No. I don’t.’

Lily used exactly the same tone of voice that Mamma used when she said that there was only enough dinner for one and that it didn’t matter because she wasn’t hungry. And just as she did with Mamma, Carla stayed silent because sometimes adults didn’t want you to ask any more questions.

Meanwhile, the taxi was jolting along through big wide streets with pretty shops and then smaller ones with wooden boxes of fruit outside. Eventually, they passed a park she recognized and then they turned into their road. Charlie’s fur stood up on end. Carla felt her chest beating at the same time. Mamma might be home now. What would she say?

Never talk to strangers. How often had she told her that? Yet Carla had not only gone off with a stranger, she had also stolen Charlie.

‘I’ll explain everything to your mother,’ said golden-haired Lily, as if she could see what Carla was thinking. Then she handed over two real paper notes for the taxi ride to the driver. How rich she must be! ‘Do you think she’ll be home yet? If not, you can…’

‘Piccola mia!’

She smelled Mamma’s rich perfume swooping out of the block before she saw her. ‘Where have you been? I am out of my mind with worry.’ Then she glared at Lily, black eyes flashing. ‘How dare you take my daughter away? And what have you done to her eye? I will report you to the police. I will…’

It suddenly occurred to Carla that Lily wouldn’t understand what Mamma was saying because she was speaking in their own language. Italian! What Mamma called ‘the tongue of the poets and the artists and the great thinkers’. Whatever that meant. Certainly Lily had looked very confused until the word polizia. Then her face grew red and cross.

‘Your daughter got hit by a ball at school.’ She was speaking very slowly, as if making a big effort to stay calm. But Carla could see that her throat had gone all blotchy. ‘One of the staff took her home but you weren’t in. She was going to have to go back to school but it just happened that I came back from work early and offered to take Carla to hospital for that eye.’

‘The teacher, why did she not do this?’

Mamma was speaking in English now. It worried Carla when she did this because she sometimes got the words in the wrong order. Then people would laugh or try to correct her. She didn’t want Mamma feeling hurt.

‘She had to get back to her own children, apparently.’

‘They rang your work from school,’ Carla butted in. ‘But they said you weren’t there today.’

Mamma’s eyes widened. ‘Of course I was. My manager had sent me on a training course. Someone should have known where to get me. Mi dispiace.’ Mamma was almost suffocating her with a big hug. ‘I am so sorry. Thank you for looking after my little one.’

Together, she and Mamma rocked back and forth on the dirty steps. Even though the grip was uncomfortable, Carla’s heart soared. This is what it had been like before the man with the shiny car had come into their lives. Just her and Mamma. No laughter through the walls that shut her out and danced up and down in her nightmares.

‘You are Italian?’ Lily’s soft voice released Mamma’s grip and the old emptiness dived back in. ‘My husband and I spent our honeymoon in Italy. Sicily. We loved it.’

Mamma’s eyes were wet with tears. Real tears, Carla observed. Not the kind of tears she practised in front of the mirror. ‘My daughter’s father, he came from there…’

Carla’s skin began to prickle. She had not known that.

‘But now… now…’

Poor Mamma. Her voice was coming out in big gulps. She needed help.

Carla heard her own voice piping up. ‘Now it is just Mamma and me.’

Do not talk about Larry, she wanted to say out loud. Do not mention that man.

‘It is very hard,’ Mamma continued. ‘I do not like to leave my little one alone, but there are times when I have to work. Saturdays are the worst, when there is no school.’

Golden-haired Lily was nodding. ‘If it would help, my husband and I can look after her sometimes.’

Carla felt her breath stop. Really? Then she wouldn’t have to stay inside the flat all on her own, with the door locked. She would have someone to talk to until Mamma got home!

‘You would look after my little girl? That is very kind.’

Both women were flushed now. Was Lily regretting her offer? Carla hoped not. Adults often suggested something and then took it away.

‘I must go now.’ Lily glanced at her case. ‘I have work to do and you’ll want time with your daughter. Don’t worry about the cut. The hospital said it would heal fast.’

Mamma clucked. ‘That school, she is no good. Wait until I see the teachers tomorrow.’

‘But you won’t, Mamma! You will be at work.’

‘Tsk.’ Already she was being whisked inside.

‘We’re in number 3 if you need us,’ Lily called out. Had Mamma heard? Carla made a mental note just in case.

As soon as they were alone, Mamma rounded on her. Her glossy red smile had become a creased crimson scowl. How could adults move from one face to another so fast?

‘Never, never speak to strangers again.’ Her pointed red finger wagged in front of her nose. There was a small chip in the polish, Carla noticed. On the right of the nail. ‘You were lucky this time to find an angel, but next time it might be the devil. Do you understand?’

Not exactly, but Carla knew better than to ask any more questions.

Apart from one.

‘Did my father really come from Sicily?’

Mamma’s face went red. ‘I cannot talk of this. You know it upsets me.’ Then she frowned at Carla’s blouse. ‘What are you hiding in there?’

Reluctantly, Carla brought Charlie out for inspection. ‘He’s a caterpillar.’ She had to squeeze the words out of her mouth with fear.

‘One of those pencil cases you’ve been nagging me for?’

Carla could only nod.

Her mother’s eyes narrowed. ‘Did you take him? From one of the other children? Is that why you have a bruise?’

‘No! No!’ They were speaking in Italian now. Fast. Fluid. Desperate.

‘Lily told you. Someone threw a ball at me. But on the way back from the hospital, she bought Charlie to make me feel better.’

Mamma’s face softened. ‘That is very kind of her. I must thank her.’

‘No.’ Carla felt a trickle of wee run down her legs. That happened sometimes when she was nervous. It was another reason why the others teased her at school. It had happened once in PE. Smelly Carla Spagoletti! Why don’t you wear nappies, like a real baby?

‘She would be embarrassed,’ Carla added. ‘Like Larry. You know what English people are like.’

Holding her breath, she waited. It was true that when the man with the shiny car gave them things, Mamma said they mustn’t talk about it too much in case it embarrassed him.

Eventually, Mamma nodded. ‘You are right.’

Carla breathed out a slow sigh of relief.

‘Now go and wash your hands. Hospitals are dirty places.’ Mamma was glancing at herself in the mirror, running her hands through her thick black curls. ‘Larry is coming for dinner.’ Her eyes sparkled. ‘You must go to bed early.’

7 Lily

Mid-October 2000

‘Sugar? Sellotape? Sharp implements? Crisps?’ barks the man on the other side of the glass divide.

It’s true what they told me in the office. You get used to prison: even by your second visit. I face the officer impassively. His skin is clean-shaven. Almost baby-like.

‘No,’ I say in a confident voice which doesn’t belong to me. Then I step aside to be searched. What would happen, I wonder, if I succeeded in hiding anything illegal – drugs or simply an innocuous packet of sugar from a coffee shop? The idea is strangely exciting.

Clip-clop across the courtyard in my new red kitten heels. Just to boost my self-confidence, I told myself when I bought them. Today, there are no men in prison uniform tending the garden. It’s a dull day with a nip in the air. I wrap my navy-blue jacket protectively around me and follow the officer through the double doors.

‘What’s it like in prison?’ Ed asked the evening after my first visit.

To be honest, I’d almost put it out of my head after the drama of taking the little Italian girl to hospital and then facing the wrath of her mother until she’d calmed down. Her reaction was, of course, understandable. She’d been worried. ‘Thank you from the bottom of my heart for looking after my Carla,’ she had written in a little note that I found slipped under the door later.

I still doubt my wisdom in stepping in. But that’s what happens when you have an overdeveloped conscience.

‘It’s airless,’ I said to my husband in reply to his question. ‘You can’t breathe properly.’

‘And the men?’ His arm tightened protectively around me. We were lying on the sofa, side by side in front of the evening television; a little squashed, but in that nice together sort of way. A married cosiness that almost (but not quite) makes up for the other part of a relationship.

I thought of the prisoners I’d seen in the corridor with their staring eyes and short-sleeved T-shirts with bulging muscles underneath. And I thought of Joe Thomas with his surprisingly intelligent (if odd) observations and the puzzle he had set me.

‘Not what you’d think.’ I shifted towards my husband so my nose was nestling comfortably against his neck. ‘My client could be an ordinary next-door neighbour. He was clever too.’

‘Really?’

I could feel Ed’s interest stirring. ‘But what did he actually look like?’

‘Well built. A beard. Tall – about your height. Very dark-brown eyes. Long thin fingers. Surprisingly so.’

My husband nodded, and I could feel him drawing my client in his head.

‘He talked a lot about Rupert Brooke, the war poet,’ I added. ‘Implied that this had something to do with his case.’

‘Was he in the army?’

It was a tradition that the men in Ed’s family went to Sandhurst before enjoying distinguished careers in the army. During our first date, he told me how disappointed his parents had been when he refused to follow suit. Art school? Was he mad? A proper job. That’s what he needed. Graphic design in an advertising company was an unhappy compromise all round. People didn’t rebel in Ed’s family, he told me. They toed the line. Ironically, I rather liked that at the time. It made me feel safe. Secure. But it seems to have given my husband a chip on the shoulder. At the few family gatherings I’ve been to with him, he’s always felt like the odd one out. Not that he’s said so. He doesn’t need to. I can just see.

‘The army?’ I repeated. ‘No, apparently not.’

Then Ed sat up and I felt a breeze of coldness between us. Not just the loss of warmth from his body, but the distance that comes when someone is on another plane. I hadn’t realized, until our marriage, that an artist could move so smoothly from real life to an imagined world. Ed’s family may have refused to finance art school, but no one could stop him from doing what he did best, in his spare time. Already a sketchpad appeared in his hands and my husband was jotting down the facial features of one of the men in the photographs staring across at us from the mantelpiece. This particular one was of his father as a young man.

Father…

And now, here I am, walking across the courtyard with the answer to my lifer’s puzzle right here, in my briefcase.

‘Your father was in the army,’ I say in the visitors’ room, sliding a folder across the table towards my client.

Joe Thomas’s face goes blank. ‘So what?’

‘So he was discharged. Not honourably either.’

I’m purposefully speaking in staccato. I want to stir this man, make him react. Something tells me it’s the only way to help him. If I want to help him.

‘He tried to protect himself when a man threatened to stab him in a pub, according to his statement.’ I look down at the notes which had taken me days to put together with the help of a keen junior trainee. ‘But when your father pushed the man away, he fell through a window and nearly bled to death. I think there’s a link between that and your case. Am I right?’

Joe Thomas’s eyes grow black in front of me. I glance around the room.

‘There’s no emergency button here,’ says my client softly.

My skin goes clammy. Is this man threatening me?

Then he sits back in his chair and regards me as though I’m in the hot seat instead of him. ‘My father was punished for acting in self-defence. He was shamed. Our family was ridiculed. We had to move to Civvy Street. I was bullied at school. But I learned a big lesson. Self-defence is no defence, because no one ever believes you.’

I look at this man in the chair before me and then draw out a photograph from my file. It shows a slim redhead. The dead woman. Sarah Evans. Joe Thomas’s girlfriend.

‘Are you saying that you acted in self-defence against a woman who barely looks as if she’s got enough strength to pick up a brick?’

‘Not exactly.’ His face swivels towards the window. Two officers are walking past outside, deep in conversation. Would they hear me if things got nasty? I suspect not. So why am I not afraid any more?

Joe Thomas, too, is looking at the men, an amused smile playing on his lips.

I’m growing impatient. ‘So what exactly do you want to base your appeal on?’

‘You’ve passed the first test. Now you’ve got to pass the second. Then you’ll know.’

He’s writing something down on the scrap of paper he’s brought with him.

101.2

97.3

The list keeps on growing.

I’ve never been great at numbers. Words are more my strength. There are letters too next to some of the numbers. But they mean nothing to me.

‘What is this?’

He smiles. ‘That’s for you to find out.’

‘Listen, Joe. If you want me to help you, you’ve got to stop playing games.’ I stand up.

He stands up too. Our faces are close. Too close. Once more, I smell him. Imagine what it would be like to lean forward… But this time, I am ready for it. Mentally, I smash the image against the window like the pigeon. I can almost see the feathers.

‘If you’re to help me, Mrs Macdonald, you need to understand me. Call it another test, if you like, to check you’re up to this job. This appeal is everything to me. I want to be satisfied I’ve got the right person for the job. Until then, I’m not Joe. I’m Mr Thomas. Got it?’

Then he looks me up and down. Slowly. ‘Tall, aren’t you?’

Every part of my skin feels like it’s on fire.

He strides across to the door. ‘See you when you work out the answer.’

The man isn’t just being overfamiliar, I tell myself as I make my way to the office and sign out. He’s acting as though he’s in charge instead of me.

So why do I feel a sense of rising excitement as well as annoyance?

‘Everything all right?’ asks the baby-faced officer when I sign out.

‘Fine,’ I say. Something warns me not to add any more.

‘Bit of a rum one, isn’t he?’

‘In what way?’

‘You know. Arrogant. Always acting as if everyone else is beneath him. Cold fish, too. Still, at least he hasn’t given us any trouble. Not like the other one.’ The officer is smiling nastily as though trying to scare me.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Didn’t you hear? One of the boys went for his solicitor the other day. Didn’t hurt him. Just gave him a fright.’ His face hardens. ‘But if your lot are intent on defending murderers and rapists, what can you expect?’

‘What do you do for a living, then?’ asks the man who has just sat down next to me (‘Do you mind?’).

I’m perched on the edge of a lime-green sofa in Davina’s Chelsea flat with its rose-pink walls and soft lighting. Music is playing loudly and my stomach is rumbling. ‘Don’t bother to cook before we go,’ Ed had declared. ‘There’ll be food at the party.’ But there are merely mushroom vol-au-vents and wine. Lots of it. My new companion appears pleasant and easy to talk to. It’s just that right now the last thing I want to do is talk.

‘I’m a lawyer,’ I reply.

He nods, in deference. It’s a gesture, I’ve noticed, that many people use when I tell them what I do. Sometimes it’s flattering. At other times, it’s almost demeaning, as if they assume a woman isn’t capable of such a job.

Four hours ago, I was in prison. Now I’m surrounded by people chatting loudly and getting drunk. Some are even dancing. It seems weird.

‘What about you?’ Even as I speak, I’m not really interested in the answer. What I really want to know is where Ed has gone. I didn’t want to come here. In fact, I didn’t know anything about it until I got home and found my husband at the door wearing his new cream collarless shirt. The smell of pine aftershave was strong. ‘We’re going out.’

My heart lifted. The last couple of weeks had been difficult, yes. But my new husband wanted to take me out!

‘Davina rang. She’s having some of the old crowd round and wants us too.’ He ran his eye over my navy lawyer suit. ‘Better get changed.’

And now, here we are. Me in my pale-blue sprigged M &S dress. And Davina in a clingy, bright red skirt. An outfit that clearly caught my husband’s attention – much more than mine – when she welcomed us in. That was over an hour ago. Where is she? And where is Ed?

‘I’m an actuary.’ My companion’s voice cuts into my thoughts.

‘Sorry?’

There’s a rueful grin. ‘Don’t worry. Lots of people don’t know what it is. I work out how long people have to live from statistics. How many people are likely to choke to death or get leukaemia before they’re sixty. Cheery stuff, I know, but it’s important, you see, for insurance.’ He puts out his hand. ‘The name’s Ross. Nice to meet you. I know your husband. In fact…’

There they are! I almost leap off the sofa, and make my way towards Ed. His face is flushed and I smell wine on his breath. ‘Where’ve you been?’

‘What do you mean?’ His voice is defensive, abrupt. ‘I just went out to get some air.’

‘You didn’t tell me?’

‘Do I have to tell you every time I leave a room?’

Tears prick my eyes. ‘Why are you being like this?’

A different Ed from the one I curl up with on the sofa stares at me. ‘Why are you being like this?’

Because I can’t see Davina, I want to say. But that would be stupid.

‘Because I couldn’t see Davina,’ I hear myself saying.

Ed’s face hardens. ‘And you thought she and I were together.’

My heart skips a beat. ‘No. I didn’t mean…’

‘Right. That’s it.’ He grabs my arm.

‘Wait – what…?’

‘We’re going.’ He pulls me towards the door.

‘But I need my coat,’ I protest.

People are watching us – including Davina, who is walking into the room, arm in arm with a much older man I hadn’t seen before.

‘Leaving already?’ Her voice is silky smooth. ‘What a shame. I wanted to introduce you to Gus.’ She gazes up at her companion adoringly. ‘I must apologize for not being a very good hostess. But Gus and I have been… busy.’

Ed’s hand grips mine so hard that it hurts. Then he releases me and moves away. ‘Lily’s got a headache.’

No I haven’t, I almost say. But I hear myself thanking her for a lovely time and am appalled at how easy it is for the lie to escape so smoothly. ‘You must come to us, next time,’ I add.

Davina’s eyes sparkle with amusement. ‘We’d love that. Wouldn’t we, Gus?’

Then she walks up and nestles her head in the spot between my husband’s arm and chest. It’s a smooth, natural gesture, reminding me that they had once dated. She smiles at me. See, she seems to say, I had him long before you.

Appalled, I wait for Ed to move away. But for a minute he just stands there as if weighing up his options.

I want to say something. But I’m too scared of the consequences. Thankfully, Gus breaks the uneasy silence that has fallen, despite the music around us. ‘I think we ought to let the newly-weds go. Don’t you?’

Ed refuses to speak to me all the way home. It’s a one-sided conversation.

‘I don’t know why you’re being like this,’ I say, running to keep up with him. ‘I only wondered where you were. I was worried. And I didn’t know anyone…’

The more I say, the more stupid I sound.

‘You’re jealous of her.’

At least he’s speaking to me now.

‘No. No, I’m not.’

‘Yes, you are.’ There’s a click as Ed opens our door.

‘All right. I am.’

I can’t stop myself. ‘You followed her around like a puppy from the minute we went into that smart flat of hers. You couldn’t take your eyes off her. And then you disappeared for ages…’

‘TO GET SOME BLOODY AIR!’

I stand back, shocked. Despite his ups and downs, Ed has never shouted at me before.

‘You heard her.’ He’s speaking more quietly now, but the anger is still there. ‘She’s got a boyfriend. And we’re married. Isn’t that good enough for you?’

‘But is it good enough for you?’ I whisper back.

There’s a tight pause between us. Neither of us dares to speak.

I finally allow myself to think of our honeymoon and what happened. Or rather what didn’t happen. My mind goes back further to the night after Ed’s unexpected proposal on that second date in a little restaurant in Soho. To the fumbling afterwards on the bed in my tiny shared flat. To my mumbled request that, if he didn’t mind, I’d rather ‘wait’ until we got married.

His eyes had widened in disbelief. ‘You haven’t done this before?’

I’d expected him to declare that this was ridiculous. That hardly anyone was still a virgin at twenty-five. I prepared myself to return his ring, admit it had all been a dream.

But instead, he had held me to him, stroking my hair. ‘I think that’s rather sweet,’ he’d murmured. ‘Just think what an amazing honeymoon we’ll have.’

Amazing? More like a complete disaster.

Just as I’d feared, my body refused.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked. But I couldn’t – wouldn’t – tell him. Even though I knew he thought it was his fault.

No wonder he turned his back to me.

The atmosphere became so bad between us that I made myself go through with it on the final night.

‘It will get easier,’ he said quietly afterwards.

This is the time to tell him, I think now. I don’t want to lose this man. Ironically, I love it when he cuddles me. I like talking to him too. Being with him. But I know that can’t be enough for him, not for much longer. No wonder Ed is tempted by Davina. I have only myself to blame.

‘Ed, there’s something that I must…’

I stop at a strange scratching noise. A note is being pushed under the door. Ed bends down and hands it to me silently.

This is Francesca from number 7. I have to work on Sunday. I am sorry to request. Please could you look after my little one. She will be no trouble.

Ed shrugs. ‘Up to you. After all. I’ll be painting.’ He turns to go to the bathroom, then stops. ‘Sorry, what were you about to say just now?’

‘Nothing.’

I’m filled with relief. Thanks to the timely distraction, the moment has passed. I’m glad. If I’d made my confession, I’d have lost Ed for ever.

And that can’t happen.

8 Carla

Mamma was happy, observed Carla, with a lightness in her own heart. They sang together all the way to the bus stop. Last night Mamma and the man with the shiny car had danced so hard that the floor had shaken. But Carla had been a good girl and did not get out of bed to ask them to stop, even though it had been difficult to sleep. She’d cuddled up to Charlie the caterpillar instead.

Right now, she was jumping. It was essential, Carla told herself, to take even more care than usual to leap over the unlucky cracks in the pavement. She had to make sure that nothing bad happened after all the new good stuff.

‘We’re sorry that you have been bullied,’ one of the teachers had said – the only nice one – when all the others had gone out to play. ‘The boy who hit you has hurt others too. It will not happen again.’

Kevin wasn’t there. So she was safe to bring Charlie into school! A warm feeling of thanks wrapped Carla up like a woolly cloud blanket. Grazie! Grazie! She would be like all the others.

Well, not quite. Carla eyed her reflection in the bus driver’s mirror as she and Mamma got on. She would always be different because of her olive skin, her black hair, and her eyebrows, which were thicker than anyone else’s. Hairy Carla Cavoletti!

‘Carla,’ said Mamma sternly, breaking into her thoughts. ‘Do not jump up and down like that. It will not make the bus start any faster.’

But she was looking for Lily. Not long after her poorly eye, Mamma’s boss had told her she had to work on a Sunday. ‘What am I to do?’ Mamma had said, her eyes round with anguish. ‘I have no one to leave you with, cara mia.’

Then her gaze had fallen on the photograph of the hunched woman in a shawl with a face that looked like lots of little crinkly waves made out of stone. ‘If only your nonna were here to help.’

Carla had been ready with her idea. ‘The lady who took me to hospital, remember, from number 3. She said she would help any time.’

As she spoke, she remembered Charlie. Supposing Lily with the golden hair told Mamma that Charlie the caterpillar was not a present after all?

Too late. Mamma had already written a note and slid it under Lily’s door. All Saturday night, Carla tossed and turned and worried in her little narrow bed with the simple cross above, made of wood from the Holy Land. Poor Charlie was scared too. I do not want to leave you, he said.

In the morning, Carla woke to find Mamma’s eyes sparkling over her. ‘The nice lady and her husband are going to take you for the day. You must be good. Yes!’

Charlie’s heart was beating as they walked down the corridor. Hers too.

Please don’t let them be found out.

‘I will be back as soon as I can,’ Mamma was saying to Lily. ‘You are so kind. I must thank you too for the present you bought her.’

There was a silence. So loud that everyone had to hear it. Slowly Carla looked up and met Lily’s eyes. She was wearing trousers that made her hips look very wide, and she did not have lipstick on. Instinctively, Carla knew this was not the kind of woman who would lie.

‘Present?’ Lily said slowly.

‘The caterpillar pencil case.’ Carla’s voice trembled as she fixed her eyes on Lily’s while crossing her fingers behind her back. ‘You bought it for me after the hospital to make me feel better. Remember?’

Another long silence. Carla’s fingers fell over themselves in her attempt to squeeze them even tighter. Then Lily nodded. ‘Of course. Now, why don’t you come in. I thought we might make a cake together. Do you like baking?’

Mamma’s voice sang out in relief. Carla’s too. ‘She loves cooking!’ ‘I do. I do!’

No school now, Carla told herself as she skipped inside. Instead it was a wonderful day! She and Lily got flour all over the floor when they weighed the cake ingredients. But her new friend did not get cross like Mamma. Nor did she have to have ‘a little rest’ with her husband, a tall man called Ed who sat in the corner of the room doing something on a pad of paper. At first she was scared of him because he looked like a film star in one of the magazines that Larry brought Mamma. His hair reminded her a bit of Robert Redford, one of Mamma’s heroes.

She was also a little alarmed because Ed asked Lily why she’d moved his paints ‘again’ in a fed-up voice, just like Larry’s when he came over and found that she was still up.

But then Ed asked if he could draw her, and his face seemed to change. He looked much happier.

‘You have such wonderful hair,’ he said as his eyes darted from the paper to her head and then back again.

‘Mamma brushes it every night! One hundred times. Cento!’

‘Chento?’ said Ed hesitantly, as if he was tasting a strange food for the first time, and she giggled at his accent.

No one minded when Lily suggested lunch, even though Carla said she did not like chicken because Mamma had had a pet hen in Italy whose neck had been wrung by Mamma’s father on her eighth birthday.

Instead, Carla taught Lily and Ed how to make proper pasta instead of the hard sticks they had in the cupboard. It took a long time, but how they giggled when she showed them how to stretch it from the clothes rack that hung above the cooker.

‘Stop!’ commanded Ed, his hand raised. ‘I have to sketch the two of you, just like that! Go on, Carla. Put your arm through Lily’s again.’

‘Charlie has to be in the picture too.’

As soon as she said the words, Carla knew she should have kept quiet.

Lily’s face grew still as if someone had waved a magic wand over it. ‘How did you really get your toy, Carla?’

‘He is not a toy.’ Carla hugged Charlie protectively. ‘He is real.’

‘But how did you get him?’

‘It is a secret.’

‘A bad secret?’

Carla thought of the other children in the class who had fathers and didn’t have to rely on men in hats and shiny cars. Did that not give her a right to take what they had?

She shook her head slowly.

‘You stole him, didn’t you?’

Something told Carla there was no point in disagreeing. Instead, she silently nodded.

‘Why?’

‘Everyone else has one. I didn’t want to be different.’

‘Ah.’ The frown on Lily’s face ironed itself out. ‘I see.’

Carla gripped her hand. ‘Please don’t tell.’

There was a silence. Ed didn’t notice, his head glancing from them to the paper and back to them again.

Lily’s sharp breathing was so loud that it sent little prickles down the skin of Carla’s arm. ‘Very well. But you must not steal again. Promise?’

A balloon of hope rose out of that heavy grey puddle in her chest. ‘Promise.’ Then she held Charlie up so Ed could get a better view. ‘Charlie says thank you.’

When Mamma came to knock on the door, Carla didn’t want to go. ‘Can’t I stay a bit longer?’ she pleaded.

But Ed was smiling and had his hand around Lily’s waist. Perhaps they wanted to dance. ‘Here,’ he said, pushing a piece of paper into her hands. ‘You may have this.’

Both Carla and Mamma gasped.

‘You have captured my daughter exactly!’ Mamma said. ‘You are so clever.’

Ed pushed his hands into his pockets and looked like Larry did when Mamma thanked him for the perfume or the flowers or whatever gift he had brought that evening. ‘It’s only a sketch. Charcoal, you know. Don’t touch or it will smudge.’

Carla would not have dreamed of touching it. She would only look. Was this really her? This was a picture of a child – not the nearly grown-up lady she wanted to be. Even worse, Charlie wasn’t in it.

‘What do you say?’ demanded Mamma.

‘Thank you.’ Then, remembering the book they were reading at school about English kings and queens, she bent her knee in a sweeping curtsey. ‘Thank you for having me.’

To her surprise, Ed burst out laughing. ‘She’s a natural. Come again any time, Carla. I will do a proper painting next time.’ His eyes narrowed as if he was measuring her. ‘Maybe acrylics.’

And now, here they were on the bus to school, waiting for Lily.

Perhaps she will not come, said Charlie from his place on her lap. Perhaps she is still cross with us because you stole me.

Carla stiffened. ‘Do not ever say that again. I deserved to have you. Just as you deserved to have me. Did you really want to stay with that big bully?’

Charlie shook his head.

‘Well then,’ hissed Carla below her breath. ‘Let’s not talk about it again, shall we?’

‘Hold on.’ Her mother put out a hand protectively as the bus lurched forward. ‘It’s starting at last.’

Sitting back in her seat, Carla watched the trees go past with their yellow and green coats fluttering down to the ground. And then she saw her! Lily! Running down the street. Running as fast as she tried to run in her nightmares, even though her feet, in that other world, always stayed glued to the ground.

‘Come on!’ she called out. ‘You can sit next to me!’

But their bus went on, gathering speed. On the other side of the street, she could see Ed, waiting for a different bus. He went another way to work, he’d said yesterday. Carla knocked hard on the window and waved. Yes! He was waving back. And although Carla was sad that Lily had missed her bus, she also felt warm and happy because now they had friends. Proper friends. It was one more step away from being different.

‘I think you were wrong, Mamma,’ she said.

Her mother, who was examining her face in the little mirror which she always carried in her bag, stared sideways at her. ‘Wrong about what, Carla?’

‘You said that women who don’t look after themselves don’t get handsome husbands. You also said that Lily is fat. But Ed is like a film star.’

Her mother let out a little trill. It made the man on the other side of the bus glance at her admiringly. ‘That is true, my clever little bird.’ Then she pinched her cheek. ‘But what I didn’t say was that women like Lily might get a husband, but they need to be careful. Or else they might lose them.’

How could they lose them? Carla wondered as she prepared to get off (this was her stop now). Did they drop them in the street? Or mislay them on the bus like she had mislaid a pink hair slide the other week? Besides, Lily might be big but she was kind. She had kept her secret about the caterpillar. And she had let her make a cake. Was this enough for her to keep Ed? Carla didn’t want her to have to find another husband.

She was about to ask, but Mamma was calling out. Giving her instructions for this afternoon when school finished. ‘Wait for me, my little one. Do you hear me? Right there by the gate, even if I am late.’

Nodding happily, Carla jumped off the bus, waved, scuttled across the playground and made her way into the classroom. After the ball incident the other week, she’d been disappointed to find that the children in her class had still not been very friendly. But now she had Charlie, they would soon come round. She was sure of it.

At break-time, she wrapped Charlie up carefully in her jumper so he wouldn’t get cold, and left him in her locker. Then she went out to play. ‘May I join in?’ she asked the girls who were playing hopscotch. No one answered. It was as if she had not spoken.

She tried a group of girls who were throwing a tennis ball against a wall. ‘Can I play too?’ she asked. But they just looked the other way.

Carla’s stomach felt like it did when it was empty, even though it wasn’t.

Slowly, she returned to her classroom. No one was there. Not even the teaching assistant who had taken her home when Kevin had hurt her eye. Come to think of it, she hadn’t seen her since that day, although she had heard one of the other teachers saying she had been ‘let go’, whatever that meant.

Excitedly, Carla went to her locker and began to unwrap her jumper. Charlie would understand about the children who wouldn’t talk to her. Charlie would make her feel better…

No. NO!

Charlie was dead. Slit from top to toe in a jagged line, his lovely green fur ripped. And on top of him, a note. In big red capital letters.

THEEF .

9 Lily

I need to run faster. Or I’ll miss the bus. If I were thinner, it might be easier to run. Lollop, lollop, go my breasts against my chest. The same breasts that Ed had fondled when he’d rolled on top of me unexpectedly last night. Yet afterwards, when his eyes finally opened, they expressed surprise at the person beneath him.

Me.

I too had been surprised. In my half-awake state, I had imagined someone else. His soft hands on my breasts. His mouth on mine. His hardness against my body…

‘Got to wash,’ I mumbled before staggering to the tiny bathroom and drying my eyes. When I returned, Ed was fast asleep.

Where had that come from? Why had I imagined Joe in bed with me? A man whom I disliked…

And who was Ed imagining? I can guess. There might not be anything concrete apart from that overfamiliar gesture the other night. But I can smell it. Just as I smelled Joe. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s to listen to my intuition.

While all these thoughts churned endlessly through my mind, Ed slept. He looked so peaceful. Snoring lightly, a growth of fine fair hair on his chin. Quietly, so as not to wake him, I eased myself out of bed, tiptoed into the kitchen and got out the mop.

I got so distracted that I didn’t sense Ed coming in until I heard his voice. ‘Why are you cleaning the floor at this time?’ He was fastening his tie as he spoke. It bore, though he didn’t seem to have noticed it, a drop of blood from the shaving nick on his neck.

I looked up from my kneeling position. ‘It’s grubby.’

‘Won’t you be late for work?’

So what? I needed to make the lino gleam. If I couldn’t make it all right with my marriage, I had to make it all right with the kitchen floor.

And that’s why I’m running now. If I hadn’t gone mad with the cleaning, I wouldn’t have left the flat fifteen minutes later than normal. Wouldn’t be watching the bus disappear up the street. Wouldn’t be dreading the excuses I’d have to make to my boss.

As I come panting to a halt, I see Carla, nose pressed against the glass, waving madly at me. ‘Come on,’ she mouths. Then she appears to add something else.

Fatty? Surely not. Carla’s a sweet child. Although I’ve seen the way Francesca looks at me pityingly. And I’ve also seen how the daughter copies everything the mother does.

Besides, it wouldn’t be the first time someone had called me fat.

As I sit waiting for the next bus, I can’t help thinking about Carla. Carla and her green caterpillar.

‘You stole him, didn’t you?’ I’d said when we looked after her yesterday. ‘Why?’

There was a shy yet defiant turn of the head. A discomfortingly mature pose which suggested it was practised. ‘Everyone else has one. I didn’t want to be different.’

I don’t want to be different. Just what Daniel used to say.

My instinct’s right. I’ve got to help this child.

My boss is waiting in his office. He’s about thirty years older than me and has a wife who gave up her job when she got married. I get the distinct feeling he disapproves of me.

Soon after I’d joined the firm, I was foolish enough to tell one of my colleagues that I wanted to go into law ‘to do some good’.

My boss overheard. ‘Good?’ he scoffed. ‘You’re in the wrong job for that, I can tell you.’

I flushed (if only there was a cure!) and kept my head down after that. Yet at times, especially when he’s barking at me, I want to tell him what happened with Daniel.

Of course I wouldn’t really. Even Ed wouldn’t understand if I told him the full story. It would be madness to tell my boss. He’s sitting across from me now, a pile of papers between us, and a frosty smile on his lips. ‘So how are you getting on with Joe Thomas?’

I cross my legs under the table and uncross them again. I’m aware of Ed’s imprint from last night, still inside me. Etched on my body like the surprise on his face.

‘The client is still playing games with me.’

My boss laughs. It’s not a friendly laugh. ‘He’s in a prison with a high proportion of psychopaths, Lily. What do you expect?’

‘I expect a better briefing.’ The words are out of my mouth before I can take them back. Fear gives me courage – rightly or wrongly – to stand up for myself. ‘I don’t think I have enough background,’ I carry on, trying to recover the situation. ‘Why has he launched an appeal after being inside for two years? And why won’t he talk to me properly instead of speaking in riddles?’

I pull out the paper Joe gave me with the strange numbers and letters.

‘What do you think these figures mean?’ I ask, in a more conciliatory tone. ‘The client gave them to me.’

My boss barely glances at the creased sheet. ‘No idea. This is your case, Lily. New evidence, perhaps, that he’s only just got hold of? That might explain the delay in the appeal.’ His eyes narrow. ‘I’m throwing you in at the deep end, just as they did to me at your age. It’s your chance to prove yourself. Don’t let either of us down.’

I spend the rest of the week doing what I can. But there are other cases too in my workload. They pile up with intentional regularity, or so it seems. Clearly, my boss is testing me. Just as Ed is doing, with his blow-hot, blow-cold approach to me.

‘I’m struggling with that client still,’ I start to say one evening over dinner: an undercooked steak and kidney pie which doesn’t look quite like the picture in the well-worn Fanny Craddock book that Ed’s mother passed on to me. Ed is chewing slowly, as well he might. My meal is a challenge. Davina, by the way, went to one of those cookery schools in Switzerland.

‘The one who… Ed? Are you all right?’

I jump up from the table. Ed’s gasping for breath and his face has gone all red. Something’s stuck in his throat. Shocked into action, my hand whacks down on Ed’s back. A piece of meat shoots out across the room. He splutters and then reaches for a glass of water.

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Perhaps it was a bit underdone.’

‘No.’ He’s still spluttering, but his hand comes up to reach mine. ‘Thank you. You saved me.’

For a minute, there’s a connection between us. But then it goes. Neither of us feels like eating any more. I scrape the offending meat into the bin, realizing, too late, that it should have been braised before I put on the pastry top. But there’s something else too.

How easy it would have been to let Ed choke to death. To pretend it was an accident.

I’m shocked – no, appalled – at myself. Where did that thought come from?

But it’s then that I have my idea.

Ross. The actuary I met at that awful party when Ed and Davina had disappeared. Hadn’t he discussed this very issue with me? I work out how long people have to live from statistics. How many people are likely to choke to death or get leukaemia before they’re sixty. Cheery stuff, I know, but it’s important, you see, for insurance.

So I got his number from Ed. And yes, Ross was free the following day. How about lunch at his club?

‘These figures,’ I say, handing the sheet of paper over to Ross as we sit at a table with a stiff white tablecloth and hovering waiter, ‘were compiled by a client of mine. He’s… well, he’s in prison for murder.’

Ross shot me a surprised look. ‘And you think he’s innocent?’

‘Actually, you might be surprised if you met him.’

‘Really?’

We fall silent as the waiter pours out our wine. Just one glass, I tell myself. Nowadays, I appear to be drinking more than I used to, which isn’t good for concentration or my calorie intake. But Ed likes a couple of glasses every evening and it seems wrong not to keep him company.

‘I need to know what these figures refer to,’ I say, rather desperately. ‘Joe’s good with numbers.’

‘Joe?’ His eyebrows rise.

‘We’re often on first-name terms with our clients.’ I hurry on, reminding myself that, actually, Joe had told me to call him ‘Mr Thomas’ until I’d solved his riddle. ‘This man has some kind of condition. He’s very methodical in some areas and yet finds it difficult to speak to people. He prefers to speak in puzzles, and this… well, this is one of them.’

I detect a gleam of interest in Ross’s eyes. ‘I’ll look into it.’ His tone is so reassuring that I almost want to hug him. ‘Give me a few days and I’ll come back to you.’

And he did. ‘A mixture of water temperatures and models of boilers, including their age,’ he says now, beaming. ‘And, if I’m not mistaken, the implications are pretty big. I showed them to an engineer friend – don’t worry, I didn’t give him the background. But he said that there’s a definite pattern. So I had a hunch and did a bit of rooting around in our resource department.’

He hands me a newspaper cutting. It’s from The Times back in August when I was preparing for my wedding. An exciting time, when I hadn’t, perhaps, read the paper as carefully as I normally did.

SCANDAL OVER FAULTY BOILERS

I scan the piece with increasing excitement. ‘So,’ I say, summarizing the article in front of me, ‘a number of boilers, made over the last ten years, are suspected of being faulty. To date, seven customers have made complaints involving irregular temperatures leading to injury. Investigations are currently being carried out, but so far there are no plans to recall the models in question.’

Ross nods. ‘That’s seven who have come forward, but there are sure to be more.’

‘But it’s been going on for years. Why didn’t anyone realize before now?’

‘These things can take time. It takes a while for people to spot a pattern.’

Of course it would. Lawyers can miss things too. But I can’t be one of them.

‘I’ve worked out the figures,’ I say as I enter the visitors’ room the following day.

Funny how this is becoming more natural now. Even the double doors and gates seem quite familiar. The same goes for the seemingly casual pose of my client, arms crossed as he leans back in his chair, those dark eyes fixed on mine. This man is thirty. Ed’s age – my husband had his birthday a few weeks ago. Yet I feel as though I’m dealing with a truculent teenager.

One thing’s for certain. I’m not going to allow those ridiculous fantasies into my head again.

‘Worked out the figures?’ He seems slightly annoyed. ‘Really?’

‘I know about the boilers. The lawsuit. You’re going to tell me that the boiler company is responsible for Sarah’s death. You said the water was hotter than you’d expect after thirty minutes. Your boiler was faulty. It’s your defence – or rather your self-defence.’

He’s tilting his head quizzically to one side, as if considering this. ‘But I told you before. Self-defence can’t get you off.’

‘It can if you have the right lawyer,’ I shoot back.

‘Congratulations.’ He’s gone from disappointed to smiling in just a few seconds. Holding out his hand as if to shake mine.

I ignore it. I’m cross. Unnerved too.

‘Why couldn’t you just have told me about the boiler figures at the start? It would have saved a lot of time.’

‘I told you before. I had to set you the clues to see if you were bright enough to handle my case. I must have someone who’s on my level for this. Someone on the ball.’

Thank you, Ross, I think silently. Thank you.

Then he leans back, slaps himself on the thighs and lets out another laugh. ‘And you did it, Lily. Well done! You’re hired.’

Hired? I thought I was already.

‘You still haven’t told me exactly what happened.’ My voice is cool, laying down a boundary between him and me. ‘I’ve had enough of messing around now,’ I add. ‘If you want me to represent you, I need to know everything about you. No more clues. No more games. Straight facts. Why, for example, did you always cook dinner? Why did you usually run Sarah’s bath?’ I take a deep breath. ‘Was Sarah right when she told her family you were controlling?’

His face is rigid. ‘Why do you need to know?’

‘Because I think it might help us.’

For a while, he says nothing. I let the silence hang between us. It’s so sharp that I can almost cut myself on it.

I suspect Joe Thomas feels it too. He is looking out of the window. There’s no one in sight, even though it’s another beautiful crisp autumn day. Maybe the other men are at work; they all have jobs in the prison. I see the list in the hall when I walk in. Chalked-up surnames next to a task.

Smith – Pod. (Apparently that’s prison jargon for ‘kitchen’.)

White – Toilets.

Essex – Fish tank.

Thomas – Library. (Why does that not surprise me?)

Next to each name is also the word ‘Education’. I wonder what they learn in prison. Simple reading perhaps, if literacy statistics are to be believed. Or something more advanced? (Later, I was to discover, many men take OU degrees.)

‘The bath, Joe,’ I repeat. ‘Why did you usually run it for her?’

My client’s voice is quieter than usual. I can barely hear it. ‘So I can make sure that the cold goes in first. It’s what I’ve always done. Means you don’t burn yourself.’ The thump of his fist on the table makes me jump. ‘Stupid girl. She should have listened to me.’

‘Fine. The bath was too hot. But that doesn’t matter. They proved you pushed her in.’

His face hardens. ‘Didn’t prove. Just argued successfully. I’ve already told you. I didn’t touch her. She must’ve fallen in. The bruises must be from that.’

‘So why didn’t she get out again if the bath was so hot?’

‘Because… she… was… too… drunk.’

He says each word slowly, with a long space in between, as though I need it spelling out.

‘If she’d let me run the bath for her, it wouldn’t have happened,’ he says again. He seems obsessed with this point. And something about his obsession makes me believe him. About this part anyway.

‘And don’t think I don’t feel guilty, because I do.’

My skin begins to prickle.

‘I shouldn’t have left her there for so long. I should have checked on Sarah earlier. I was always so careful with her. But this one time…’

Joe Thomas is clearly a control freak. But that doesn’t make him a murderer any more than the rest of us. Don’t I have to wash the floor every morning now before work, as part of my daily ritual? Daniel had to fold his bed sheets in at the corners, just so. My boss always hangs his coat in a certain way by the door of his office. Joe Thomas likes to position his scrap of paper dead centre on the desk between us. (He would like a proper pad, he’s already told me. But supplies are short in prison.)

‘You need to do things your way,’ I say softly, ‘because then things won’t go wrong.’

He glares. ‘So?’

‘It’s OK. I understand.’

He stares at me as if willing me to look away. If I do, he will think I’ve just said this to make him confide in me.

But something’s still niggling.

‘If the boiler was faulty, why didn’t you find out the next time you turned it on?’

‘I’d been arrested by then, hadn’t I?’

Stupid me.

‘And the people who moved in after you? Didn’t they realize the water was boiling?’

He shrugs. ‘They re-kitted the bathroom – boiler and all, apparently. You would, wouldn’t you, if someone had died there?’

‘So when did you realize there may have been a manufacturing problem?’

‘A few weeks ago, someone sent me these figures in the post, along with a single word – “boiler”.’

‘Who sent them?’

‘I don’t know. But I’m not bad at figures. I did my research in the prison library and reckoned this was the answer.’ His eyes shine. ‘They’ve got to believe me this time. I’m not the one who’s responsible for Sarah’s death.’ His voice shakes as he looks at me.

I consider this. Anonymous tip-offs, we were told in law school, were sometimes given to both lawyers and criminals. Usually by people who had a grudge against someone else or who wanted to push a particular issue. Is it feasible that someone in the boiler industry wants justice?

I stand up.

‘Where are you going?’ His plea is almost childlike; vulnerable. It reminds me of the Italian child with her thick black curls and eyebrows that belong, surely, to a teenager rather than a nine-year-old.

‘I need to find a brief. A barrister who will take on our case.’

A slow smile breaks out over Joe Thomas’s face. ‘So you think we have one, do you?’

I have my hand on the handle. A prison officer is waiting outside, staring through the glass pane set in the middle of the door. His narrowing eyes indicate extreme disapproval at my plan to relieve the prison of one more inmate.

‘We might,’ I say cautiously, ‘providing what you’re saying checks out. But no more games. We need to work on this together. Promise?’

Promise, said Daniel, towards the end.

Promise? I said to Carla, when I asked her not to steal again.

‘Promise,’ Joe Thomas now says.

We go out of the room. The officer looks at his watch. ‘Can you sign yourself out,’ he says curtly. ‘I need to be somewhere else.’

I find myself walking down the corridor towards the office, side by side with my client.

We pass a large man in an orange tracksuit. ‘Still on for this afternoon?’ he says to Joe.

‘Three p.m. on the dot,’ he says. ‘In the community lounge. Looking forward to it.’ Then Joe turns to me. ‘Table football.’

When I first came here, the officer had described Joe as arrogant, but that exchange had sounded quite friendly. It gives me the courage to bring up something that’s been worrying me.

‘How did you know on my first visit that I’d just got married?’

He shrugs. ‘I always read The Times every day from cover to cover. I have a photographic memory, Lily. Macdonald is an army name. It comes up every now and then.’

Even though I’d first introduced myself to Joe (according to my boss’s instructions) as Lily Macdonald, I feel the urgent need to put some distance between us here. Tell him to refer to me from now on as Mrs Macdonald in a bid to stop him getting personal. Despite the thoughts that are coming into my head.

Luckily, unlike sugar, Sellotape, crisps and sharp implements, I can hide them all.

I have to.

10 Carla

THEEF .

They had spelled it wrong. Carla knew that because she had skipped ahead to the ‘T’s in the Children’s Dictionary.

If she screamed loud enough, Carla told herself, Charlie would be made whole again. Just like Jesus was, even after they’d put the nails in. The priest had told them about it at Mass last Easter. (She and Mamma didn’t go to church very often, although Mamma prayed all the time. Mamma said there were some things that even God couldn’t understand.)

THEEF .

If she continued to scream, those horrid red letters would disappear and Charlie’s poor ripped body would suddenly become whole like our blessed Lord’s. That missing black eye would be back where it belonged, and he would wink at her. Did you think I would leave you? he would say.

And then she’d hold him to her and his soft green fur would make her feel good again.

But the screaming wasn’t working. Not like it did in the flat when she wanted something and Mamma would give in because the walls were thin or because the man with the shiny car was coming round any minute.

‘What on earth is going on?’

A tall, thin, wiry woman marched into the classroom. Carla didn’t like this teacher. She had a habit of pulling off her spectacles and looking at you as if she knew – really knew – what you were thinking. ‘Is that what you’re crying about?’ The teacher – who had a thin bony nose – pointed to Charlie’s remains. ‘This old thing?’

Carla’s gulps spilled out over each other. ‘It’s not an old thing. It’s Charlie. My caterpillar. Someone’s stabbed him. Look.’

‘Stabbed? What a melodramatic word!’ The glasses were coming off. They stared at her from the teacher’s hand. Two pairs of glass eyes made of blue metal.

‘Now stop crying.’

‘Charlie. CHARLIE!’

Too late. The horrible teacher had yanked him out of her hands and walked away. Then the school bell sounded and a tide of children poured into the classroom, including a girl who’d been friendly with Kevin, the boy who used to own Charlie.

‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ Carla hissed, waving the felt-tip note in front of her.

The girl looked at it briefly. ‘Thief,’ she said loudly. ‘That’s what you are. We know what you did.’

‘Thief, thief,’ said someone else.

Then they were all doing it. ‘Thief, thief. Carla Spagoletti is a thief!’

The chanting made her head scream inside.

‘What’s all that noise?’ The bony-nosed teacher was back.

‘What have you done with my Charlie?’ sobbed Carla.

‘If you’re talking about that broken old pencil case, it’s in the dustbins outside. I’m sure your mother will buy you another. Now behave yourself, young lady, or I will give you detention.’

Charlie wasn’t really dead. Instead, he was mixed up with eggshells and Brussels sprout peelings and teabags. Carla had to dig deep into the bin to find him, and by the time she did, her uniform was stained and smelly.

‘Don’t worry,’ she whispered. ‘It will be all right.’ Then carefully, very carefully, she held him in her arms while waiting around the corner for Mamma. (If she’d stayed at the school gates, someone would have wanted to know what she was doing there.)

It didn’t matter that Charlie wasn’t speaking. She only had to wait for three days and then he would be all right again. It would be the same for all of them. The priest had said so.

But now, the more she shifted from one foot to another, the more Carla began to wonder if she and Mamma had missed each other. All the other children had gone home. Even the teachers.

The sky was dark. It would nearly be winter in the valley at home. The cold months there, Mamma often said wistfully, were wonderful! There was always a fire with loved ones sitting round it. Their sing-songs and their arms warmed you up, sent fire through your belly. Not like here where the greedy electric meter gobbled up coins.

Start walking. At first, Charlie’s voice was so soft that she hardly heard it. Then it got louder.

‘I knew you’d get better,’ she said, gently stroking his poor torn, stained fur.

But which way should she go? Maybe right at the crossroads. Now where was she? Perhaps she ought to go left now. Usually, when Mamma met her, they danced along the pavements so fast that it was hard to keep track of the lefts and the rights and the lefts again. They would chatter too about their day. (‘There is this new perfume, my little one. My manageress, she has lent me a brand-new bottle to try it out. Smell it! What do you think?’)

And she would tell Mamma about hers while crossing her fingers. (‘I got top marks in maths again.’)

They’d passed a park now. Was it a different one from the park near their home? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Maybe if they went on, she might spot the shop where she and Mamma sometimes stopped to look at the magazines. ‘You must buy if you want to look,’ the man at the counter would tell them. But so far, there was no sign of the man or his shop. Carla felt her chest tighten and her palms sweat. Where were they?

Look, whispered Charlie weakly. Over there.

A shiny car! The same blue shiny car that sometimes parked outside their flat on a Tuesday or Thursday evening and sometimes on a Sunday.

But today was Monday.

It is Larry, whispered Charlie again. See the hat?

But the woman sitting next to him was not Mamma. Her hair was even blonder than Lily’s – yellowy white – and her lipstick was bright red.

Now Larry was pressing the lady’s lips hard. The teacher had shown them a film about that. If someone stopped breathing, you had to make your own breath mix with theirs to give them life.

Feverishly, Carla knocked on the window of the car. ‘Are you all right?’

Instantly, the yellow-white-haired woman and Larry sprang apart. There was red on his mouth too. Carla felt her heart pounding.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he shouted.

It was a loud shout that came through the window even though it was closed. It hurt her ears.

‘I’m lost.’ Carla didn’t mean to cry, but now that she was safe, she could admit she’d been scared walking down those roads, in the dark. ‘Charlie made me late and Mamma wasn’t at the gate. I think she may have gone home. Or else she is late from work again…’

‘What’s she saying, Larry love?’

Only then did Carla realize she had lapsed into the mother language.

‘Wait there.’

For a minute, Carla thought that Larry was speaking to her. But then she saw he was addressing the red-mouthed lady. Suddenly, she found herself being marched away from the car towards the corner of the road. ‘What did you see? Tell me.’

His voice sounded different from Tuesdays and Thursdays and the sometimes-Sundays. It was hard, like old skin on your foot which you had to smooth off every evening, just as Mamma did with a grey stone in the shower. (‘Only the English take baths, my little one. So dirty!’)

Carla’s mouth was so dry that it took time for the words to come out. ‘I saw you pushing your mouth against that woman’s. Your lips are all red, like hers.’

‘What do you mean?’ His grip on her arm was getting tighter.

Carla felt herself getting more scared. ‘Like the stuff on your collar,’ she whispered.

He glanced down and wiped away the red smear. His breath was so close that she could smell the whisky in his mouth. Sometimes, Mamma did not eat dinner so that they could afford to buy Larry’s whisky. It was important. A man needed to feel welcomed. Whisky and dancing. And in return, the rent would be paid. The electric meter would be sorted. Larry had paid the phone bill again. It is worth it, cara mia. Trust me.

‘Hah!’ Then his face came close to hers. She could see the hairs in his nose. ‘Very clever,’ he said, marching her fast along the pavement. ‘If you’re so clever, Carla, why don’t you tell me what little present I can buy you. So we don’t have to tell your mother about today.’

Remember, whispered Charlie. Remember the film?

Of course. She and Mamma had watched a story on television the other night. It had been late and she hadn’t been able to sleep. So she’d crept out of bed and snuggled up with Mamma on the sofa. The film had been about a young boy who had seen a couple stealing from a shop. The couple had given him money for not saying anything.

This is the same, whispered Charlie. It’s called blackmail.

‘Is this blackmail?’ she asked now.

Larry’s face began to break out in tiny beads of water. ‘Don’t play games. What do you want?’

That was easy. She held out Charlie. ‘Make him better.’

He frowned. ‘What is it?’

‘My caterpillar. Someone hurt him.’

The grip on her arm started again. ‘I will buy you anything you want if you keep your mouth shut.’

Anything? Carla felt a tingle of excitement.

‘This is what we will do.’ The grip was marching her back to the car. ‘I will take you home. And on the way, we will stop off at a toy shop. I will tell your mother that I found you wandering the streets after school and bought you a present. In return, you won’t mention anything else. And I mean anything… You don’t want to upset your mother, do you?’

Carla shook her head firmly. Side to side. So that her curls hit her face in agreement.

He opened the car door. ‘Out.’ This last word was directed at the yellow-white-haired woman in the front seat.

‘But, Larry, what -’

‘I said out.’

Larry reversed so hard that his car hit a stone pillar by the side of the road. Then he cursed all the way home as if it was Carla’s fault instead of his own impatience.

‘You found her. You found my precious one,’ her mother wailed when they got home. ‘I was so worried. She was not there at the school gate so I thought she had gone ahead and…’

Quietly, Carla left her mother to embrace Larry, and crept into her room. In her bag was a new Charlie to replace the old.

The priest had been wrong. It didn’t take three days for someone to come to life again.

It took three hours.

My head hurts.

My thoughts are confused.

Sometimes I think I am fifteen years younger.

Sometimes I think I am not here at all, but looking down at everything that is still happening.

Perhaps there really is such a thing as resurrection.

But not as we’re taught in church.

Maybe it’s the chance to do it all again. Right this time.

Or maybe this is just the rambling of a dying soul.

Never to return again.

11 Lily

BOILING BATH KILLER LAUNCHES APPEAL FROM PRISON

Joe Thomas, who was sentenced to life in 1998, is to appeal against his conviction for murder. Thomas claims that his girlfriend Sarah Evans died as the result of a faulty boiler.

Miss Evans’s parents described themselves as ‘shocked’ when they heard the news. ‘That man took our little girl away from us,’ said Geoff Evans, a 54-year-old teacher from Essex. ‘He deserves to rot in hell.’

Mrs Evans, 53, is currently undergoing chemotherapy for breast cancer.

My boss sucks in his breath as he scans the story on page two of today’s Times. ‘So! They’re baying for your blood already. You’re sure about your brief?’

‘Absolutely. Tony Gordon has agreed to do it pro bono like us. Says it could be a case of national importance.’

My boss makes a ‘well, what do you know?’ face.

‘I don’t want a woman,’ Joe had said firmly. ‘No disrespect meant. Juries might like to watch a woman strut around and imagine what’s under her dress. But it’s a man’s argument that will sway them.’

I swallowed my response to that.

‘I’ve seen him in court a few times,’ I assured my client. ‘Tony can play the crowds.’

It helps too that he’s handsome – in some ways, he reminds me of Richard Burton – with a gift for making female jurors feel as though they’re the only ones in the room, and for making male jurors feel privileged to be entrusted with the life of the man in the dock.

With any luck, he’ll pull the rabbit out of the hat. First, apparently, we have to make an application to the CCRC, the Criminal Cases Review Commission, for leave to appeal. If it thinks there are grounds, it will refer the case to the Court of Appeal. If the latter allows the appeal, says Tony, we’ll seek a re-trial. Meanwhile, he’s confident enough to ‘do quite a lot of spadework’ first to save time. The courts are rushing cases through at the moment. We need to be prepared.

I return to my desk to continue my briefing notes for Tony. I’m meant to share the room with another newly qualified solicitor, or NQ as we’re known for short. But my colleague, a young man fresh from Oxford, is ill with stress.

It’s common in law. So easy to make a mistake. To let clients down. To let the firm down. And all the time we have the constant fear of being sued hanging over us for inadvertently making a mistake. It reminds me of something that one of my tutors once said to us in the first year. ‘Believe it or not, the law isn’t always just. Some will get away with it. Some will go to prison for crimes they didn’t commit. And a certain percentage of those “innocents” will have got away with other crimes before. So you could say it balances out in the end.’

I’m aware of all this as I lean over my computer. Yet, as if in rebellion, my thoughts wander back to Ed.

‘Why don’t we have a dinner party?’ I suggested over dinner the other night. My husband of nearly two months looked up from his tray. That’s right. We’ve started having dinner in front of the television: something Ed’s mother certainly wouldn’t approve of.

But it helps to fill in the silent gaps. The sweet, kind, amusing man I met less than a year ago appears to have lost his sense of humour. Instead of being up and down, he’s now firmly down. He no longer tries to cuddle me in bed. But sometimes he takes me in the night – when we are both half asleep – with an urgency that makes me gasp.

‘A dinner party?’ he repeated when he’d finished his mouthful of macaroni cheese. Ed is polite, if nothing else. My latest imitation of a Delia Smith dish is distinctly runny, but he is manfully ploughing on. I’ve ‘progressed’ now from undercooked steak and kidney to overcooked macaroni cheese. Even with two salaries, our budget is tight.

‘Yes,’ I said firmly.

It had been Ross’s idea. ‘How’s it going?’ he’d asked when he’d rung to see how his information had worked out. His voice reminded me, to my shame, that I hadn’t even sent him a thank-you note. And the kindness in it made me well up. It’s strange what a bit of thoughtfulness can do. Or the lack of it.

‘Bit tense,’ I choked out.

‘Because of Ed?’

‘Why?’ My chest tightened. ‘Has he said something to you?’

‘No…’

‘What, Ross?’ My hands were clammy on the phone. ‘Tell me. I know he’s your friend, but I need to know.’ My voice was tearful. I was reaching out to someone I barely knew, but it was true. I did need to know the truth. I was fed up with lies.

‘Are you sure you want to know? I doubt it’s anything really. Just people stirring.’

‘Ross, tell me. Please.’ Surely he couldn’t fail to hear the note of desperation in my voice?

There was a sigh. ‘Davina is going round telling everyone that she had a drink with Ed last Tuesday. I’m sure it’s nothing.’

Last Tuesday? My mind spun as I tried to recall the week. He’d been working late. Suddenly I felt angry. This was my husband we were discussing. We might not have got things right yet, but there was still time. I wasn’t going to let this woman get in the way of my new start. The one I had planned before even meeting Ed.

‘Look, maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. But if I were you, I’d do something about it.’

‘What?’ My voice came out like a croak.

‘Have her to dinner this very week. Have lots of people to dinner. Show her you’re a couple.’ His voice hardened. ‘Davina’s not a very nice person. You’re worth ten of her.’

Then, before I could say anything else, he added, ‘And don’t forget to invite me.’

Quite frankly, a dinner party is the last thing I need now that the case is gathering speed.

‘If we can show there was negligence on the part of the boiler manufacturer, it will have a huge impact on the whole industry,’ Tony had told me after agreeing to take us on. ‘But we’ve got a lot of research and interviewing to do. I’ll start with the expert witnesses. Meanwhile, I want you to interview this lot.’ He passed me a list of phone numbers. ‘They’re other people who have reported extreme changes of temperature in their boilers.’

‘Where did you get them from?’

‘It doesn’t matter. We just need to get cracking.’

There’s hardly been time for a break. I shouldn’t be taking one now. Yet here I am. Eight of us squeezed round the little table in our small flat, which I have somehow managed to make rather pretty with paper lanterns and lilies. Lilies everywhere. I bought armfuls from the market. The smell is overpowering.

I’ve also taken great care, on Ross’s advice, to use the ‘our’ word at every opportunity. ‘Our’ new sofa, which we bought together. ‘Our’ plans for Christmas. ‘Our’ wedding photographs. The message is clear. We’re a couple now. Maybe that’s why everyone could make it, despite the short notice. They’re curious to see how we are getting on.

It’s not hard to see that I’ve really got up Davina’s nose. In fact, she hasn’t stopped sneezing from the minute she got here.

‘I’m afraid I’m allergic to pollen,’ she says in between splutters as I remove the large vase from the middle of the table – just opposite her place setting. Obviously, if I’d known, I’d never have bought them. Probably not, anyway.

Ed’s face is a picture as he takes in his ex. He’s an artist. He likes things to look nice. And right now, Davina isn’t fitting the bill.

Even my coq au vin is quite passable.

I am triumphant.

‘Thank you for a lovely evening,’ she splutters before leaving on the arm of the boring man she brought with her. A different one from the last time.

Ross winks at me as he brushes my cheek goodnight.

‘Thanks,’ I whisper in his ear.

‘Any time.’ His eyes sweep over me. Surely he’s not checking me out? Although for once I think I look rather good. I’m wearing a simple white dress that covers the curves I’d rather not show, while revealing the ones that are more acceptable.

‘You look lovely,’ says Ed, as soon as the door closes. ‘At least Ross seems to think so.’

The thought occurs to me that a touch of jealousy on my husband’s part might not be a bad thing.

‘We might have a drink together next week,’ I say casually, as I pull on my washing-up gloves.

‘A drink?’ His voice sharpens. ‘Why?’

‘He’s been helping me with a case.’ I take a glass, heavily stained with lipstick, and wash it angrily in hot soapy water. ‘We’re just friends, you know. Unlike you and Davina. I know you met up with her for a drink the other night. Don’t deny it.’

‘For pity’s sake.’ Ed flings down the tea towel. ‘It’s you I married in the end. Not her.’

‘What do you mean, in the end?’

He’s not looking at me. ‘We were engaged,’ he says slowly. ‘She broke it off. I didn’t tell you, because I didn’t want you to feel threatened when you met her.’

Threatened? Is he kidding? I feel even worse now.

‘When did she break it off? How long before we met?’

‘Two…’ He hesitates.

Two years? Two months?

‘Two weeks,’ he murmurs.

‘TWO WEEKS? You started seeing me two weeks after your fiancée broke off your engagement and you didn’t think to tell me?’

‘I explained why.’ Ed’s face is red. ‘Aren’t there things you haven’t told me about your life?’

I go hot. And then cold as the picture of the stables comes into my head. What does he know? How can he know? Don’t be silly, I tell myself. He’s just lashing out blindly. Keep quiet. Say nothing.

Ed is moving towards me now. Placing his hands on my hips. ‘Davina and I had a drink to catch up.’ His voice is pleading. ‘There was nothing in it.’

Tears are in my eyes. ‘Did you marry me on the rebound, Ed?’

‘No. I married you because… because you’re kind and caring and beautiful…’

‘Beautiful? Now I know you’re lying.’

‘I’m not.’ He holds me by the shoulders. ‘To be honest, part of the attraction is that you don’t know how lovely you are.’

‘I’m fat!’ I almost spit out the words.

‘No. You have the shape of a woman. A proper woman. But more important than that, you’re a beautiful person within. You care about putting the world right.’

If only he knew, I think to myself as Ed kisses me softly.

Doesn’t he have a right to know?

Do I believe him when he says there is nothing between him and Davina?

Do I have any right to ask when I have hidden so much from him?

And – just as vital – who can honestly declare Joe Thomas ‘guilty’ or ‘innocent’ when we’re all capable of evil on a lesser or greater scale?

The doorbell rings as I am lying in Ed’s arms. I almost did it, I tell myself. Honest love between husband and wife. Well, affection, at least…

The bell goes again. Wrapping my dressing gown around me and glancing at the clock – ten o’clock already? – I make for the door. A beautiful doe-eyed woman in a black and orange silk dress is standing there, dark curls cascading over her shoulders. I’m still so caught up with Ed and me, it takes me a second to figure out who she is.

‘I am so sorry,’ says Francesca. ‘I have to work again and I have no one else to ask.’

Little Carla has already burst through our door as if she lives here. She is dancing up and down. ‘Can we cook like we did before?’ she sings.

Of course this is an intrusion. The warning bell in my head tells me that the more I allow it to go on, the more of a habit it will become. And I have work to do. But I am just trying to form an excuse when Ed comes up, the phone in his hand, his face shocked.

‘That was Davina’s boyfriend. She’s been rushed to hospital with an asthma attack. Brought on by those lilies.’

‘Is she all right?’

‘Yes. But it could have been much worse apparently.’

To my shame, I feel a flash of regret along with relief. Then the lawyer in me goes on the offensive. ‘You should have told me she was allergic to pollen before I put the flowers out. Surely you knew?’

He shrugs. ‘I forgot until it happened.’

The intimacy of last night is fast evaporating. Suddenly we’re aware of the little girl dancing and Francesca waiting impatiently at the door.

‘Carla’s mother needs to work today,’ I say quietly.

Ed nods. The relief in his eyes matches mine. We both need a distraction from the other. This little girl with the black curls and thick eyebrows is the perfect excuse. We can play Mummy and Daddy again.

‘That’s fine,’ Ed says, turning to Francesca. ‘Happy to help out. Carla’s no trouble. No trouble at all.’

12 Carla

‘May I lick the bowl? Please! Please!’ asked Carla, the wooden spoon already midway between her mouth and the delicious-smelling mixture of egg and flour and butter and sugar. Mamma never let her taste anything before it was cooked. But something told Carla she could persuade Lily. Sometimes you just had to know the right way for the right person.

‘Pleeease?’

‘Of course!’ Lily was next to her in a spotty pink and white apron. ‘My brother and I always used to do that when I was your age.’

Mmm. Yummy!

‘Not quite so much or you’ll be sick!’ Lily put a gentle hand on her arm.

Carla pouted the way Mamma did when Larry said he might be late again. Then she remembered that this sometimes annoyed him. She didn’t want to annoy Lily. ‘What is your brother’s name?’ she asked in the hope of changing the subject.

There was a tight pause as Lily put the cake into the oven. She could feel it; rather like that beat between the needle being placed on the record and the sound of the music.

Ed, who had been sitting on the floor, cross-legged, while sketching, laid down his charcoal stick. Lily took a great deal of time adjusting the position of the cake in the oven before coming back to the table. Her face was red. It must have been hot inside.

‘He was called Daniel.’

Carla knew that sing-song voice. It was the one Mamma used when she said something that was very important, but that she didn’t want Carla to make a fuss about. ‘Your grandfather does not wish to see me any more.’ Or, ‘One day, perhaps, you might go back to Italy on your own. Your grandmother would like to meet you.’

The English language was very strange. But even though she hated school, Carla paid great attention to grammar. She liked it. It was like a rhyme. A nursery rhyme that Mamma sometimes sang to her in Italian. They were doing tenses now in class. Present. Past. Future. She walks down the street. He walked down the street. My brother is called Daniel. My brother was called Daniel.

That meant Lily’s brother must have changed his name. They’d been reading a story at school about someone doing that.

‘What is he called now?’

Ed’s charcoal stick was scratching quickly again. But Lily had turned back to the oven, her back to Carla. ‘I don’t want to talk about him any more.’ Her voice was unexpectedly cross.

Instantly, Carla’s mouth went dry. The sweetness of the butter and flour and sugar had gone. Yet at the same time there was a thrill of excitement running through her. The sort you got when something bad happened – but not to you.

‘Did someone hurt him?’ A picture of poor Charlie with his ripped fur next to the misspelt word ‘Theef’ came back to her.

‘I think that’s enough questions for today.’ Ed stood up. ‘Come and look at this, Carla. What do you think?’

The girl on the paper looked just like her! She was lifting the spoon from the cake mixture to her lips. Her eyes were shining. But at the same time, there was a hint of something sad. How did Ed know that inside she was still hurting for Charlie? The new one didn’t smell the same. He didn’t love her as much as the real one. She could feel it.

‘Where is Lily? She’s not in the picture.’

There was a laugh which sounded deeper than usual. Normally Lily had a high, tinkly laugh. ‘Don’t worry about that, Carla. I’m used to it.’

A ripple of unease ran through her. Didn’t Mamma say such things when Larry was late or didn’t turn up at all? I’m used to it. Used to your wife coming first. Don’t worry about me.

‘Stop.’ Ed’s voice was low and growly. ‘Not in front of the child.’

‘I am not a child,’ she started to say, but Ed was pushing his drawing into her hands. ‘You may keep this, if you like.’

Really? This was hers? She would add it to the special box where she’d put the first one Ed had given her. He must really like her.

‘Why not? It’s better than keeping it here. My dear wife might start to be jealous of that too, along with everyone else.’

‘I thought you said, “Not in front of the child”?’

Lily was washing up angrily. Suds were flying in all directions. One landed on Carla’s shoe. They were too tight, but Mamma did not get paid until next month. ‘I cannot ask Larry for any more,’ she’d said.

But Carla could. Since finding him with the red-lipped lady, she had the feeling that she could ask Larry for quite a lot. The new Charlie was just the beginning.

‘May we go out for a walk?’ she asked now, taking Ed’s hand in her left and Lily’s in the right. Then she remembered something that she had heard Mamma say through the wall, after she and Larry had been dancing. ‘Please? Pretty please?’

By the end of the afternoon, Carla had five more pictures. Carla in the park, on the swing. Carla feeding the ducks. Carla running. Carla thinking with her hand on her chin. Carla eating a Knickerbocker Glory with gooey strawberry sauce that Lily had treated her to.

‘Why do you not have any pictures of Lily?’ she asked Ed.

As soon as she said the words, she knew she should not have done. All she’d wanted to do was find out what had upset Lily.

Lily gave a strange laugh. ‘Because I am not worth painting.’

Ed said nothing. But when Carla returned the following Sunday, there was a new picture, propped up against the wall.

Lily looking out of a window. It was as if she might step out of the paper any minute!

And that’s when Carla realized. Mamma was wrong. Lily might be a different shape from her mother. But she was beautiful. Kind. Caring. Carla’s heart swelled up inside. How she loved her!

‘It is wonderful,’ she breathed.

Ed looked pleased. So too did Lily. They put their arms around each other and looked much happier than she had ever seen them look recently. It made Carla feel good too. If it were not for Sundays, Carla wouldn’t be able to get through the week. Monday… Tuesday… Wednesday…

Mamma no longer had to put a note under Lily’s door. It seemed to be accepted that on the Lord’s Day she went to Ed and Lily’s, while Mamma went to work.

‘Soon,’ promised Ed, after she’d finished admiring Lily’s new picture, ‘I will draw you again. But I need to go out now.’

‘Really?’ asked Lily, lifting her head. ‘Where?’

Ed shrugged. ‘Just out. You know. To get some inspiration.’

Carla didn’t mind him going. He wasn’t her favourite person. That was Lily. Lily who had time for her instead of constantly drawing and getting out a sketchpad when they were meant to be walking.

But it wasn’t long before Lily was busy too. ‘I need to go through some work papers,’ she said. ‘Can you read to yourself for a bit?’

Carla stuck out her bottom lip. This was usually effective in getting her way. ‘But I’ve left my book behind.’

‘Do you have a key?’

‘There’s one on the ledge above the front door.’

‘Can you get that then?’ Lily barely looked up as she spoke.

‘OK.’

‘Thanks.’ Lily beamed at her. Instantly Carla felt full of warmth again.

‘Shall I come with you?’

‘You’re busy.’ Carla was keen to please. ‘I can do it.’

As soon as she put the key in the lock, Carla heard the moaning. Someone was in pain! Was it Mamma sent home ill from work? The sound was coming from her room.

Carla opened the door and then stopped dead. That was Larry’s hat on the floor. The rest of him was on top of Mamma. Except that it didn’t look like her. Her face was red. Her hair was wet. And her eyes were so wide that they looked as though they were going to pop right out there on to the floor. Was Larry hurting Mamma? But Mamma didn’t seem sad. She didn’t really seem like Mamma at all.

Carla turned and ran.

‘Where is your book?’ asked Lily when she returned.

‘I couldn’t find it.’

‘Are you all right? You seem very quiet.’

‘May I just watch television?’

‘Of course.’

‘And could I stay here. For the night?’

Lily gave her a cuddle. ‘We’ve only got one bedroom, poppet.’

Poppet? Lily had called her that before. Carla didn’t know what it was, but it sounded nice.

Then Lily shut her books. ‘Tell you what. I’ll do this later. Why don’t we make some fudge again? Then you can give your mother a piece when she comes home from work.’

There was the sound of a bell and a voice cooing through the letterbox. ‘Piccola? It is me.’

Carla’s heart sank. Instinctively, she knew Mamma was here because Carla had seen her at home when she was meant to be at work. And although Mamma’s voice sounded nice, she was bound to be cross when they were alone together.

‘In fact,’ said Lily brightly, ‘it looks like she’s back early.’

13 Lily

I’m running after Davina in the park. She’s holding something and I need to get it off her or my marriage to Ed is over. She’s slowing down, but every time I speed up, she zips ahead. Then she starts sneezing. So loudly that the thing she is holding falls out of her hand. I reach down to get it, but it keeps slipping out of my hand. Finally, in the light of the moon, I manage to pick it up. It’s a wedding ring. Just like the one that Ed gave me. The one that had belonged to his great-grandmother. But as I hold it, the ring crumbles in my hand. I try to piece it back together but it’s no good. The pieces dissolve into dust. Then Davina laughs. A high-pitched shriek of a laugh…

‘Can you turn it off?’

Ed’s sleepy voice comes from the other side of the bed. Slowly it dawns on me – what a relief! – that Davina’s laugh is the alarm clock. The light filtering in through the window is indeed the moon, but even so, it is time to get up. It’s 6 a.m. I need to get an earlier bus because I have a meeting with Tony Gordon. The man who might, or might not, help me release Joe Thomas from prison.

‘Let’s go over the facts one more time.’

Tony Gordon is the type of tall, imposing man who would be equally at home on the cinema screen as he is in his Lincoln’s Inn chambers. It isn’t just his breadth of shoulders or the assured way he wears his dark-grey suit. It’s also his deep, authoritative voice with its hint of gravel. His manner of walking that suggests an inborn confidence. His crisp, expensive-looking shirts (today it’s a baby-pink stripe that might look effeminate on anyone else). The unhurried way in which he answers the phone, even when under pressure. I wouldn’t mind betting this reassures the person at the other end. It certainly reassures me.

The longer I work with him, the more I feel that this is a man who knows what he’s doing, whether driving a car, hanging a picture, fighting for the release of a convicted murderer or making love to a woman.

Where did that last thought come from? As I listen to Tony go over the statistics – boiler figures; timing of the ‘incident’ – my thoughts skittle back to Ed’s cheek which I had barely brushed with my lips in the form of a goodbye that morning.

I am already dreading going home to my husband. On the outside, we seem fine. We go supermarket shopping together on Friday nights, watch our favourite TV shows next to each other on the sofa after work, and look after little Carla on Sundays. I make sure I give Ed space to paint in his spare time because that’s all he wants to do. How he resents working ‘for morons’ during the week. But it’s hard not to notice that his two glasses of wine a night have now become three or four. Or that he hardly ever tries to touch me any more.

I’m aware as I list these complaints that they sound like the disgruntled litany of a long-married couple. In fact, we’ve only been married for two months. Where will it all end?

‘What do you think?’

Suddenly I’m aware of Tony Gordon staring at me. I feel a flush of shame crawling over me. This is a famous barrister. He could be the key to saving an innocent man. At least, my gut instinct tells me that Joe is innocent, even though I don’t like him very much. And here I am, thinking about my failing marriage.

‘I’m not sure.’ It seems a safe thing to say.

‘Come on, Lily, stay with me. The extra psychologist’s report that I asked to be carried out says that our man shows signs of Asperger’s and also has obsessive behaviours.’ Tony Gordon glances down at his notes. ‘Both are broad labels and mean different things to different people. But in this case, one of our man’s “things” is he likes everything to be neat and tidy. It disturbs him when objects aren’t in their right place. He interprets language literally. He doesn’t always respond to situations in the same ways as other people. He has difficulties communicating with people. He also dislikes change of any kind. Good with numbers too.’

‘My brother is a bit like that,’ I hear myself say. Even as I speak, I realize I should have said ‘was’, rather than ‘is’. The truth is that I often do that. It makes it easier to pretend Daniel is still alive.

‘Really?’ Instantly I feel Tony Gordon’s interest sharpen. ‘Does it make him act oddly?’

‘When he was younger,’ I say slowly, ‘we were just told he was difficult. We weren’t given any label. But he could be charming to people one minute and rude or abrupt the next. He didn’t like change…’ Mentally I run my hand over the smooth saddle. Smell the wood. Cradle Amelia in my arms. No.

‘Are you all right, Lily?’

I look down at my shaking hand. ‘Yes.’

Yes, it made Daniel do strange things. No, I’m not all right.

But Tony Gordon has already moved on. ‘We’ve got to watch that,’ he’s muttering to himself. ‘Got to emphasize the facts and the figures rather than the emotions. In my opinion, the defence didn’t do that enough last time. It would help, too, if the jury is made up of people who like statistics: they need to be the type whose heads rule their hearts rather than the other way round. We also need to show that although people with Asperger syndrome all share common behaviours and features, everyone is different. Unique. They have their own personalities that have just as much of an effect on their behaviour as the syndrome itself. According to my research, this cold, unemotional, obsessive behaviour that’s recorded in his notes is not necessarily a consequence of the Asperger bit. Tricky. Especially if someone on the jury has personal experience which doesn’t fit in with Joe’s. Or if we put his case in a way that offends someone.’

I’m beginning to wonder if I even need to be here. After all, I’ve briefed my barrister. It’s up to him now.

‘Please ask your firm to make sure you are with me when I visit the client,’ he says. ‘Your experience could be very useful. There’ll be a lot of publicity surrounding this case, you know.’ He gives me another kindly look. Almost fatherly. ‘No one will like us,’ he adds. ‘We’ll be the devil, you and I. A murderer is always a murderer in the public eye, even if proved innocent. This case is of huge national importance. If it’s allowed to run and we win, it will open the floodgates to all kinds of suits. We’ve got to be careful.’

‘I know,’ I say, realizing as I do so that I don’t. But I mustn’t show my ignorance. I want to be grown up. I want to be good at my job. I want to be good at my marriage. I just don’t seem to know how.

I leave Lincoln’s Inn with its beautiful brick walls and rich green post-rain grass to weave my way through the midday tourist crowds. I like walking in London. It’s good to breathe the air after being in a stuffy office, and besides, it gives me time to think.

I walk towards Westminster Bridge and pause for a moment to admire the skyline. ‘Earth has not anything to show more fair…’

Daniel used to love poetry. He admired the order. The way the words fell into place exactly where they were meant to. When he was distressed about something – a missing jigsaw piece or a shoe that was not in its usual place – I would sometimes read to him. It had to be a poet with structure and a certain touch of quirkiness. Edward Lear was always a good choice.

‘Sorry,’ I say as someone bumps into me. Ruefully, I rub my elbow. Typical of me to apologize for someone else’s rudeness. I did that all the time for Daniel. Meanwhile, the man hasn’t even stopped to acknowledge me. I glance back but he’s already disappeared into the crowds.

Then I realize something. My bag. Not the one on my shoulder, but the smaller one tucked under my arm, with all the papers concerning Joe Thomas. The figures he’d given me and the notes made during my meeting just now. It’s gone.

As I walk quickly towards the office, Tony Gordon’s recent words come back to me. ‘This case is of huge national importance… If we win, it will open the floodgates to all kinds of suits. We’ve got to be careful.’

At the time, I’d interpreted his words as meaning that we had to be careful to win. Now I’m beginning to wonder if he was referring to our own personal safety. Is it possible that I have been deliberately targeted? Did the man on the bridge – whose face I can barely recall – bump into me on purpose so he could remove vital evidence?

I’m almost running now along High Holborn, the throbbing in my elbow intensifying. I’ll have to tell my boss. Tell Tony Gordon too…

Racing up the staircase with its elegant Victorian mahogany handrail, I almost collide with one of the secretaries. ‘I’ve got two messages for you.’

The first is from Tony. In the short time since I left him, he’s heard from the CCRC. It’s referring our case to the Court of Appeal. Great. All we need now is the Court’s agreement to allow it and then, hopefully, a re-trial.

‘Not now, please,’ I say to the secretary as she waves the second message in front of me.

‘It’s urgent.’ She presses a piece of paper into my hand. ‘You’ve got to ring her immediately.’

Sarah Evans.

Why does the name sound familiar?

And then I remember. It’s the name of Joe Thomas’s dead girlfriend.

14 Carla

Carla pulled at her mother’s hand. Backwards. Backwards. Away from the bus stop. Away from the journey that led to school. Away from the nasty looks and the laughs that made her feel even more stupid.

It didn’t help that the new Charlie said nothing.

‘You must hurry,’ said Mamma, her voice edging towards that note that usually indicated either song or hysteria. (Definitely the last one today.) ‘We will be late.’

As she spoke, the bus rounded the corner. ‘It is there!’ Mamma’s beautiful face turned old with frown lines. ‘Quick.’

Reluctantly she allowed her feet to be dragged along the pavement. Scuff, scuff, in the sloppy, wet leaves went the black patent shoes that Larry had paid for. It had not been a good weekend without Lily and Ed. ‘You cannot go to them every Sunday,’ Mamma had said, as if it had not been her who had made the arrangement in the first place.

But Carla was all too aware of the real reason. It was because she had seen Mamma and Larry at home when Mamma was meant to have been working. Mamma felt guilty. This had seemed a good thing at first because it would make her do what Carla wanted. But then it had become a bad thing because she had cancelled Sundays with Lily. No baking cakes or licking out the bowl! No making pretend people out of conkers and pins. Or pompoms out of wool like Lily used to as a little girl. No sitting in front of Ed, feeling special while he drew her. No running in the park. Or swinging on Lily and Ed’s hands.

Just staying at home with Mamma, waiting for Larry. Even though he hadn’t turned up last Sunday. They’d made lasagne specially.

‘On you get.’ Mamma’s voice was heavy with relief. They had managed to catch the bus after all. Carla clambered up the stairs and took her usual place at the front.

Recently, her friend Lily had not been on the bus. ‘I have to leave earlier now for work,’ she’d explained. But Ed was still there. Waiting on the other side of the road, his notepad in his hand, sketching. Maybe he was drawing her! Fiercely, she knocked on the window.

‘Carla!’ Mamma’s voice was annoyed. ‘I’ve told you before not to do that.’

But Ed had heard! He was waving his notepad at her! Carla’s heart grew warm. He liked her. She could tell that from the way he observed her face, every detail. Sometimes she was allowed to see the pictures. He’d made those thick eyebrows of hers look almost pretty! If only the other children at school could see them like that. Then they might not be so horrid.

As Ed’s face disappeared out of sight, Carla felt a jolt of emptiness. ‘Aren’t you going to pick up Charlie?’ said Mamma, pointing down at the dirty bus floor where Carla had dropped him among the old sweet wrappers and a tin can.

‘He’s not called Charlie. He’s just a caterpillar,’ Carla said in the same voice that the other kids used when she said something stupid in class.

Mamma was clearly puzzled. ‘But you used to love him so much.’

That was the old Charlie, she wanted to say. The one she’d taken from a bully at school and which had been so cruelly murdered by another. But she couldn’t. This one, which Larry had bought, did not smell the same. It was too quiet. It did not listen to her secrets.

‘Here we are!’ Mamma’s voice was bright as school came into sight. It was as if her mother wanted her to go as quickly as possible so she was free to get to work and laugh and smell nice and see Larry at lunchtime perhaps.

Carla looked down at the children streaming through the school gates. The boys had faces like hard nuts. The girls bared their teeth at her like rats.

‘Please, Carla. Please.’

Her mother was trying to pull her down the stairs of the bus. Charlie, under her arm, did not attempt to resist.

‘I will only go if you ask Lily to have me this Sunday.’

Her mother’s eyes flickered. ‘You want to go to strangers instead of me?’

‘They are not strangers. They are my friends. I want to be with them just as you want to be with Larry.’

‘Are you getting off or not?’ roared the conductor. A woman with a shopping bag was staring at them. So were the girls in the brown uniform who came from the nicer school down the road. The one where there weren’t boys and where no one spat or was rude. Mamma said it was a convent school where nuns taught. She had tried to get Carla a place there, but they didn’t want her, because they didn’t go to Mass regularly. ‘Couldn’t we start going now?’ Carla had asked.

‘I said we would do that. But the nuns told me it was too late.’

Carla only hoped it was not too late to go back to Sundays with Lily and Ed.

‘I will ask.’ Mamma sighed now, as though she was sighing the wrong way round, where the breath came into her wide red mouth, instead of out. ‘But you must go to school this instant. Promise?’

Carla nodded. ‘Promise.’

Mamma held out her face for a kiss but Carla ignored it. Instead, she made her way towards the school gates and another day of misery.

‘Eeetalian!’

‘Why do you speak all funny?’

‘Why have you got hairs on your arm like a man?’

‘They’re as furry as your eyebrows!’

The taunts came thick and fast, as they did every day now.

‘What are you going to nick next, then? My dad says all Italians are thieves. They nicked my auntie’s handbag in Rome.’

This last comment was from a thickset boy with a face like a dog she had seen in the park. A bulldog, Ed had called it.

‘I do not nick nothing.’

‘Anything, Carla.’ The bony-nosed teacher’s sharp voice cut into the conversation. ‘The correct word is “anything”. And what is this about stealing?’

‘Carla stole my friend’s pencil case. I told you. But no one would believe me ’cause he socked her with the football.’

It was no good. She couldn’t help the burning flush creeping up her cheek. ‘It is not true.’

The teacher’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you sure?’

She sat up straight. ‘Very.’

‘I see.’ The teacher nodded before moving on to the next table.

‘Liar, liar,’ chanted the children.

If Charlie was here – the real Charlie – he would tell her to ignore them. But instead she had an impostor (she was on the ‘I’s now in her dictionary), who just sat on her lap and did nothing.

‘Liar, liar.’

‘If you do not stop, then God will punish you.’ Carla’s eyes flashed at Jean, the girl who was nearest and loudest. ‘You will die!’

There was a shocked silence. Carla was shocked at herself too. She was not even sure where the words had come from.

‘Carla Cavoletti! Leave the table this instant.’

Good. That was exactly what she wanted. Head high, she sailed out of the dining room and into the corridor.

‘You will sit there for the rest of the afternoon.’

Good again. She would not be bullied if she wasn’t in the classroom. It was then that Carla had her idea. She knew now just what she needed from Larry next.

‘I hate school,’ Carla declared over and over again that evening. The teacher had, of course, told Mamma about the detention. Carla had tried to explain her side of the story. But Mamma was cross with her.

‘I have told you, cara mia. You have to fit in with these Eenglish.’

For the first time she could remember, Carla wished Larry would visit that night so she could get on with her plan. Mamma was expecting him because she had put on her pink dress and sprayed Apple Blossom down her chest. But then the phone had rung. Larry’s wife needed him after all. Mamma was desolate. And so was Carla.

The next morning, when she dawdled through the school gates, there was a strange air of quietness in the playground. The others were huddled in groups, shooting her horrible looks.

There were whispers. The name ‘Jean’ was said several times.

‘What has happened?’ Carla asked one of the girls who sat at the front of the class and was not quite as nasty as the others.

But the girl shied away as if Carla was a dangerous dog. ‘Do not come near me.’

When they trooped into assembly, Carla finally understood. ‘Sadly, we have some bad news,’ began the headmistress. Her eyes were red like Mamma’s had been last night after Larry had phoned. ‘Jean Williams was knocked down by a car last night on her way back from Brownies. She is in hospital and, I’m afraid to say, very poorly.’

In hospital? Jean Williams? The girl who had been horrid yesterday? The one who she had told would die?

Carla became uncomfortably aware that the girls on either side of her were moving away. Several people were turning round to look at her warily. That day in the playground, no one taunted her. No one spoke to her.

By the end of the week, Carla was neither eating nor sleeping. When she did eventually drift off, she dreamed of Jean falling under the wheels of Larry’s shiny car. Then she would wake up screaming.

‘What is wrong, cara mia?’ said her mother, stroking her brow. ‘Is it because of that poor little girl?’

All the parents knew about it. A letter had been sent home about ‘road sense’.

It was my fault, Carla wanted to say. But something held her back. If she could make Mamma continue to feel sorry for her, she would succeed with her plan.

‘The others, they are not nice to me,’ she said instead. ‘Jean… Jean was the only kind one.’

The lie slipped out of her mouth so easily that it felt like the truth.

‘My sweet.’ Mamma’s eyes filled with tears. ‘What can I do to make you feel better?’

This was her chance! ‘I want to go to a different school. The one that wears brown uniform and doesn’t take boys.’

‘But I have told you, piccola. The nuns will not let us in.’

Carla looked up from under her lashes. ‘Ask Larry. He can do anything.’

Mamma flushed. ‘Even he cannot fix this. But perhaps he might consider sending you to a private school…’

That night, when Larry came to dinner (even though it was a Saturday!), Carla did not need telling twice when it came to bedtime. Putting her ear against the wall, she could hear muffled voices. ‘I know it is a lot to ask, but…’

‘Impossible! What would my wife say if she found out that such a large sum of money was leaving our account every term?’

More muffled voices.

‘There is something I might be able to do, however. That convent you mentioned just now. Our firm sets aside an annual amount for local donations. I can’t promise anything. But it might be possible to pull a few strings. Even for naughty lapsed Catholics like you, my darling…’

The music finished before Carla could hear more. There was the sound of a door clicking. They were going into the bedroom. Soon, Larry would come out and go to the bathroom.

There he was. Quickly, she leaped out of bed and opened her door.

‘Larry,’ she whispered.

Then she stopped. Horrified. Instead of his suit, he was wearing a shirt that was open, and underneath… ugh! Desperately, he covered himself with his hands. His face showed that he was as shocked as she was. ‘You are meant to be asleep!’ He sounded angry.

Carla glanced at Mamma’s closed bedroom door. ‘If you don’t help me go to the school with the brown uniform, I will tell Mamma about the woman in the car.’

His face scowled. ‘You little -’

‘Larry!’ Mamma’s voice called out from the bedroom. ‘Where are you?’

Carla glared. ‘I will not tell you again.’

I will not tell you again. It was what one of the teachers had said when she’d missed what was being said in class. Now it was her turn to be tough.

The following morning at breakfast, Mamma was all smiles. ‘My darling, guess what? I told Larry how unhappy you are and he is going to see if he can get you into the convent school. Isn’t that wonderful?’

Yes! Yes!

Carla gave Larry a steady look. ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly.

‘Aren’t you going to give him a kiss on his cheek to express your gratitude?’

Bracing herself, she walked across and brushed her mouth against his skin. It felt old. Dry.

‘Mamma,’ she said sweetly when she sat down again. ‘Have you thought again about what I asked before? You know. Going to work on Sunday so that I can see Lily and Ed?’

A quick look passed between her mother and Larry. ‘Is that what you would like?’ Mamma’s voice had an edge of excitement.

‘Yes, please.’

‘Then I will ask if they mind.’

Mind? Of course they didn’t. Carla heard Lily’s voice from down the corridor. ‘We love having her round. Just drop her off when you go.’

Something had changed. Carla felt it from the minute she entered the flat. Ed was barely speaking to Lily. And Lily, instead of greeting her with a new cake recipe or a ball of wool to make some more pompoms, was sitting at the kitchen table, surrounded by books.

‘She is working on a case,’ Ed said, as he asked her to sit a certain way on the sofa. ‘We must not disturb her, must we?’

‘Just as we must not disturb you when you are painting,’ snapped Lily.

Carla began to feel uncomfortable. ‘I thought a case was something that you carried things in.’

Ed took a swig out of the glass in front of him. It had a dark-brown liquid inside and smelled like the whisky Mamma gave Larry when he came round. ‘Believe me, we are carrying enough baggage at the moment.’

‘I think that’s enough, don’t you?’ The words sang out of Lily’s mouth, but her eyes were empty.

‘Sure.’ Ed turned round to face Carla. ‘Now I want you to sit there without moving and think of something nice.’

So Carla did. She thought what it would be like to go to a new school where no one bullied her. And she thought of the postcard of a London bus that she and Mamma had written to Nonno in Italy, even though they did not expect one back. And she wondered if -

What was that scratching noise under the door? An envelope! Eager to please, she ran to get it, handing it to Lily. Ed looked annoyed – whoops, she’d forgotten not to move!

‘Ed?’ Lily’s voice sounded like Mamma’s when Larry couldn’t come over in the evening. ‘Take a look at this.’

Ed’s face stiffened. ‘We’ll have to call the police.’

Then he looked at Carla. ‘Shall we see if your mamma is home from work now?’

15 Lily

My first thought, as Ed hands the note to me, is that it must have come from Sarah. My mind races back to the message that the secretary gave me last week.

‘The caller?’ I asked at the time. ‘What did she sound like?’

The girl shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Normal.’

‘Not dead?’ I almost asked.

Trembling, my fingers dialled the number.

‘Sarah Evans speaking.’

There was no doubt about it. Sarah Evans was speaking to me. What was going on?

‘I’m Lily Macdonald,’ I began, remembering at the last minute to use my new surname. ‘I’m returning your call about -’

Angrily, she cut in. ‘About my daughter.’

Relief flooded through me. Sarah Evans must have been named after her mother.

‘How can you defend that man?’ she hissed. ‘How could you?’

Relief was soon replaced by a sinking inside my chest. Wouldn’t I feel the same if I had a daughter? Until this point, I’d been more concerned with whether we could get Joe Thomas off.

But the distraught voice reminded me of my own mother’s words all those years ago. How could you, Lily? How could you?

My fingers began to sweat. Poor woman. Then I recalled the newspaper article and felt worse. She had cancer.

‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Evans, but I can’t discuss the case with you.’

Then, hating myself, I replaced the receiver and went to tell my boss the bad news about ‘losing’ certain papers that were vital to Joe Thomas’s appeal.

Now, in our flat, as I read the note that has just appeared under our door, I assume it’s from her. ‘How did she find me?’ I say, shaking. ‘How does she know where we live?’

‘She?’ Ed’s mouth is grim. ‘You know who wrote it?’

Briefly I explain what happened.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Because we don’t have that kind of relationship.’ The words burst out of my mouth like an angry rush of bathwater. (It’s an image which has been haunting me ever since I took on Joe’s case.) ‘You never ask me about my day. All you do when you come back is draw or paint.’

‘Please don’t argue, Lily and Ed.’

The little voice at my side reminds us that someone else is present. A child we are responsible for, if only for a day at a time.

‘Sorry, poppet.’ I put my arm around her. ‘Ed’s right. We need to see if your mother is back home now. I’ve got an important phone call to make.’

‘Can’t I stay while you do it?’

Those deep brown eyes are imploring.

‘Not today.’ Ed’s voice is firm. Then he looks at me. ‘Do you want me to call this woman?’

‘Why?’

‘I’m your husband.’

But what kind of husband doesn’t tell his wife he was previously engaged until after the wedding? Yet I can’t say any of this in front of the child. It wouldn’t be right.

‘Let’s go, shall we?’ says Ed to Carla. I hear them walk along the corridor, Ed’s slow measured step next to Carla’s little hopping ones. Then I look at the note again. It is typed with several spelling errors. It doesn’t seem like the kind of note that an educated-sounding Sarah Evans would write. But then again, you never know.

IF YOU TRY TOO HELP THAT MAN, YOU WILL BE SORY

I try to stop the shaking but it won’t go away. Ed’s right. I have to report this before it gets worse.

I’m lying in bed struggling not to think about my new reality. Someone out there wants to hurt me. It’s a scary feeling.

‘Tell me one more time what happened,’ instructed Tony Gordon when I rang the following day. So I did. Just as I had told the police and my boss. A child who was visiting heard the note being pushed under the door. No, we didn’t see the person who did it, although I had received a phone call from the victim’s mother a few days earlier. On the same day that vital papers were stolen.

The more I had to repeat it, the more I felt as though I was the accused. There was also the weird temptation to embellish it slightly; to make it more interesting or easier to be believed. Was this how criminals felt? Was this how they dug themselves into an even deeper grave? Like Daniel?

Of course, no one could do anything about it. How could they trace a typed note from an unknown sender without a postmark? All they could do was warn me to ‘be careful’, as if that might help. Instead, it has done the opposite. Even when I walk to the bus and hear footsteps behind me, I purposefully do not look behind.

I will not be scared. I will not be intimidated. That was the whole point of entering the law. I have to believe in something that has power over evil. If I allow myself to be bullied, I’ve lost.

I turn restlessly, staring at the ceiling as it’s lit up by a passing car’s headlights.

Then I hear it. Clearly.

‘Please. Davina,’ says Ed. Then, louder, ‘Davina.’ He’s talking in his sleep.

‘I’m not Davina.’ I begin to shake him. He jerks awake.

‘What’s wrong? What’s happened?’

‘You called me Davina.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘I’m not. You still feel something for her. Don’t you?’

‘For pity’s sake, Lily. Go back to sleep and stop imagining things.’

But I know I’m not.

This time, it’s him who is lying.

Almost immediately, a new coolness develops between us. We act like the other doesn’t exist; trying to squeeze past each other in our tiny flat and sleeping as far apart as possible in the bed as though a mistaken brush of skin against skin might kill us both.

I’ve never been the kind of woman who has close friends. Always shied away from too much intimacy – too many chances of sharing confidences. But now I find myself in desperate need of having someone to talk to. Someone who might be able to give me advice about Ed.

There’s only one person I can think of.

I ring Ross during my lunch hour. Tell him about Ed and the ‘Davinas’ in his sleep. Then, because he’s so understanding and sympathetic, I find myself telling him too about the threatening letter from the unknown sender and how the police had merely told me to ‘be careful’.

Ross listens rather than offering quick-fix solutions. (As if there are any!) But it helps just to voice my own fears to someone other than myself.

That night, Ed comes home late. ‘I’ve been out for a drink,’ he says.

‘With Davina?’ I demand, my heart beating. So he’s going to leave me after all. Despite his behaviour, I’m terrified. Now I’m going to have to start again. Who else would ever love me?

‘With Ross, actually.’ He reaches for my hands. ‘Look, I know our marriage hasn’t got off to the best start but I do love you, Lily. And I’m worried about you. This letter… that man who took your bag… you visiting that criminal in prison… I don’t like it. I’m scared.’

‘Too bad. It’s my job.’

My words come out harshly, but inside I’m relieved that he seems to care.

‘I know it is and I admire you for it. Ross said you’re a girl in a million. And he’s right.’

If only he knew!

‘Just talking to him,’ Ed continues, ‘reminded me how lucky I am.’ His hands are gripping mine now. They’re warm even though it’s a frosty night outside. ‘Let’s start again, shall we? Please?’

‘What about Davina?’

‘What about her?’ He looks straight back at me. ‘I’m over her, Lily. It’s you I married. And I want to stay that way. Do you think we could start again?’

I’m exhausted. It’s been full on in the office, with constant phone calls from Tony Gordon. Luckily he has copies of the documents that were stolen – he tells me he always photocopies documents at least twice – even though it’s ‘unfortunate’ that someone else has the originals.

And full on with Ed.

It’s as though this time he is really seeing me. And no one else. He says my name and not hers. As I slowly start to trust my husband, my body begins to respond to his. Yet there are still occasions when I slip, and imagine Ed is someone else.

It makes me tetchy with guilt. And the constant pressure of my work makes us both snappy.

‘You need to switch off,’ says Ed when I work through another file while eating supper at the same time. ‘I’ve barely spoken to you this week.’

I glance at his sketchpad by the place mat. ‘At least I get paid for it. It’s not a hobby.’

A mean jibe. Provoked by my annoyance at what I’m reading. But it’s too late to take it back.

‘One day,’ says Ed in a voice that sounds like it’s being squeezed out of his mouth, ‘I will be paid for doing what I want to do more than anything else. In the meantime, I am flogging myself during the week in a job that I loathe in order to bring in the bacon.’

‘I contribute too.’

‘And don’t we know it.’

I want this marriage to work. But despite what’s going on in the bedroom, I’m beginning to wonder if it can. Maybe it’s just this case with Joe Thomas. When it’s been resolved, I’ll be able to think straight again. But not now. There’s too much going on.

At the back of my mind that day is looming. November 24th. Eight years ago. Every year it comes round faster than I expect.

‘I have to visit my parents,’ I tell Ed the next day as we lie entwined in each other’s arms. The alarm clock has gone off. We are both steeling ourselves to get out of our warm bed (the flat is like an icebox) and set off for work. But I have to face the thing I’ve been putting off.

‘It’s the anniversary of Daniel’s death,’ I add.

His arms tighten. ‘You should have told me. Shall I come with you? I can call in sick.’

No more lies. ‘Thanks. But I think it’s best if I go alone.’

I think again about the version of events I gave Ed. Back when we first met. We haven’t talked about it since.

I’d briefed my parents too.

They agree with me.

There are some things that none of us want the rest of the world to know.

I’d hoped Mum and Dad would move after Daniel. But no. There they stayed. A rather tired but still lovely Georgian village house, bought years ago by my grandparents. Nestling in its spot on top of the cliffs, with its neatly trimmed topiary bushes in the front garden and its footpath down to the sea at the back.

Stables too.

And ghosts.

‘We don’t want to lose the memories,’ my mother had said at the time.

Memories! Wasn’t that exactly what we needed to shed?

‘There were good ones too, you know,’ my father reminded me gently.

As I walk down the gravel drive towards my old home I find myself wishing Ed were here to hold my hand. Wishing now that I’d told him everything when I had the chance.

But if I had, he would surely have left me.

‘Lily!’ My father wraps me up in a bear hug. There is no resisting. I am a child again. Back in the days when I felt secure.

‘Lily.’ My mother’s faint voice, laden with bravery, cuts in. ‘It’s been so long since your last visit.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I begin.

‘It’s all right. We know you’ve been busy at work.’ My father is already leading me into the sitting room. I sit down on the worn sofa. My parents may have inherited this lovely house, but they have little money to run it. The oil-fired central heating is rarely on. I shiver, wishing I’d brought a thicker jumper.

‘I’ve been reading about this new case of yours,’ says Dad. ‘Sounds very interesting.’

He flourishes a copy of the Daily Telegraph at me and my heart quickens. There it is. A large article on the second page.

MOTHER OF BOILING BATH VICTIM LASHES BACK

I scan it quickly. There are the usual gory details about the crime, a picture of Sarah Evans that I try not to look at, and a quote from her mother: ‘I can’t understand how anyone can defend this evil monster…’

Below are two pictures. Me and Tony Gordon. We each have a smile on our face. Not very suitable under the circumstances. Great. Where did they get them from? A listed professional profile perhaps, in the public domain?

‘Sounds like you’ve taken on something very big.’

My father’s voice swells with pride as he pours me a gin and tonic.

‘How do you know this man is innocent?’ asks my mother quietly, sitting next to me on the sofa, a glass already in her hand. She’s gazing wistfully out of the window, across the garden with its bare trees and down towards the paddock.

When I was a child, I had been the apple of her eye. I can remember her cooking with me like I bake with Carla. We’d cuddle up together and sing songs. Go for long walks to find chestnuts. But then Daniel had come along and there’d been no time for these normal things any more.

How do I know Joe is innocent? My mother’s question catches me out.

Because there are similarities to Daniel, I want to say. Because he can’t help telling the truth even if it’s rude. And because my gut feeling tells me that I need to save him.

I select the only part that would make sense. ‘Some new evidence has emerged that shows…’ Then I stop.

‘She can’t talk about it. You know that, love.’

My father might be retired (after Daniel, it proved impossible for him to carry on), but as a social worker he dealt a lot with lawyers. He understands the etiquette. To me, however, he’ll always be Daddy. The man who read me stories at night and assured me that there wasn’t anyone hiding under the bed.

‘Are you staying over?’ My mother again.

‘Sorry. I need to be back for Ed.’

Their disappointment is tangible.

‘Lunch is almost ready now.’ She rises and, en route to the kitchen, tops up her own glass.

The meal is a torment. We talk about everything else except the reason I am here. My mother tops up her glass frequently. Meanwhile, I pick at the fish pie, my brother’s favourite.

Afterwards, my mother melts away for her ‘rest’. My father is looking weary from the effort of keeping the peace.

‘Mind if I go upstairs for a bit?’ I ask.

He nods, gratefully.

The stairs creak, just as they did when Daniel used to come down them at the dead of night and I would follow, to make sure he was all right. His room is exactly as he left it. Toy cars perfectly positioned on the bookshelves along with Palgrave’s Golden Treasury and old copies of the Beano, which he still read in his teens. Posters of scantily dressed models on the wall. Clothes neatly folded in the drawer – jumpers mainly and the odd T-shirt. I pick one up and press it to my nose.

At first, it used to smell of him. But the scent has worn away over the years.

Unable to stop myself, I turn to the cupboard where my brother kept his ‘special things’. The pile of sticker albums – ranging from oceans of the world to the stars in the sky – is stacked in perfect order. So too are the Lego models he used to spend hours making. Woe betide anyone who touched them. Once I recall a cleaning lady ‘having a bit of a sort out’. She had to be given a hefty tip in order not to report the bruise on her wrist, courtesy of my brother.

Now, I reverently take out a sticker book. It’s about birds. Daniel used to save up his pocket money to buy packets of stickers. He would spend hours carefully placing each one in exactly the right position within the frame marks. Robins. Thrushes. Blackbirds. Pigeons. (He’d spell the latter with a ‘d’ in the middle because, as he rightly said, it ‘sounded as though it should have one there’.)

Swiftly, I slip the book into my bag. And another two. Then I glance out of the window at the old brown cob horse grazing on the winter grass. I ought to go and see Merlin. Nuzzle my face against his. But I don’t feel strong enough.

There’s a noise at the door. It’s my father. ‘I’ve been wanting to have a quiet word.’

My heart sinks. What now? What fresh piece of bad news is waiting for me?

‘How is married life?’ he asks.

I hesitate. It’s just enough for him to notice.

‘I see.’ He sighs and pulls me to him. I’m a teenager again. Raw with grief. ‘Remember what I told you?’ he says. ‘You have to start again. Put the past behind you. Otherwise you’ll end up like us.’ He doesn’t need to spell it out. His words take me back to less than a year ago, when I’d admitted to Dad that I didn’t go out very much and spent most of my time in the office.

‘You need a social life,’ he’d advised. ‘A new century is dawning, Lily. It’s time to move on, Daniel would want that.’

And that’s when my then flatmate suggested I go to a party with her. The same one where I met Ed. I could hardly believe it when this tall, handsome man began to talk to me and then – miraculously – asked me out. What did he see in me? I thought of saying no. I’d only get disappointed.

But at the time, it seemed like my escape route to sanity.

‘Crisps? Sellotape? Sugar? Sharp implements?’ barks the officer the following week.

I watch Tony Gordon go through the process. It’s clearly familiar to him, just as it’s becoming increasingly familiar to me. Prison, said Tony on the way here, can grow on you. It can also, he added with a warning look, be curiously addictive.

I’ve realized that already. Meanwhile, we’re following the guard across the courtyard, through the set of double doors and gates, down the long corridor past men in green jogging bottoms, and finally into D wing.

The HOPE poster has a big rip on the bottom right-hand corner. Joe Thomas’s arms are folded, as if he has summoned us.

‘This is Tony Gordon,’ I say, plastering on a smile to hide my nervousness. After my trip to my parents’, all I can see is Daniel sitting there. The same clever face, which at the same time manages to look vulnerable. That sideways manner of looking at you as if working out whether you’re to be trusted or not.

‘He’s your barrister,’ I add unnecessarily, because Joe has been told this already.

‘What have you got to say to me then?’

I’m almost embarrassed on Joe’s behalf at his lack of social grace. But Tony proceeds to rattle through the defence – the boiler company data, our proposed cross-examination of the Joneses (the neighbours who testified against him last time), the other expert witnesses – before proceeding to ask Joe more questions. Some of them I’ve wanted to ask too but haven’t quite dared. Some of them I haven’t considered at all.

‘Why did you usually run the bath instead of allowing Sarah to do so?’ I’ve asked this before but I want to make sure. Maybe catch him out.

There’s an ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ stare which reminds me of a look Joe had given me when we’d first met and he was declaring his innocence over Sarah. ‘I have to. It’s what I do.’

I’m reminded of the ritual side of obsessive behaviour that I’ve been reading up on. Fleetingly, I wonder if Tony runs his wife’s. Not to control, but to be kind. Somehow I don’t see it.

‘Would you say you have some habits that others might find strange?’

Joe glares at Tony challengingly. ‘What might seem strange to you isn’t strange to me. And vice versa. My habits are quite normal in my book. They’re my rules. They keep me safe. If someone wants to be part of my life, they have to accept that.’

‘Did you tell the defence this at the first trial?’ Tony glances at his notes. ‘Because there’s no record here.’

Joe shrugs. ‘He thought it made me sound too controlling. Would make me unsympathetic to the jury.’

‘Did you hit Sarah during that row when she came home drunk?’

‘No.’

‘Did you turn up the temperature on the boiler?’

‘No. I told you before. But the water was still hot when I found her, which suggests the water was near-scalding when she’d turned it on, earlier. That’s why I had burns on my hands. They came from getting her out of the bath.’

The questions go round and round, as though we are in court already. Vital preparation for the real thing.

If Tony is irritated that each of these replies is addressed to me, he doesn’t show it.

‘Right,’ he says, getting up. ‘I think we have enough now to be getting on with.’

‘Think?’ Joe Thomas’s keen eyes train themselves on my colleague. ‘ “Think” isn’t going to be enough to get me out of this place. Trust me.’

‘And trust me too.’ Tony Gordon’s voice comes out as a low growl. A ‘leave my ball alone’ warning growl that reminds me of our old dog, who used to limp along with Merlin.

Daniel had been obsessed with horses, so, after considerable pestering, my parents had bought him one from a neighbouring farmer when we’d moved to Devon. This steady, safe, lumbering beast didn’t see Daniel as being ‘different’ from anyone else. Right from the start, he had forged a special bond with Daniel. It was my brother whom he would nuzzle first when we went down to the stables in the morning to feed him and muck out. When we took turns to ride him across the downs, Merlin seemed to take special care with Daniel, who visibly grew in confidence as a result. We even rode him along the beach. Once, Daniel was actually allowed to bring Merlin into the kitchen through the back door as a ‘special treat’.

Bitter-sweet memories that had held me back from going into the paddock, let alone the stables, when I visited my parents.

Now Joe looks at me. His eyes are nervous. I want to reassure him even though I’m scared myself, still spooked by the message under the door. This was not, Tony had told me firmly beforehand, the right time to mention the note to the client.

‘He’s good at his job,’ I whisper to Joe as we leave the room. ‘If anyone can get you off, he will.’

And then I do it.

Reaching into my bag, I take out one of my brother’s sticker albums. I’ve already worked out it will be small enough for Joe to slip into his pocket, although I’ve also told myself that I might not give it to him. Just show him. As he reaches for it, his hand brushes mine. An electric shock passes through me. So violent I can hardly stay standing. What am I doing?

I’ve just crossed that divide which my boss and the officer had warned me about. I have committed an offence. Given a present to a prisoner for the simple reason that he reminds me of my brother. My reasoning is full of flaws. I can no longer comfort my brother. So I will comfort this other man instead. Yet in so doing, I have risked my entire career. My life…

As for that brush of the hand, it was accidental. At least, so I tell myself. Besides, Joe is looking away as though it never happened.

As Tony and I sign out in the office and make our way along the corridors and through the double-locked doors, I am convinced I’m going to be called back. Someone will tap me on the shoulder. I’ll be struck off. The case will be lost.

So why do I now, as we leave the front gates, feel a definite thrill zip through me?

‘Thought that went quite well, considering,’ says Tony Gordon, running his hands through his hair as we finally find ourselves outside in the car park.

I gulp in the fresh air. ‘Me too.’

For the second time in my life, I tell myself, I’m a criminal.

16 Carla

‘Carla! Carla! Come and play! Come and play!’

The little girl bobbing up and down in front of her in the playground had sticking-out teeth with a thick silver band across them, and ears that sprang out on either side of her head as though God had planted them at the wrong angle.

If this had been her old school, thought Carla, this girl would have been heckled and teased mercilessly. But instead, she was one of the most popular in the class! More importantly, she was also really nice to everyone. Including Carla.

When she’d started at the convent, Carla had been so terrified that she could barely put one foot in front of the other. She was the only new girl! Term had started ages ago. Everyone else would know each other. They’d be bound to hate her. But as soon as she’d walked through the gates with the statue of Our Blessed Mary looking down, Carla felt calmer.

No one was spitting. No one was drawing pictures on the walls. No one started to mimic her Italian accent. In fact, the little girl with the brace, whom she’d been seated next to in class, had a daddy who had come from Italy many years ago.

‘My daddy is with the angels,’ Carla had confided.

‘Poor you.’ After that, her new friend made sure she was included at break-time. It was, thought Carla happily, as she joined in the skipping game, as though all her dreams had come true.

Even the nun-teachers were nice, although their cloaks flapped like the witches’ in a book she’d just been reading. The nuns approved of the way Carla knew how to cross herself at the right place in morning assembly. ‘What a lovely voice,’ said one nun with a kind, soft face when she heard Carla sing ‘The Lord Is My Shepherd’ with a little tremor. And when she got stuck with long division, another nun sat down with her and explained exactly what to do.

‘I see,’ gasped Carla. Now it all made sense!

No one told her she was stupid. Or that she was slow.

There were only two problems. ‘We’re even now,’ Larry had whispered when he’d come over last night. ‘I had to ask a lot of favours to get you in there. So no asking for anything else. Do you understand me?’

Did a new school equal a woman in the car who wasn’t Mamma? Carla wasn’t sure. It wasn’t the kind of sum she could ask her new teachers about.

The other problem wasn’t as big, but something had to be done about it. After all, no one had a Charlie at school! Caterpillar cases were now last term’s craze. Instead, everyone had Kitty pencil cases. Soft furry ones in pink with plastic eyes that rolled and real whiskers made of plastic.

No asking for anything else, Larry had said. But she wanted a Kitty! She needed one. Otherwise she’d be Different with a capital ‘D’ all over again.

‘If my daddy was alive, he would buy me one,’ Carla confided in her new friend Maria as they sipped their soup, taking care to tip the bowl away from themselves as instructed. They had a proper dining room at the convent, with wooden tables instead of plastic ones that wobbled. They also had to sit up nicely and wait until everyone was served. You had to eat with your mouth closed instead of open. And instead of dinner, they ate lunch.

Maria leaned forward, the little gold crucifix swaying round her neck, and crossed herself. ‘How long has your daddy been in heaven?’

‘Since I was a baby.’ Carla stole another wistful look at her friend’s Kitty pencil case, which was sitting on her lap. It was even rumoured that Sister Mercy had one too that she kept in her office.

‘He broke a promise, you see,’ she added.

‘What kind of promise?’

‘I think it was a promise to stay alive.’

Her new friend gave a little shrug of sympathy. ‘I broke my arm last term. It really hurt.’ There was a light touch on her hand. ‘My uncle gave me a Kitty for my birthday without realizing I already had one. I keep it as a spare at home. You can have it if you want.’

‘Really?’ Carla felt a thrill of excitement followed by a heaviness in her heart. ‘But everyone will think I have stolen it.’

‘Why should they?’ Maria frowned. ‘If they do, I will say it is a present. When is your birthday?’

Carla knew that well enough. Hadn’t she been marking off the days on the calendar that hung on the kitchen wall? The one that had pictures of the town where Nonno lived, with its cobbled streets and fountain in the middle of the square.

‘December the ninth,’ she replied promptly.

‘That’s not far away!’ Her brace friend smiled toothily. ‘Then it can be a present. I got a new bike when it was my birthday.’

Maria was as good as her word. The very next day, she brought in a brand-new kitten pencil case with soft pink fur and rolling black eyes.

‘My very own Kitty!’ So soft. So warm. So comforting against her cheek. So cool.

Charlie scowled. That was all very well, but he should have talked more, like the old Charlie. It was time to move on. Now she could be like all the others!

That afternoon, they had Art. There were more paints and crayons at this school. Carla loved it! Maybe, if she listened really carefully to the instructions, she might grow up to be a real artist like Ed.

At the moment, however, they were making a collage by cutting out lots of pictures from magazines and sticking them on a giant roll of paper. It was going to be part of the Advent display, and all the parents would be coming! Mamma was even trying to get some time off.

‘May I have a pair of scissors?’ asked Carla casually.

The nun – one of the younger ones – handed them to her carefully, holding the blade away from Carla. ‘Be very careful, dear, won’t you?’

Carla treated the nun to one of her prettiest smiles. ‘Certainly, Sister Agnes.’

She waited a little while before putting up her hand. ‘Please may I go to the cloakroom?’

Sister Agnes, who was busy cutting round the Virgin Mary for another pupil, nodded. Now was her chance!

Quickly, Carla grabbed Charlie with one hand and the scissors in the other. Holding her breath, she ran down the corridor towards the cloakroom. Then, shutting herself in one of the cubicles, she snipped off Charlie’s head. He didn’t make a sound, although his face, severed from the rest of his body, stared reproachfully up at her. Then she cut his body in half. Still no sound. Finally, she stuffed his three bits into the bin at the side that said ‘Sanitary’. (No one knew what that was exactly, although it was rumoured that the older girls placed blood inside as a penance for sins like kissing boys.)

After that, Carla pulled the chain to make it look as though she had ‘been’, washed her hands, and walked back to the classroom, holding the scissors by the side of her swinging, pleated brown skirt. Quietly, she slid back into her seat and began cutting round a picture of baby Jesus in his crib.

Then she queued up at the desk to take another picture from the pile of magazines and papers.

‘What does this word mean?’ asked the girl in front of her. She was pointing to a picture of a boy and some writing underneath: M U R D E R.

Carla listened intently. She liked the way that questions were encouraged at this school. No one teased you for asking things. You could learn a lot.

‘Dear, dear. That shouldn’t be there. Let me take it away.’

‘Murder,’ piped up another girl who was near the front of the queue. ‘That’s what it spells.’

‘What does it mean?’

‘Murder, dear, is when someone takes away the life of another, just as they took away the life of our dear Lord. It is a sin. A grave sin.’

Carla heard her voice rise into the shocked classroom air. ‘Does it have to be the life of a person?’

Sister Agnes shook her head. ‘No, dear. It applies to the life of all the dear Lord’s creatures too. Look at St Francis and how he cared for every tiny living being.’

Carla felt bile rising into her mouth. Charlie had been a living being. She had murdered the new Charlie just because he was ‘old-fashioned’ and because her friend had pitied her.

‘Is there anything people can do to say sorry for murder?’ she asked in a small voice.

Sister Agnes’s forehead erupted into a field of frowns. ‘They can pray.’ Then she let out a sigh. ‘But there are some crimes that God cannot forgive us for.’ She crossed herself. ‘Remember, girls. Murderers go to hell.’

The nightmares began again after that. Sometimes Carla saw the new Charlie crawling around heaven in three pieces, his head looking for his other end. Sometimes, she saw him staring at her. ‘You murdered me. You murdered me.’

Sometimes it was the old Charlie, which was even worse.

‘What is wrong, my little one?’ Mamma kept asking. ‘You are happy at school, yes?’

She nodded. ‘Very happy.’

‘Your friends, they are kind to you.’ Mamma picked up the pink kitten pencil case that Carla was about to put in her bag. ‘And the nuns, they teach you good manners. You must stop dreaming about the old school now. Thanks to Larry, it is a thing of the past.’

If Mamma wanted to believe that her nightmares were about the old school, there was no need to put her right. At least that’s what Kitty told her. I am your friend now. You must not worry about Charlie.

So Carla tried. But it was not as easy as it sounded. She’d often noticed before that when she learned a new word, it began to appear everywhere. It was the same with this new word. Murder. Carla began to spot it in newspapers on the bus. She heard it on the television. And it kept coming into her dreams, night after night.

Meanwhile, she and Mamma had to get an earlier bus because it meant Mamma could get into work before anyone else and borrow some of the new lipsticks to ‘try out at home’.

One morning, Lily got on at the same time! Carla was beside herself with excitement.

‘Do you like my new uniform?’ she asked, smoothing down her brown blazer. ‘It had to come from a special shop and it cost a lot of money. Luckily Larry -’

‘Tsk,’ said Mamma sharply. ‘You must not bother Lily. Look, she is working.’

‘It’s all right.’ Lily put down her big pile of papers and gave Carla a lovely smile, which also included Mamma. ‘It’s only homework, like you have to do.’

Carla peered at the papers. ‘Is it arithmetic? I could help you if you like. I didn’t understand it at my old school, but now the nuns have explained it and…’ Her voice trailed away.

‘What is the matter?’ asked Mamma.

But Lily knew. Carla could tell. Quickly, she was putting the papers away in her bag. Yet it was too late. It was that horrible word again.

Murder.

What was it doing in Lily’s homework? Did that mean her friend had killed someone? A real person? Not just a pencil case?

A cold shiver crawled down the middle of her back.

‘Nice people aren’t always as good as they seem,’ the Mother Superior had said at assembly, only the other day. ‘The devil can creep into their skin. We must all be vigilant.’

Carla hadn’t known what ‘vigilant’ meant until she looked it up in the Children’s Dictionary. Now she edged away. Was it possible that Lily, who helped her to cook cakes and let her lick out the bowl, was really bad? Was that why she was always arguing with Ed? Because he thought she was bad too?

‘What is the matter?’ Mamma repeated.

‘Nothing.’ Carla looked out of the window towards the park, where the last lot of red and yellow leaves had fallen from the trees and were now dancing over the muddy grass.

Suddenly Lily didn’t seem so nice after all.

Maybe – what a scary thought – she was just being nice to Carla so she could hurt her too.

After that, Carla started to get a tummy ache on Sundays. ‘I want to stay at home,’ she told Mamma the first time.

‘But Lily and Ed are expecting you.’

Carla rolled over on to her side and made a groaning noise. ‘Lily is always doing her homework and Ed makes me sit still so he can draw me. I don’t want to go.’

Mamma begged and cajoled, but it was no good. Stick to your story, urged Kitty, her black beady eyes rolling. She will have to believe you eventually. Listen! It’s working already. Now she is on the phone to Larry, saying she can’t see him because you are sick.

Later in the afternoon, Carla felt better enough to go to the park. But Mamma was not happy. ‘Your stomach ache has gone very fast,’ she observed. ‘You are able to jump and skip now.’

The following Sunday, though, Carla’s stomach ache began again. This time, Larry came round, even though she was sick. He sat on the edge of her bed. His face was solemn. ‘What do you think would help your tummy feel better?’ he asked quietly.

Maybe a bike, said Kitty next to her. A pink one like Maria’s.

‘Maybe a bike,’ repeated Carla. ‘A pink one. With a bell. And a basket.’

Larry nodded. ‘We will see what happens for your birthday on Tuesday, shall we?’

Carla felt a little catch in her throat.

‘You will be ten then, I think.’

She nodded.

‘Old enough to stop playing childish games.’ Larry’s voice was low but firm. ‘After this, there will be no more silliness. Do you hear me?’

17 Lily

December 2000

Despite my brave words to my husband – ‘I can look after myself, thank you’ – I am shaken by the anonymous note and everything that’s gone on since. Earlier today, I found myself breaking my vow as I walked to the bus stop. Something made me look back. It’s dark on these nippy winter mornings, and there is ample opportunity for someone to hide in the shadows of the bushes.

But I couldn’t see anyone.

I haven’t seen Carla for some time now, either. I hope her tummy ache is better. We missed her the other Sunday, Ed and I. Missed the buffer she has become between us, the distraction that means we don’t have to talk to each other. Missed the role she plays as a muse for Ed – his new portrait of her is really coming on – and the permission it gives me to work on the case uninterrupted.

There’s little time in my life to do anything else. ‘The Court has allowed the appeal and we have a re-trial,’ Tony Gordon rings to tell me. ‘The date is set.’ His voice sounds excited but also busy and slightly apprehensive. ‘March. Doesn’t give us much time, but they’re catching up on their backlog. Prepare to cancel Christmas.’

I suspect he’s not joking. Not long now. The berries on the holly trees are already out in force when I walk past them every morning.

Red for blood. Red for anger. Red for the jacket that Daniel was wearing that night.

‘Christmas is like a battlefield with mince pies thrown in,’ my brother had told me once. I had the feeling that this was something he’d heard, but he told it as though he’d made it up himself.

Either way, he’s right. Ed wants us to go to his parents for the day. I want him to go to mine. ‘They don’t have anyone else,’ I point out. We still haven’t come to an agreement.

As I speak, I wonder how Joe Thomas will spend the so-called festive season. Will anyone visit him? I also wish – too late – that I had never given him Daniel’s old sticker album during our last meeting. I’d crossed the line. What had got into me?

Today’s visit has to be different.

Joe Thomas’s eyes are blazing. They remind me of a tiger. ‘Tiger, tiger, burning bright.’ One of Daniel’s favourites. Joe’s almost snarling as he speaks. ‘Someone put a threatening note under your door?’

On the way to prison that morning, Tony had declared this was the time to come out with it. ‘We’ve got to squeeze him now we’ve got a court date,’ he says, his mouth tightening. ‘Get things moving. Provoke him, see if we can get more out of him. If there are any holes.’

It’s doing that all right. Joe’s jaw muscles are tightening visibly. His hands, on the table between Tony and me, clench into hard, ball-like fists. The HOPE poster is sliding down the wall.

‘What did the note say?’

‘If you try to help that man, you will be sorry.’

Tony pronounces each word very clearly, as though there is a large area of space around it.

‘I ought to add,’ says Tony with a half-laugh, ‘that it wasn’t spelled very well.’

‘Leave it to me.’ Joe’s eyes grow blacker, if that is possible. I’ve read about eyes changing colour before, but thought it was poetic licence. Yet here’s an example, right before me. ‘I’ll put out feelers.’

Tony nods. ‘Thank you.’

So that’s why, I suddenly realize. Tony wants to see if Joe has contacts on the outside. By playing on what my barrister has already referred to as ‘the client’s obvious empathy with you’, he’s confirming his suspicions.

‘How else could your feelers help us win this case?’ asks Tony, leaning across the metal table, rocking it so one of the legs comes down against my leg, laddering my tights.

Instantly, Joe sits back in his chair, arms folded. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Those figures that were sent to you in the post,’ says Tony softly, ‘they came from a mole, didn’t they? They must have. Someone working for the gas people or the boiler company or somewhere in the industry. Are you paying them, or do they owe you a favour?’

Joe’s face is a study of emotion wiped clean. I’ve seen it before on my husband’s canvases. An outline. Nothing more. Then Ed fills in the feelings: a curve of the eyebrow to indicate disbelief or amusement; a curl of the lip to imply irritation or longing. Joe’s face does none of these.

‘Why would I do that?’ he asks. ‘And why do you assume I’ll tell you if it’s true, even though it isn’t?’

‘Because,’ snaps Tony, ‘you need to help us in order to help yourself. I’m going to give you some time to think about this, Joe. When I come here next, I’d like you to tell me who your mole is and then we might stand a chance of winning your case. And before you start bleating about honour among thieves, I want to ask you something. Do you really want to spend another Christmas inside this place?’

He looks around the bare room with its DO NOT REMOVE notice next to the clock and the torn lino on the floor. ‘Because I wouldn’t, in your position.’

As we go out of the room, I shoot Joe an ‘I’m sorry’ look. I can’t help it. His reaction to the note has helped to convince me once and for all that he’s innocent. You can’t fake that kind of thing.

‘Thanks for the pictures,’ he whispers as I pass him.

I freeze, hoping the officer standing by the open door hasn’t heard.

‘I don’t get many gifts in here.’

I don’t dare reply.

Then Joe’s eyes go down to my legs; he’s noticed the ladder in my tights. He frowns. ‘You need to do something about that.’ And then he slinks off down the corridor in the opposite direction as though I have personally offended him.

Knees knocking, I follow Tony down the corridor, past men staring; wishing I could look as confident as my colleague with his straight back and arrogant air.

As we hand in our passes at security, I’m still trembling. ‘You did very well,’ says Tony, placing a hand briefly on my shoulder. ‘Prison isn’t easy. Don’t worry. Joe and I have built up an understanding now. I won’t need you to come with me on future visits. A secretary will be enough. The next time you’ll see that man is when we’re all in court.’

I glance back at the high wall with its rolls of barbed wire still visible through the window. Not see Joe until the court hearing? I feel an irrational rush of disappointment. But there’s something else too. He’ll think I don’t care about him. And suddenly I know that I do. Very much.

Joe Thomas represents my chance to save an innocent man.

To make up for not saving Daniel.

The phone rings when I am deep in the middle of my papers. Not the ones that I should be looking at: cases that my boss has piled on my already overloaded desk, about fraud and battery and shoplifting. But Joe’s.

It’s all very well Tony saying that he would take over from here, but I’ve got to carry on at my end in the office. Surely the more information I can give him, the better? And there is so much. Every day, the post brings more letters from people who’ve read about the impending case in the papers. A woman who had been burned horrifically when she’d taken a shower (‘I was told it was my fault for not checking the temperature first, but it was on the usual setting – and it had just been serviced’). A man whose face is scarred for life. (‘I was drunk when I turned on the water, so I assumed it was my fault when it came out scalding.’) A father who had almost – but not quite – placed his toddler in a bath where he had taken great care to run the cold along with the hot, only to find that the cold itself was boiling. Apparently, a part in the boiler had been faulty.

The case is building up, and with it the press fever. Time and time again, reporters call, pleading for updates – anything that will add fuel to what might well become a national scandal.

I’ve already just put the phone down on a particularly persistent female journalist. So when it rings again within seconds, I presume it’s her.

‘Yes? What?’ I bark down the line, realizing as I do so that I’m beginning to sound like my boss. It isn’t a thought that pleases me.

‘Your Joe Thomas has come up with the goods.’ It’s Tony Gordon’s smooth, deep voice. ‘We’ve got him. The writer of your note.’

My mouth goes dry. It’s hard to imagine a silent attacker. Someone who scares you without showing his or her face. Someone who haunts your dreams: dreams that make you wake up screaming.

‘Who is it?’ I ask.

‘The victim’s uncle.’

The victim! Such a cold, hard way of expressing it. I glance down at the folders on my desk. Sarah Evans smiles glossily up at me. She was a person. A woman who shared Joe Thomas’s bed. He may have been a control freak. She may have fallen out of love with him. Or she may not have known exactly what her feelings were for this man. Rather like how I feel confused about Ed.

But she does at least deserve a proper name.

‘Do you mean Sarah?’

Tony Gordon’s voice sounds amused. ‘I used to be like you once, you know.’ Then his tone hardens. ‘Let me give you a piece of advice, Lily. Don’t get too involved with your cases. If you do, you begin to lose touch with the real world and then everything can become a bit of a mess.’

I glance across the room at my boss in his glass office who’s holding the phone and gesticulating wildly at me. ‘I’ve got to go,’ I say.

‘The man’s been cautioned. But I still want you to be careful. This case could release a flood of lawsuits. We are going to upset a lot of people, including the nutters that are always out there. Do you understand? Change your route to work. Lock your flat. Make sure that new husband of yours looks after you.’

I’m not sleeping. I’m not eating. I’m hardly talking to Ed. There is no time.

Our previous intimacy has become lost in this manic build-up towards the case. I’m home even later, especially now the Christmas lights are up in Regent Street and the traffic is slower because everyone is gawping. Ed and I no longer have discussions about what he might want for dinner. We both take it for granted that he’ll sort out his own. At least he seems to have cut back again on his drinking. That’s because he wants a ‘clearer head’ when he’s painting in the evening. It’s for that reason, I tell myself, that I decided not to tell him about Tony’s warning. I don’t want him worrying, getting distracted.

‘Your mother rang,’ Ed says one evening when I am back just before 11 p.m. He says it in the way a husband might speak when his wife is barely around and only merits a kiss dropped on top of her head instead of a proper embrace.

‘It’s urgent,’ he adds before returning to our little kitchen table. His sketchpads are everywhere. Pictures of a young girl twisting her hair. Skipping through the park. Jumping over puddles. Reading a book with a cardigan casually draped round her shoulders. Cooking in the kitchen. Another girl – more like a woman, actually – with an expressionless face. All studies for a bigger painting that he intends to work on shortly.

An unexpected flash of jealousy shoots through me. I’d like time to have a creative passion like my husband. But instead, I am stuck. Stuck in something that is too big: a web of lies and truths that I – with my limited experience – am expected to unravel. I’m not the only one. Another newly qualified lawyer in the office is currently grappling with a divorce case without really knowing how to do it. I pity her client.

Mum picks up the phone immediately. In my mind, I’m back home. She’ll already have decorated the hall with tinsel woven round the banisters; mistletoe hanging from the central cartwheel light; holly on the pictures going up the stairs, including the pastel portraits of Daniel and me when we were younger. Pretty bits and pieces on the dining-room table to hide the emptiness of the unlaid fifth setting at the table. Christmas decorations waiting for me to come home, because without one child, my parents have nothing.

The weight of my responsibilities hangs in my words. ‘Sorry it’s late but I’ve been working.’

I wait to hear Mum tell me, as she has done before, that I am working too hard. That a new husband needs his new wife to be around more. But instantly, I know before I even hear the break in her voice that something has happened.

‘What is it?’ I croak.

After Daniel, there was a weird relief that nothing awful – nothing truly awful – could ever happen again. It’s a feeling I have heard others voice too. There was a woman on the radio, not long after, who said that when her daughter died in a crash, she knew she didn’t have to worry so much about her surviving son because her worst fear had already happened.

That’s how I felt too until I hear Mum’s voice.

‘Is Dad all right?’ I manage to say.

For a minute, I have a picture of him at the bottom of the stairs. He’s slipped. Had a coronary.

‘We’re not ill.’

Relief washes through me in the form of sweat. Ed, meanwhile, is poring over the woman with the expressionless face, but in such a manner that I suspect he is listening.

‘Then what is it?’

‘Merlin… It’s Merlin. He’s… well, he’s gone.’

I clutch the edge of the table for support. Ed’s hand reaches out for mine. Gratefully I clutch it. ‘He was old…’ I begin.

‘The vet says it looks like his food was poisoned,’ sobs Mum.

‘Poisoned?’

Ed’s face is startled as I repeat the word.

‘How do you know?’

My mother’s voice is choked. ‘We found him in the paddock. There was a note on the stable door.’

A note. My body begins to shake. My chest rises to my throat. The hunger I was feeling when I got home has disappeared.

‘What does it say?’ I ask.

But already I know.

‘It says, “Tell your daughter to drop the case.” ’ Mum’s voice rises with anguish. ‘Is this the one you told us about? The one about the boiler that’s been in the papers?’

Ed is leaning forward, clearly concerned. So much so that he drops his sketchpad.

Slowly, I put down the phone. Not just because of Merlin, who was my last link with Daniel apart from my parents. Nor because of the horror that someone, somewhere, has tracked down my family. Sarah Evans’s uncle perhaps? After all, he’d written the previous note.

No. I’m putting down the phone in shock because Ed’s sketchpad is open, revealing the full truth. I’d assumed the girl with the expressionless face was Carla, waiting to be filled in. Instead, Davina is laughing at me from the carpet with that glorious head of hair thrown back in victory.

18 Carla

Carla didn’t have a birthday party like all the other girls at school. There wasn’t room in the flat, Mamma said. Instead, look what Larry had bought her!

In the hall outside stood the most beautiful pink bike she had ever seen. It was gleaming: almost as shiny as Larry’s car. There was a bell, just as she had requested, and a little basket. And when she rode it in the park, she flew!

‘You are a natural,’ said Larry. But he did not smile as he spoke.

The following Sunday, the phone rang twice in an hour. ‘When I answer,’ said Mamma confused, ‘I can’t hear anything. Perhaps it is broken. You get it next time.’

Carla did. At first she heard nothing either. But just as she was about to put the phone down, there it was. Breathing.

Then her tummy ache started again.

‘I don’t want to go to Lily and Ed’s,’ she mumbled.

Mamma ran her hands through her hair. ‘You are just worried about those phone calls. They are probably from silly children playing games. When you get to your friend Lily’s home, you will feel better.’

She began to cry. ‘I’m not going. I am ill.’

Mamma’s face grew cross. ‘You are a naughty girl. Do you know that?’

Carla was still resting on the sofa when Larry arrived. She could hear them whispering in the hall.

‘Making it up… I am sure of it… always better on Monday… only says she is ill… no temperature… just playing up…’

How tired she felt. Her thoughts began to drift away. At first this felt nice, soothing. But then she thought she heard a far-off doorbell. And after that, a word began to beat in her head as if it had been hidden and was now coming out to upset her.

Murder!

Murder!

That was the evil word she had seen on Lily’s papers. The more she thought of it, the more Carla became convinced that Lily was going to hurt her too. It was God’s will because she had killed Charlie.

‘What is this you are saying?’

Opening her eyes, she saw Mamma looking down at her.

‘You have had a nightmare, cara mia. But it is over now. You must get up. Guess who has come to see you?’

‘Hello, Carla!’

It was Ed.

She’d forgotten how simpatico his eyes were. After all, it wasn’t he who was bad. It was Lily…

‘I was hoping to begin a new portrait today.’ His eyes were really shining now. ‘If it works, I would like to enter it for a competition. With your mamma’s permission of course.’

‘A competition!’ Mamma repeated the word reverently. ‘Do you hear, Carla?’

‘But first I need another sitting.’ Ed’s eyes were searching hers. Pleading. It made her feel big. Important. ‘Do you feel well enough to come over this afternoon?’ He turned to Mamma. ‘I’m afraid Lily has got to go into work again, but I’ll take great care of your daughter. Are you happy with that?’

‘Of course she is,’ trilled Mamma. ‘She was just tired, that’s all.’

Carla nodded. In truth, her stomach ache was not so bad now.

‘Wonderful.’ Ed looked pleased. ‘Let’s get started then, shall we?’

The first thing that Carla saw when she went into num-ber 3 was a new rug on the floor of the sitting room.

‘What happened to the old one?’ she asked, noticing with approval that this one was a pale bluey-green and not a boring brown colour like before.

‘Lily got angry and threw coffee over it,’ said Ed.

‘Ask him why, Carla.’ Lily came out of the kitchen, carrying a pile of papers. Her voice was sharp.

Lily was here after all?

Carla froze on the spot.

Ed laughed, but Carla knew he was nervous. ‘I thought you were going into the office,’ he said quietly.

‘Changed my mind. I’m going to work in the bedroom instead. I lose time doing that journey.’ Lily smiled. But it wasn’t a smile that danced in her eyes. ‘That all right with you?’

‘Whatever suits you best.’ Ed spoke in that very polite way that adults seemed to use when they didn’t like each other very much. Carla had observed that many times on Mamma’s favourite television soap. Lily disappeared into the bedroom.

‘Why don’t you sit down on the sofa, Carla.’

She did as she was told. Trembling. ‘Is Lily going to murder you?’ she whispered.

Ed stared at her and then began to laugh. A lovely warm, throaty laugh that almost made her want to join in. Then he stopped. ‘Why do you ask that?’

Instantly, she felt foolish. ‘Because… because I saw the word “murder” on her homework papers when we were on the bus. And I was scared…’ Her voice began to tremble. ‘I thought she was planning to kill me – and maybe you – and…’

‘Shh, shh.’ Ed was sitting next to her now, his arm around her. ‘You’ve got the wrong end of the stick, sweetheart.’

Sweetheart? That’s what Larry called Mamma sometimes. It felt good. As though she was grown up and not a child at all.

‘Lily is a solicitor. She helps to put the world to rights.’ There was a snort as if Ed was disagreeing with himself.

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means she tries to help people who have been hurt and to look after people who have been accused of hurting others but haven’t really. Do you understand?’

No, but Carla felt she ought to nod her head anyway in case Ed thought she was stupid.

‘At the moment, my wife is trying to help a man in prison who was accused of murder but is really a good person – or so she thinks.’

‘But why did they put him there then?’

Ed was back behind his easel now, sketching. Carla felt cold without his arm around her. ‘Good question. But she is also upset because her brother’s horse has died.’

Carla made a face. ‘I’m scared of horses. One tried to bite me when we went to the zoo for our school trip.’ Then she remembered the stain on the carpet. ‘Is that why Lily spilled the coffee?’

Ed began rubbing out something on the canvas. ‘No. That’s because I… well, because I did something I shouldn’t have done.’

He sounded so sad that Carla started to jump up to hug him.

‘Please. Don’t move.’

So she sat still again. ‘Can I talk?’

His hand was moving across the page. She couldn’t see it but she could hear it. ‘That’s fine.’

‘I did something I shouldn’t too. I… I chopped up the new Charlie.’

‘Who?’

‘My caterpillar pencil case.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I wanted something better.’

Ed’s hand was moving faster. His voice sounded like it was coming from far away, as though he wasn’t really listening. ‘Well, we all want something better from time to time, Carla. But if we stopped to appreciate what we’ve got, the world might be a better place. Now take a look at this.’

Jumping up, she ran to the easel. There she was! Sitting on the sofa. Her eyes looking straight out. A smile playing on her lips. But her hands! They were twisted together. As though something was wrong, despite her happy face.

‘It shows another side of you,’ said Ed encouragingly. ‘Judges get fed up of chocolate-box paintings. This one, with any luck, might make us win.’

Win? When that happened on television, people became famous! Carla was so excited that when she excused herself to go to the loo, she couldn’t help squirting herself with the perfume on the shelf. She also dabbed on a little of Lily’s lip gloss sitting next to it.

‘That’s a nice smell,’ said Ed, when she returned to her sitting position.

Carla crossed her fingers. ‘It’s just the soap.’ Then, feeling very grown up thanks to the perfume and the portrait, she tried to sit up straight like a proper English lady.

The picture had been sent to the judges of the big competition that Ed had told them about. But it would take them a long time to decide who would come first. ‘We will know by next year,’ he promised, giving her arm a quick squeeze.

Meanwhile, the whole world was in a feverish state of Christmas excitement. Mamma had come to the nativity play where Carla and her new friend Maria were angels. Afterwards, Mamma had cried and said that she wished Nonno could see them because then he might forgive her.

‘Forgive you for what?’ Carla had asked.

‘You would not understand.’ Then Mamma began to weep again. This was embarrassing because they were on the bus on the way home from school on the last day of term. Mamma was in her work uniform, which smelled of perfume.

‘Larry cannot be with us at Christmas,’ she sniffed.

Carla’s heart jumped. Good. ‘Why not?’

Mamma sniffed. ‘Because he has to be with his wife.’

Then the woman in front of them on the bus turned round and gave them both such a nasty look that Mamma began crying even harder. She was still crying when they got home. Maybe, thought Carla as they walked past number 3, her friends might come out to see what the noise was all about.

‘Can we spend Christmas with Ed and Lily instead?’ she asked. Now Ed had explained that Lily was not a murderer, she liked her again. Although not quite so much. She’d upset Ed, after all, and it was he who had drawn her picture.

‘They are going to their own families.’ Mamma’s arm tightened round her shoulders. ‘It is just you and me, my little one.’

Mamma had still not run out of tears by the time that Carla opened door number 24 on her advent calendar. Meanwhile, the Christmas tree which Carla had persuaded Mamma to buy from the market leaned sadly against the wall. Bare.

‘We must decorate it,’ she had pleaded. But Mamma had forgotten to buy tinsel, and besides, they didn’t have enough money. So instead she had hung up her biggest white gym sock.

At the bottom of it she could see now that there were two presents.

‘Larry gave them to us,’ said Mamma.

Then she clutched Carla’s hand. ‘We must go and say thank you to him.’

But it was dark and cold outside. Mamma said that didn’t matter. She would stop crying – ‘I promise, my little one!’ – if only she could walk past the house where Larry lived. So they walked for miles and miles because the bus didn’t come as it was a holiday and drivers need to rest too. Some of the houses they passed were so big that they could have fitted ten of their apartments inside.

And then finally they stopped at a tall white house that went up and up into the sky. Through the window on the second floor shone a light. The curtains were open.

Tears began to stream down Mamma’s face. ‘If only I could be in there, with Larry.’

Carla tried to pull her mother away. ‘Just one moment,’ Mamma said. But she wouldn’t move. Bored, Carla kicked at some leaves while she waited.

‘No!’ Mamma was gasping, her hand to her throat. Carla followed her gaze. In the window stood a little girl, looking down on them.

‘Who’s that?’ Carla asked.

‘It is his child.’

‘He has a daughter,’ questioned Carla with a jolt in her chest, ‘as well as a wife?’

Mamma nodded, her tears flowing faster.

A daughter like her? ‘What happens to them on Sundays?’

Mamma’s arms were shaking so much that Carla had to hold them to keep them still. ‘We are his family then. They belong to the other days. Come, we will go now.’

Together, they made their way back through the streets and past the street lamps and the decorations in other people’s windows. Back to the naked Christmas tree and the two presents in her sock.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Mamma as Carla put hers in the bin without opening it.

‘I don’t want it.’ Her face burned with anger. Larry had to go, Carla told herself silently. He was not good for Mamma. Somehow, she had to find a way to get rid of him. Just as she had done with Charlie.

Even if it was wrong.

I’m glad I’m not dying at Christmas.

It would be too hard for everyone involved.

Bad things shouldn’t happen when the rest of the world is rejoicing.

It makes it doubly hard for those who grieve.

And the memories spoil every Christmas after that.

Is there ever a good time to die?

I certainly never thought it would be like this.

A strange layering of pain and reflection, of recriminations against others, recriminations against myself.

And of course fear. Because I suspect, from the small sounds around me, that someone is still here.

19 Lily

Christmases have always been big at home. ‘Daniel loves it,’ my mother always used to say by way of explanation for the ten-foot-high tree and the stack of presents below. We didn’t have a lot of money, but my mother would save up throughout the year. One time, my brother got a Hornby train set which he proceeded to take apart and then put back together again, ‘just to see how it was made’. It took three days, during which he refused to participate in any family meals, including Christmas lunch, because he was ‘busy’.

No one tried to dissuade him. It was impossible to change his mind once it was set. Maybe that’s why, in the early days, Daniel got whatever he wanted. It was only when his wish list became illegal that my parents started to lay down boundaries. And by then it was too late.

What, I wonder, as we wait at Exeter station for Dad to pick us up, will it be like this year? In the past few years, Mum has had a glazed, bright, ‘it’s all right’ look firmly fixed to her face from the second she wakes. It fools no one. Then, when she’s had her third gin before lunch, she’ll start talking about Daniel in the present tense. ‘He’ll love these new lights, don’t you think?’ she’ll enquire, as if my brother is going to come downstairs any minute.

Dad will wear an air of forced resignation. At the same time, he’ll look after Mum with a tenderness that smacks of guilt. When a couple go through a tragedy, they either become closer than before or drift apart. I suppose I ought to be grateful my parents finally chose the former.

It’s cold here, in the station waiting room with the draught blasting through the door. I shiver. And not just because of poor Merlin, who died because of me. Or because of his unknown murderer. (Sarah’s uncle had a firm alibi according to the police, although, as Tony said, he may have put someone up to it.)

No. It’s because sometimes – and you might think this is stupid – I wonder if I’m living up to my name. Lilies stain if their pollen brushes something. The recipient is tarnished with a substance that is difficult to remove. It seems to me that I stain whoever I try to love. Daniel, Daniel’s horse, Ed… Who is next?

Joe?

Don’t be ridiculous, I tell myself sharply.

Noticing my distress, Ed tries to put his arm round my shoulder, but I shrug it off. How does he expect me to react when he’s been drawing the face of the woman he was once engaged to?

‘Do you still care for her?’ I’d yelled, throwing coffee all over the rug.

‘No.’ He seemed genuinely perplexed, like a lost small boy. ‘She… she just keeps coming up in my work.’

‘Work?’ I’d screamed. ‘Advertising is meant to be your work.’ I waved my hand angrily at his sketch of Davina, her head back, laughing throatily.

I couldn’t help myself. ‘Are you having an affair with her?’

‘When would I have the time? But even if I was, why would you care? All you’re worried about is this case of yours. Not our marriage.’ Ed was angry now too.

Before we knew it, the argument turned into an out-and-out screaming match – something that seemed to be happening more and more.

Since then, we’ve barely spoken to each other, save for making Christmas arrangements. The day itself at my parents’ in Devon. Boxing Day with his, further up the motorway in Gloucestershire.

Ed’s warm hand is a festive peace offering. But I’m too wound up in my own thoughts. Daniel. Merlin. The note.

‘Here’s your father,’ Ed announces, relief in his voice because we will no longer have to stand together in angry silence in the cold wind.

‘First Christmas as a married couple, eh?’ says Dad beaming, opening the doors of his old Land Rover for us to get in.

I can’t even look at Ed as we exchange jollities. All I know is that my parents will be using our sham marriage as an excuse to be cheerful; to forget the empty place at the table and the saddle still hanging on the rack in the boot room because no one can bear to throw it away.

Part of me longs to tell them how miserable I am. But I can’t. I owe it to them to make up for what happened in whatever way I can.

‘Darlings!’ My mother is at the door. Her eyes are unnaturally bright. Her hand is shaking. The glass she’s put down on the hall table is half full. ‘How lovely to see you.’

‘Great tree,’ says Ed, taking in the monstrosity behind him which reaches up through the circular staircase to the third floor. ‘How did you get it in?’

My mother beams. ‘Daniel helped us. He’ll be down in a minute. Now come on in and make yourselves at home.’

‘What’s going on?’ I hiss to Dad as soon as I get a chance.

He looks miserable. ‘You know what she’s like at this time of year.’

‘But she’s getting worse, Dad. Surely she should be getting better?’

Ed, to his credit, is every inch the gentleman. When Mum gets out the photograph album showing Daniel and me down the years, he appears genuinely interested.

But his questions – ‘And where was this taken?’ – are directed towards my mother. I am ignored.

At Midnight Mass in our small village, people I haven’t seen for ages come up to embrace me and shake hands with Ed for the first time. Thanks to my mother-in-law’s insistence that ‘all Macdonalds’ get married in the small family chapel on their estate, there had only been room for immediate relations. ‘So this is the lucky man,’ says one of the old boys who used to prop up the bar at the local every night when I lived at home. ‘We all love Lily, you know.’ Then he claps Ed on the shoulder. ‘Mind you take care of her.’

This time it’s me who can’t look at him. Instead, we trudge in silence behind my parents towards home, breathing in the salty air. When I was a teenager, I’d itched to get away from this place, scorning it for being so ‘parochial’. Only now do I realize how precious it is, how touching the concern for everyone in the flock. And how this little town represents real, solid values. Not outright lies or half-truths or games – whichever way you see them.

Joe Thomas seems another world away.

‘Now, who’s going to check on Merlin?’ asks my mother as Dad fumbles for the back-door key under the stone wall. ‘Someone needs to make sure he hasn’t knocked his water bucket over again.’

‘Mum,’ I begin gently. ‘Merlin’s…’

But Dad steps in quickly. ‘I will, love. You go off to bed. Nothing to worry about. The turkey’s already in the Aga and this young couple will want to go to bed.’

I shiver. It’s not just Dad’s lies or our couple charade. It’s also fear. I told Dad to be careful about security after the note. Yet here he is, still leaving the key in its usual place. Where anyone can get it.

In the morning I’ll talk to him, I tell myself as I get into bed, while Ed is still in the bathroom. By the time he is finished I have turned off the lights and am pretending to be asleep.

‘I’m sorry.’ My husband’s voice clearly indicates that he isn’t fooled by my turned back and pretence of even breathing.

I sit up, my back against the pillow. ‘I presume we’re talking about Davina here. But are you sorry you’re in love with her? Or sorry that you married me? Or sorry that…’

‘I’m sorry about Daniel. It must be very hard for you all.’

Ed’s words sink into the silence. Would he say that if he knew the full story?

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ I say now, turning away from him.

Then I sleep. Easily. Deeply. The best sleep I’ve had for years. I’m running along the sand after Daniel. He’s still young. Laughing. Jumping in and out of the water. Picking up shells, which he organizes in precise order on the windowsill in his bedroom. Then someone in my dream (who?) moves them. Daniel is screaming because they are spoiled. He’s throwing the shells out of the window and now he’s collecting new ones all over again…

I wake with a start. It’s night. There’s a strange scratching sound on the roof. A seagull perhaps. I wonder what Joe Thomas is doing now. Is he awake? Going over those figures again and again? Deciding whether to reveal the secret source who sent them to him?

And Tony Gordon. What might he be doing? Is he in bed with his wife? He rarely speaks about his personal life. Only once has he mentioned a child, and that was when he had to take a call from his wife about a school play that he’d missed. Not that he told me this; it was merely something I gathered from overhearing the conversation. He had expressed remorse, but when he put the phone down appeared to forget it fast, returning to our paperwork.

Tony Gordon, I suspect, is a man who can compartmentalize life quite easily.

My restlessness wakes Ed. He reaches over and strokes my back. Then his hands reach lower. I don’t move. Tears begin to run down my face. I don’t know if he thinks it’s me or Davina. Self-respect dictates that I should move away, waiting until we are both awake so we know what we are doing. But my dream about Daniel has disturbed me. I am lonely. Sad. And so it is that I find myself allowing Ed inside me. But when I arrive on a wave of illicit excitement, it is not him in my head.

In the morning, I wash my husband away in the old-fashioned bath, which has a crack in the enamel from where Daniel once removed the plughole strainer and stuffed a giant blue and silver marble down the pipe ‘to see if it would go through’.

It had cost a great deal to unblock the system.

‘Happy Christmas,’ says Ed, handing me a shiny red package.

Does he even remember making love to me in the night? Or does he feel consumed with guilt for imagining Davina?

The only way I can justify my own fantasy is that I am so wrapped up in my guilt over Daniel that I cannot allow myself to be happy. Self-destruction. Therefore I imagine someone I am forbidden, professionally, to have sex with.

There’s a small box inside the red paper. A pen. I’d been secretly hoping for more perfume. My honeymoon bottle is almost empty. How is it that an artist can be so observant one minute and so blind the next?

‘You’re always writing. Thought it might come in useful.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, handing over the package I had hidden in my case. It’s a box of oil pastels. Ed picks them out, one by one. His face is like that of a child. ‘This is great.’

‘You can paint some more Davinas now.’ I just can’t stop myself. Then again, how would my husband react if I flaunted another man in front of him?

His face darkens. ‘We need to leave early tomorrow,’ Ed says coldly, after we’d accepted Mum’s offer to lend us a car because of a limited train service during the holiday. ‘Otherwise we’ll be late for my parents.’

My childhood home is lovely. But when I first saw Ed’s family home, shortly before our wedding, I couldn’t believe it. It was virtually a stately home.

‘It’s actually not as big as it looks,’ he said as I sat in the car, willing myself to get out while staring in awe at the Elizabethan stone, the turrets, the family arms over the front door, the mullioned windows, and the lawns which extended as far as the eye could see.

Who was he kidding? Himself? Artists, I was beginning to learn, were good at that. Then again, so are lawyers. Both have to act. To play the part. To get inside someone else’s soul…

The truth is that a large part of Ed’s home is sectioned off for the public; its visitor fees go towards the upkeep. The other part – the finger-numbingly sub-zero one – is where his parents live, as well as a brother and his wife. Another brother works in Hong Kong and couldn’t come back for Christmas this year.

I’m grateful. This lot is more than enough. Ed’s mother is a tall, angular, aloof woman whom I haven’t seen since the wedding, and who has, so far, failed to invite me to call her by her first name. Artemis. It suits her.

The brother is equally pompous, although Ed’s father is polite enough, asking me about my case ‘with that murderer’. He’s clearly read up about it.

‘Consorting with criminals? What an awful job you have, dear,’ shudders my mother-in-law over pre-dinner drinks in the library – another freezing-cold place, where the leather spines are peeling off the backs of the books. ‘Didn’t you want to do something nicer? In my day, if we had to work, we taught or did nursing before we got married. Of course, many of my friends’ daughters are in what I believe they call public relations, or events management…’ Her voice tails off at Ed’s look, but it’s too late.

‘Actually,’ I reply, ‘I think that those kinds of jobs are far better left to women like Davina.’

There’s a silence. It was meant to have come out like a joke. But no one is fooled, least of all Ed. Or me. Ed’s mother smoothly moves on to another topic (that of her eldest son’s recent promotion in a huge insurance firm), but the damage is done.

‘I need some air,’ I murmur to Ed as I grab my cashmere wrap – a present from the in-laws – and make my way to the terrace overlooking the gardens. They’re beautiful. I’ll give my mother-in-law that. She spends all her time out here, apparently.

‘Artemis didn’t mean it.’

I turn at the gentle voice behind me. It’s my sister-in-law with a compact, snuffly toddler in her arms. Out of all Ed’s relatives, she is the one I like best. She seems more normal than the others and has slightly grubby fingernails, possibly because she works as a freelance garden designer. ‘She just says what she thinks, I’m afraid. You’ll get used to it.’

The toddler is grinning at me. It has a wide gap in its front teeth. I’m not the maternal type, having had little experience. Although to my surprise, I’ve really enjoyed having Carla around.

‘I’m not sure I want to get used to it,’ I say.

My sister-in-law frowns. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t know why Ed married me.’ As I speak, I feel I am talking to myself instead of to a woman I don’t know very well. Maybe it’s the pre-dinner sherry I gulped down in a desperate need for warmth as well as to curb my nerves. ‘He clearly still has feelings for Davina. So why did he choose me instead of her?’

There’s a short silence during which I see a distinct look of uncertainty flitting across my sister-in-law’s face. The toddler struggles to get down. He is deposited gently on the ground.

‘But you know about the trust?’

‘What trust?’

‘You’re kidding me. Right?’ She takes in my face. ‘You’re not, are you? Shit. He told us you knew…’ She seems genuinely concerned.

‘Please,’ I beg, ‘you’re the only one who will tell me anything. Don’t you think I have a right to know?’

There’s a quick glance over her shoulder. No one is there. The toddler is now sitting at her feet, eating clumps of frozen earth from a plant pot, but she hasn’t noticed and I don’t want to stop her now. ‘Ed was heartbroken when Davina dumped him to get engaged to some banker she’d been seeing on the quiet for yonks. Poor old Ed really loved her – sorry – but it wasn’t just that. Time was running out. Henry, spit that out or…’

‘Time was running out for what?’

‘I’m trying to tell you. The trust. Henry, spit it out NOW. It was set up by the boys’ grandparents. They all have to get married by the age of thirty and stay married for at least five years or they won’t get their inheritance. Sounds totally ridiculous, I know, but apparently Artemis’s father has a thing about men who don’t get married. His brother was the other way inclined, if you get my meaning, and it brought terrific scandal on the family in those days. I knew about it, but Andrew and I would have got married when we did anyway, trust or no trust.’

I can’t believe it.

‘We got married just before Ed’s thirtieth birthday,’ I say slowly. ‘I thought it was fast, but I was flattered that he was so keen…’

‘And he was, I’m sure of it.’

‘Well, I’m not. I was always amazed that Ed had fallen for me. I’m all wrong for him. Why didn’t he go for someone more suitable?’

‘Have you been listening to that mother-in-law of ours? Honestly, Lily. You’ve got to have more faith in yourself. Anyone can see Ed loves you. You’re just what this family needs. Someone normal.’

Normal! Hah! The irony almost makes me miss what she says next.

‘When Ed first told us about you, we were shocked, of course. Especially with the wedding coming so soon. But when we met you, we saw why he’d chosen you. You’re just the kind of girl he needs. Reliable. Attractive without being a floozy. No offence meant. I said that if it didn’t work out… Henry, stop that…’

‘You said what?’ I say urgently.

She has the grace to look embarrassed. ‘I said that if it didn’t work out, he could always divorce you when the five years were up. It’s a bit of a joke among us trust wives.’

‘Right.’ I am so stunned I don’t know what else to say.

‘Come on.’ She pats me on the arm. ‘You’ve got to see the bright side.’

‘Are you joking?’

‘Not entirely. Let me put it another way. It means we all stand to inherit quite a bit when the grandfather dies. He’s in a home now, by the way. Dementia, poor man. And don’t blame Ed.’ She says the latter more seriously. ‘He was up against the wall. You should have heard how Artemis was going on about losing all that money if he didn’t get a move on. Mind you, I agree he could have told you.’

If he had, I wouldn’t have accepted his proposal, as he’d have been well aware. The whole thing sounds insane in today’s day and world. But then Ed’s family doesn’t come from my kind of background. I’ve always known that. I just didn’t realize how far apart we were when it came to telling the truth.

Or how close.

‘Of course,’ continues my sister-in-law, ‘it was a bit of a pain when Davina broke off her engagement to the other chap…’

My skin breaks out into goose pimples. ‘When?’

‘Henry! When you were on honeymoon…’

Now, finally, it’s all falling into place.

‘I see,’ I say numbly.

‘What do you see?’

It’s Ed, coming up from behind. Looking every inch like a former public schoolboy in his navy jacket, crisp white shirt and beige chinos. But inside, he’s no better than a criminal. Hasn’t he stolen my life?

‘You married me so you didn’t lose out on your inheritance,’ I hiss. ‘But you really wanted Davina. No wonder you were so upset when we came back from our honeymoon and you found out she’d cancelled her marriage.’

Alarm is written all over his face. For one minute there, I had hoped this ridiculous story was a pack of lies. Yet my husband is disconcertingly quiet, making no attempt to deny the charge. Like all good lawyers, I’ve got to the truth. But there’s no pleasure in it.

‘And now clearly,’ I continue furiously, ‘she wishes she’d waited for you – and you for her.’

He takes my arm. ‘Let’s walk.’

My sister-in-law has gone, along with her toddler. We pick our way along the gravel path by the early snowdrops. Ed’s voice is raw. ‘She shouldn’t have told you.’

‘Yes. She should.’ I shake off his arm. ‘You married me for money. But I could have been anyone who was around, just as long as it was before your birthday.’

He looks away, down towards the lake. ‘It wasn’t like that. No, I didn’t want to lose my inheritance. I knew when it came it would allow me to give up my job and let me paint. Maybe start my own gallery. But at the same time, I was genuinely attracted to you. There was something about your face when you told me your brother was dead and… and how he’d died. I tried to draw it, after that first night, but I couldn’t do it. It was as if your grief was too deep.’

‘You married me out of pity?’

He is pleading now. ‘That’s not what I meant. I married you because you intrigued me and because I could tell you were a good, kind person.’ His face crumples. ‘Look how you insisted on mopping up your wine at that party instead of pretending it wasn’t you who had spilled it. Davina would just have left it. You’re a much better person that her. Honest.’

Honest? I’m tempted, as I’ve been on so many occasions, to tell him everything. The guilt lies like a heavy stone inside me. But if I’m upset about the trust, how would Ed feel if he knew what I had done?

I try to take a step back, but before I can do so, Ed’s hands are cupping my face. ‘You’re a beautiful person, Lily. Inside and out. And the most amazing thing is that you just don’t see it. That was another reason I fell for you. You’re also brave. Loyal. Clever. I know I haven’t been very nice about you working so hard, but actually I’m really proud of you for helping the underdogs in life, like this prisoner of yours.’

You’ve got it all wrong, I want to scream out.

‘So why have you been so horrid to me?’

‘Because… because I was hurt when you clearly didn’t want me. You know. Physically. It made me feel rejected. And then Davina made it clear she was still interested and I was… well, tempted. Nothing happened. I swear it. Then there’s the case. It seems to be all you think about and…’

There’s a dullness in my chest. The number of divorced solicitors in my practice alone bears testament to the fact that law takes its toll on family life.

He runs his hands through his hair. ‘The thing is, Lily, maybe we did get together fast. But I’ve got to know you better now and… well, I want to be with you. I really do.’

Does he? Or is it the money that’s talking? Five years of marriage to get the inheritance.

‘Tell me,’ he says, pulling me towards him, ‘that you love me too?’

Love? What is love? Surely I’m the last person to answer that one.

‘We could try again,’ he says slowly. Gently he tilts my chin so I have to look straight at him. It feels important not to look away. ‘What do you think?’

We’ve said this to each other before. Each time we’ve ended up fighting again. But right now, a pair of brown-black eyes comes into my head. Go away, I want to scream.

‘I don’t know,’ I say miserably to Ed now. ‘I can’t think properly. Not with this case going on.’

It’s true. If anything, seeing my parents this Christmas, revisiting the empty stable, has made me more determined than ever to go ahead with this. To win. To play my part in delivering justice. It’s more important than my own personal life. After Daniel, it has to be.

Then I look down at my husband’s hands, which are now holding mine. And I drop them.

‘I’ll give you an answer when it’s over. Sorry.’

20 Carla

Carla watched Mamma cry all through Christmas Day. She cried when she unwrapped Larry’s present and she cried when her fingers couldn’t put it on.

At first, Carla tried to comfort her. ‘Let me help you with the clasp.’

But then, when Mamma looked in the mirror at the silver locket around her slim brown neck, she cried even more.

Carla gave up. I wonder if the Queen cries, she asked herself as she sat cross-legged in front of the television, watching this really old woman with grey hair and a nice smile talking about ‘the importance of family values’.

Carla wouldn’t have bothered changing channels for the Queen’s speech if it wasn’t for her new friend at school. ‘We always watch it,’ Maria had told Carla when they were tucking into the toffees which one of the gappy-toothed nuns had handed out after the end-of-term carol service.

Sometimes Carla guiltily found herself wishing that she belonged to Maria’s family. But at least, thanks to her friend, she now had a Kitty. She had the right television programme on. Now all she needed was a mother who didn’t have a red, blotchy face from weeping.

If Larry didn’t make Mamma so unhappy, everything would be all right, Carla told herself as she watched pictures of the Queen’s reassuring face.

She was sure something would happen soon. She just had to be patient.

‘Do you think Ed and Lily will be back now?’ she asked Mamma through the sobs.

Her mother shook her head. If Larry saw Mamma now, he wouldn’t think she was very pretty with all those black smudges under her eyes.

‘They are still with their families,’ Mamma said. ‘Just as we should be with ours.’

Carla thought of the sparkly Christmas card of baby Jesus that they had sent to Italy and the much hoped-for card that had not been sent back in return.

Mamma burst out into fresh tears. ‘It is all my fault…’

‘Why, Mamma?’

‘It just is.’ Then her mother’s eye fell on the second package under the tree. ‘Are you not going to open Larry’s present to you? I took it out of the bin, just in case.’

Most of her didn’t want to. But another part was curious…

‘Go on,’ urged Mamma. Her eyes grew brighter. Carla knew what she was thinking. If it was a good present, it meant Larry loved her mother more than his wife and the girl they had seen through the window.

The paper was hard to undo. Someone had tied it up tightly with sticky tape as though the giver had not wanted her to get in. Eventually, she wiggled out the thing inside. It was a box. A long slim box. And inside that was…

‘A watch,’ gasped Mamma. ‘How kind of Larry!’ Now there was laughter through the tears. ‘It is expensive, yes? What does the card say?’

Carla looked at it and then put it in her pocket.

‘What was on it?’ persisted Mamma.

‘Nothing. Just Happy Christmas.’

But Carla’s insides were hot. The words had been carefully written in black pen so there was no mistake.

Be a good girl.

Larry was warning her to behave. But it was he who needed to be careful.

‘The phone!’ gasped Mamma. ‘Quick! Before it stops. It will be Larry. You go. Please. I need to calm myself. Talk to him first. Thank him for your watch. Then I will speak.’

Reluctantly, Carla moved towards it. Slowly, slowly, she picked up the receiver. ‘Yes?’

‘Is your mother there?’ Larry’s voice was quiet, as if he didn’t want anyone to hear.

‘Don’t ring again,’ she whispered so Mamma would not hear. Then she slammed down the receiver.

‘It was not him?’ Mamma’s voice rose in a mournful crescendo.

‘I think it was the same person who has rung before,’ said Carla, looking down at the carpet. If she stared closely enough, she could make a lion face out of the maroon pattern.

Mamma shivered. ‘The one who says nothing?’

‘Yes.’

The face in the carpet stared up at her. Liar! Liar! it mouthed.

Then Mamma stopped crying and put her arm around her. ‘You must not be worried, little one. This is my fault. Next time, I will pick up the phone.’

But it didn’t ring again. Not for another two whole days. Two days when Carla and Kitty and the lion face on the carpet thought they might have got away with it.

And then it happened.

‘Why did you lie to your mother?’

Larry’s eyes were shiny and hard. They reminded her of the knife that Mamma used to slice bread. Usually Mamma made her own bread because the ‘shop stuff’ was ‘not fit for a dog’. Carla loved the smell. She tried to recall it now to make herself feel better. But it wouldn’t come.

Not now that Larry was standing right in front of her, next to Mamma. The two of them against her.

Carla’s breath caught in her throat. ‘I told you. I thought it was that strange person. The one who makes calls and says nothing.’

‘It is true,’ burst in Mamma. Her face was anxious. Scared in the way that it was when a brown envelope arrived in the post with the words ‘Overdue’ in red on the inside. ‘I have had these calls myself. They scare us.’

Larry’s eyes flickered. ‘Then you must tell the police.’

Mamma let out a shrill laugh. ‘What do they care? They cannot even stop the kids from breaking windows. This place, it is not good. Even Ed says so.’

Larry’s face jerked as if someone had attached a line to the end of his long thin nose and pulled it up tightly. ‘Who is Ed?’

‘You know.’ Carla’s voice was cut through with scorn. ‘He is the neighbour who looks after me with his wife while Mamma works.’ She stressed the word ‘works’ so there was no doubt about her meaning. Mamma does not really work on Sundays. She spends time with you instead of with me.

But Larry’s gaze was sliding to her wrist. ‘Are you not wearing your watch?’

‘It doesn’t work.’

‘Is that so?’

Why did he sound amused and not cross?

Anger made her reckless. ‘Did you buy your daughter one too?’

Perhaps it was just as well that Mamma had now gone into the kitchen to put on the kettle. Larry’s face came very close to hers. She could smell the whisky.

‘You think you are very clever, don’t you, Carla?’

No, she wanted to say. No. I am stupid at maths although my new friend helps me now. But instead of replying, she focused on a mark on his neck which looked like ketchup. If she did that, it might stop her from speaking again.

‘No comment, eh?’ Larry stood back as if appraising her. ‘I approve of that. You think you are clever because you are clever, Carla. Believe me. You might not think it, but it’s true. One day you’ll go far.’

Then his eyes narrowed. ‘I just don’t know which way. Up or down. It’s up to you.’

Two weeks later, Carla came back from school beside herself with excitement. ‘My friend Maria has asked me to her house for tea,’ she sang.

Mamma was at the door. They had agreed that now Carla was ten, she should be allowed to come home from school on her own providing that she never, ever talked to strangers. And this school was much closer, so Carla never got lost.

‘That is such an honour!’ Mamma was flushed, and for a moment Carla wondered if Larry was here. Mamma always got redder when he was here.

But no. The flat was empty.

‘Next Wednesday!’ The words fell out of Carla’s mouth in no particular order. ‘Her mother, she will pick me up from school. Then she will bring me home again. We’re going to play with her Barbies.’

‘Her mother drives?’ Mamma’s eyes grew envious.

Carla nodded. ‘All the mothers do. Please, Mamma. Please say I can go.’

‘But of course.’ Her mother was all smiles again. ‘It is good that you have new friends. Nice friends at this new school. A mother who drives herself must have a lot of money, don’t you think?’

It was true. Maria lived in a house which was big enough to take in both number 3 and number 7, and maybe one more in their apartment block too.

The food was delicious. It wasn’t pasta.

‘Steak,’ said her friend’s mother, noticing how she was tucking in. ‘You like it?’

Carla nodded again, not wanting to speak with her mouth full. She also took care to hold the knife and fork in the same way that her friend and mother did. Afterwards, she offered to dry up.

Maria’s mother beamed. ‘I can see you have been well brought up! Actually we have a dishwasher, but you girls can help me load it.’

What a clever machine!

‘The plates slot in sideways. That’s right!’ She handed Carla another plate while continuing to chat as if she was a proper grown-up. It made Carla feel good about herself. ‘Maria tells me that your mother comes from Italy like my husband. Whereabouts is she from?’

Carla hesitated, not wanting to seem stupid. Mamma always got so upset when she asked questions about her family that she didn’t like to ask too much. ‘I am not sure, but I know there is a valley surrounded by hills and mountains. I’ve heard her say it’s about an hour’s drive from Florence up a very steep, twisty road.’

‘Really? I must ask my husband if he knows where that is. He comes from the centre of Florence, you know. It’s where we met.’ Her eyes went dreamy. ‘Have you ever been?’

‘No.’ Carla shook her black curls. ‘But Mamma says that we will visit one day.’

This wasn’t strictly true, but it seemed to be the right thing to say, because her friend’s mother then invited them to help themselves to an ice cream out of the freezer. One day, Carla told herself, she would have a freezer and a dishwasher and a pretty dressing table like the one in her friend’s bedroom. Then she and Mamma would finally be happy.

Later, Maria’s mother dropped her off outside the flats where the usual group of boys were standing, doing nothing, kicking their shoes against the wall.

‘I would come in, my dear, but I don’t like to leave the car here.’

Carla felt her spirits dip as they drove away. Home seemed so much smaller!

‘You had a good time?’ Mamma called out from the kitchen.

Carla nodded. ‘Can we ask Larry if he will buy us a dishwasher? Maria’s mother has one.’

‘But that is because she has a husband, piccola mia. ‘Maybe…’

She stopped as the phone began to ring. ‘I will go,’ said Mamma.

But Carla was there first. She would ask Larry about the dishwasher for Mamma and the dressing table for her.

‘Hello?’

This time, there really was someone breathing but saying nothing.

Quickly, she slammed down the receiver.

21 Lily

Late January 2001

Everything that’s been going on since September last year has been heading towards this. Only a few weeks to go now. The tension is mounting. Not just in my chest, but in the office too.

Even if I’d wanted to see more of Ed after the Christmas break, it wouldn’t have been possible. From the second I returned to my desk, it was full-on. Phone calls. Letters. Visits to the prison. Joe Thomas apparently kicked up a fuss when Tony visited without me, and refused to see him. ‘I want to see Mrs Macdonald too,’ he’d said.

So I went, my insides a mixture of excitement and apprehension. I barely even noticed the crisps, sugar, Sellotape and sharp implements routine.

Telling myself that I must be mad, I handed Joe a pile of legal papers to sign. Under the second folder was one of the other sticker albums from my brother’s collection.

‘Thanks.’ Joe’s eyes drilled into mine like one piece of metal clicking into another.

So easy! Yet the buzz was instantly followed by a crashing sense of terror and self-recrimination. Why did I keep doing this?

Luckily, Tony was too busy scribbling down notes at the time to notice the handover. He’d been distracted since the holidays, I’d noticed. Every now and then he asked Joe the same question twice. ‘I’m not going to push our man any more about how he got those boiler stats,’ he had told me before the meeting, in what seemed to be a complete U-turn. ‘I think we’ll get more out of him by being less confrontational. Besides, I’ve had the stats checked out again and they definitely stand up. We really could be on to something really big here, you know.’

I let him get on with it. He’s the expert.

As he spoke, he ran his hands through his hair – a frequent habit of his. I couldn’t help noticing, too, that there was a bluey-mauve bruise on the side of his neck. Did couples who’d been married for thirty years (one of the few personal facts I’d gleaned from Tony) still give each other love bites?

After the case, I told myself, I’d address my own marital issues.

But right now I have the perfect excuse to be working late; coming home just as Ed goes to bed. No doubt leaving yet another empty wine bottle on the side.

The pressure from the media is increasing too. ‘Another call from the Daily Telegraph,’ says one of the secretaries, with a more respectful manner than a few months ago. She’s also burning the midnight oil. ‘Do you want to take it?’

No. As always. For a start, it’s sub judice. We can’t discuss an ongoing case. And even if it’s one of those features about prisoners who win their appeals and then get on with their lives, I’m not having any of it.

We aren’t quite at that stage yet.

My fingers tingle with excitement as I go over and over the arguments and the figures and the witness statements.

‘You do realize what a key case this is, don’t you?’ said my boss the other day. Like the secretaries, he has finally begun to treat me with more courtesy. ‘If we win this, everyone is going to want to come to us. No pressure, Lily. But this might not just be the making of the firm. It could be the making of you too.’

The press and my boss aren’t the only ones who are getting excited. So, too, is Joe Thomas, however hard he tries to disguise his emotions. ‘Do you think we have a chance?’ he asked on our last visit – in fact, our final one before the court hearing.

Tony nodded tightly. ‘As long as you do what we’ve rehearsed. Look the jury in the eye. Remember that one of our key arguments is that you’ve been officially diagnosed as having Asperger’s, as well as a need to check things and stick to certain rituals and patterns. It’s also why you came across as cold and unemotional when the police arrived. One in four people in the UK has some kind of mental health issue at some point. It’s likely at least some of the jury will be sympathetic. And the rest we win over with the boiler facts, pure and simple.’

But Joe is frowning. ‘I don’t see my checking as a problem. And I wasn’t cold or unemotional. I just told them what happened. You make me sound like some kind of freak.’

‘He doesn’t mean to,’ I butt in quickly. ‘Tony just wants you to tell the truth. Explain that Sarah was late for dinner, which you always had ready on time. That she vomited because she’d had too much to drink. You hate mess. So you suggested she had a bath. But she wouldn’t let you run it for her like you normally did, as part of your rituals. It made you upset, so you went and did the washing-up, to get control. After half an hour, you got worried when you couldn’t hear her splashing. You went into the bathroom to make sure she was all right. You saw her in the water. She was all blistered… It was a terrible accident.’

I stop. Both men are watching me.

‘It’s almost as if you were there,’ says Tony slowly.

A picture of the stables comes into my head. The smell of hay. The frost on the rafters. Merlin’s hot breath on my cold neck. Mum’s agonized cry: No! This can’t be true. There’s got to be a mistake.

‘Let’s move on, shall we?’ I say sharply.

If only it was that easy.

March 2001

‘This case, as Your Lordship knows, is of some importance and sensitivity: not only for the defendant, who has always remained consistent in maintaining his innocence, and of course for the family of the deceased, and for the wider public; but also for a member of my defence team, who has been subjected to a campaign of serious harassment. The Crown Prosecution Service, and of course my learned friend, has been made aware of this; and should anyone present in this courtroom have any contact with the culprits, they should know that any repetition will have grave consequences.’

Tony Gordon pauses, to allow the full force of his words to sink in. I have to hand it to him. He’s quite the defender of justice, striding around, waving his hands and eyeballing each member of the jury in turn. I’d be convinced if I was them. What would it be like to be married to a man like Tony? I get the feeling that our barrister is quite capable of making the truth suit him – and convincing himself that he has the perfect right to do so.

The prosecution has already had its say. The opposition put forward a strong case against Joe, claiming he was a controlling abuser and a cold-blooded killer. But it ran out of luck when it came to the ex-girlfriend who had once accused Joe of stalking her. Turns out she had died a year ago from lung cancer. So young! I’m shocked to feel relief. But that’s the law for you. Someone else’s misfortune can strengthen your case.

‘It should also be stated at the beginning,’ continues Tony, ‘that although the matter of the harassment of a member of my team is serious, it seems to have no relevance to the issues in the case. But if that should change, I shall be making an application to introduce it in evidence before the jury.’

I find myself going beetroot. Tony hasn’t prepared me for this.

Despite his point about ‘no relevance’, Tony continues to spell it out. Is this part of his stragegy?

‘Threatening letters have been sent. A bag, containing vital documents, was grabbed in the street. But, worst of all, a horse belonging to one of my colleagues was poisoned in an attempt to make us drop the case.’

My name isn’t mentioned – neither is the fact that the first letter came from Sarah’s uncle – but it’s clear who the ‘colleague’ is from my red face and Tony’s swift but meaningful glance in my direction.

There’s a collective gasp. From the dock, Joe Thomas’s eyes swoop down to catch mine. There’s a compassion which I have not seen before, not even when he was talking about poor Sarah.

How dare Tony flag me up in this way? Then I realize he has done this on purpose. He wants to show the jury the tears in my eyes. Wants them to see the hurt that’s been caused by the unseen powers who don’t want this case to come to court. The jury might not be swayed by Joe Thomas with his haughty manner. But their sympathies might well be aroused by a young woman. Like me.

For a while, my attention is concentrated on making myself act professionally. This is Joe Thomas’s future we are talking about. A man with habits that might seem weird to anyone else. A man who is the victim of a national scandal.

As my embarrassment dies down, I find myself looking round the court. I haven’t been in this one before. Until now, my work for the firm has been in the tribunal courts. This is different. It’s bigger. Almost church-like. The wood is mahogany. Joe Thomas is above us in a glass cage. His hands are gripping the shelf in front of him. It’s hot in here, even though there’s frost on the ground which almost made me slip when I got here at 8.30 this morning. It strikes me that from the outside, this court, like many others, looks like an ordinary large municipal building, with its grubby white facade and distant air. Yet its exterior appearance belies the circus – and theatre – that is going on around us.

A man’s future is at stake.

Such responsibility!

I begin to sweat.

Joe Thomas is doing the same.

We watch Tony and the prosecution examine and then cross-examine boiler experts, statisticians, health and safety officers, the attending policemen and -women from the night of the murder. Then he throws a grenade. Another one he hasn’t prepared me for. He calls to the stand the man who moved into Joe’s flat after Sarah’s death. After asking a series of innocuous opening questions, he gets to the point.

‘Can you describe your new neighbours, Mr and Mrs Jones?’ Tony asks.

The young man sighs audibly. ‘Difficult. We complained about the noise of their television. First to them, but when they ignored us, we wrote to the council, but nothing’s changed. It’s become completely unbearable. We’ve put in for another place.’

‘Would you believe their claims of hearing screaming from the deceased’s home?’

‘Frankly, I’d be surprised if they could hear anything above the sound of their television.’

I knew Tony was good. But not this good.

Then Sarah’s old boss takes the stand. She hadn’t wanted to give evidence, because she’d been a ‘mate’. But under oath, she admits that Sarah had a ‘drinking problem’. It turns out that Sarah had been given a final warning for being drunk while at work.

It all helps to build up a bigger picture in which Joe isn’t the demon he was portrayed as in the first trial.

Then comes another medical expert. Yes, she confirms, it’s quite possible that someone who had ‘excess drink in their system’ might get into a hot bath without realizing and then might be too drunk to climb out. And yes, the resulting self-inflicted bruises from falling and then trying to escape might be difficult to distinguish from bruises inflicted by someone else.

Why weren’t such experts called up during the first trial? Like I said before, there are good lawyers. And some not so good. And of course it takes time (which equals money) and resourcefulness to get the right experts.

A second set of neighbours are called in too. A pair of elderly sisters. Clever move on Tony’s part. These two testify, one after the other, that they often saw Joe ‘acting in a very gentlemanly manner’ towards Sarah. Always opening the car door for her. Carrying the shopping. That sort of thing. ‘We often thought she was a very lucky young lady,’ simpers the older sister.

A friend of Sarah’s is then called. She’s what we call a ‘hostile witness’. Someone who doesn’t want to give evidence but is compelled to by court order. Yes, she admits. Sarah did have a drinking problem and it made her do stupid things. Could she give an example? How about the Friday before she died? Her friend reluctantly reveals that Sarah had nearly been run over by a car when drunk on a work night out. Another colleague must have reported it. And was it possible Sarah might have fallen into a too-hot bath when drunk? Another unwilling yes.

Tomorrow we’ll hear from some medical specialists in autism spectrum disorders. Joe will hate every bit of it, but he knows he needs it for his defence. Apparently, one in a hundred people is affected. So hopefully there’ll be someone in court who will be sympathetic.

And finally, we’ll bring to the stand those families whose loved ones were also scalded but survived. ‘Save the best for last,’ as Tony so tactfully puts it.

Yet the joy of all this is that ever since the hearing started, I haven’t once thought about Ed.

After the case. After the case. The most difficult decision of my life is looming.

But deep down, I already know what I have to do.

‘The jury was only out for fifty-five minutes! You reckoned it would be several hours!’

Joe’s face is different from the one he wore inside prison. It is lit up. Exalted. Exhausted too.

Tony and I feel the same.

‘They knew I was innocent.’ Joe’s upper lip bears a froth of beer. It was, he said, the first thing he wanted. A pint in a pub ‘with freedom for company and the two people who made it happen’.

I’ve never heard him sound so emotional before. But he was looking at me when he said it. Right now I feel drunk with the thrill of innocence as surely as if I have been acquitted myself. Tony feels the same. I can see from the flush on his face that says, ‘We won.’

‘Law is a game,’ he had told me at the beginning. ‘If you win, you’re king. If you don’t, you’re a loser. You can’t afford to be the latter. That’s why it’s addictive. It’s why you’re in the dock alongside your client.’

That’s why, I could now add, a lawyer feels the need to win arguments in his or her private life too. Because if you can’t do that, there’s an implication (rightly or wrongly) that you can’t be any good at your job. Does Tony win arguments at home? I suspect that he does. I don’t want to think about my own situation.

The crowds outside the court were thick with cameras, shouting and flashing lights, a wave of journalists pushing microphones in front of us. Tony made a short speech: ‘This is a day of reckoning not just for Joe Thomas, who has finally been proved innocent, but for all the other victims too. We expect more developments shortly.’ Then he steered us with practised ease into a waiting car and took us to this pub in Highgate where the locals are well-heeled members of the public rather than the press. I looked for Ed in the crowds, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Time to think about him later. Right now, this is our moment.

Thanks for everything. That’s what you might expect Joe to say. That’s what a normal person would say. But Daniel hadn’t done ‘thank yous’ either.

‘What next for you then?’ asks Tony now, draining his glass and glancing at his watch. I can tell from the way he speaks that he’s hacked off at not being thanked, and also – tellingly – that he doesn’t really care for our client, who technically isn’t our client any more.

Joe Thomas shrugs. ‘I’ll use the money to start again somewhere else.’

He’s referring, of course, to the supportive donations that came in during the case when Joe declared he didn’t want any compensation – only his name to be cleared. As one well-wisher wrote to The Times: ‘It is a vindication of society today that there are decent people still around – even though their actions have been misinterpreted in the past.’

‘I rather fancy a different kind of job too,’ he adds.

My mind flicks back to the client profile I read on the train all those months ago. It seems like another life away.

Joe Thomas, 30, insurance salesman. Convicted in 1998 of murdering Sarah Evans, 26, fashion sales assistant and girlfriend of the accused…

‘Do you know where you’ll go next?’ As I speak, Tony sends me a warning look. Don’t get too personal. We’ve done our job.

‘To a hotel, I suppose. Or a bed and breakfast. It’s not as though I’ve got a home to go to tonight.’

Once more, I am struck by the literal way in which he perceives my question.

‘What about the future, in general?’ I ask gently.

‘I’m still thinking about it.’ Joe’s eyes are steady, looking into mine. ‘Any suggestions?’

My throat is tight. ‘If it was me, I would probably go and live abroad. Italy maybe.’ Goodness knows why my honeymoon location comes into my head.

Joe wipes his mouth clear of the froth with his sleeve. ‘Wouldn’t that look as if I was running away?’

Tony rises to his feet. ‘I don’t want you to think I’m doing the same, but I’ve got to be somewhere.’ He shakes my hand. ‘It’s been good working with you, Lily. You’ll go far.’ Then he looks at Joe and seems to hesitate. I hold my breath.

At times, I wonder if Tony actually believes Joe is innocent. Or whether it matters to him.

It’s the kudos he wants. The winning of an important case which hits the headlines. I saw the pleasure on his face in front of those cameras when we left the court. And I am sharing it. We’ve made history. It feels wonderful.

‘Good luck for the future.’

Inwardly, I breathe out a sigh of relief as Tony finally shakes Joe’s hand then walks away. But our client has noticed the delay.

‘He doesn’t like me.’ Joe states it as a fact rather than in expectation of denial.

I stay silent.

‘But you understand me.’ Joe looks at me again before glancing down at the bag of possessions he’s been given – his belongings from prison. I wonder if they contain Daniel’s sticker albums. I don’t want them back. Too many memories.

Maybe it’s the double gin and tonic Tony bought me, despite my asking for a single. Maybe it’s the relief that we’ve won. Maybe it’s because Joe reminds me so much of Daniel. Whatever it is, I find myself talking. ‘I had a brother once.’ My eyes wander out over the street – did I mention we are sitting outside? Even though it’s late afternoon, the weather is remarkably mild. Besides, by unspoken agreement we all needed some air after the courtroom. A couple walk past, arm in arm, and I can smell the woman’s expensive perfume. But then it turns to a different smell in my head. The smell of straw. And death.

I discovered Daniel was doing drugs when my mother sent me into his room to get him down for dinner, the week before his seventeenth birthday. He was chopping up white stuff with a kitchen knife.

‘That’s dangerous!’ I’d seen some of the sixth-form girls do something similar in the loos at school, though I’d never done drugs myself.

‘So what?’

‘What’s dangerous?’ Dad was behind us.

Swiftly Daniel shoved the evidence into his jeans pocket. Don’t say, his eyes pleaded. Don’t say.

‘Doing fifty miles per hour when you should be doing forty.’ I picked up the Learner Driver Handbook from the desk.

‘Of course you can’t, son. If you don’t understand that, you’ll never pass your driving test. Although frankly, I don’t think you should be taking it at all.’

‘Why not?’ Daniel’s dark eyes were glaring.

‘Because, as your instructor says, you drive too fast.’

‘At least I’m not doing what you are.’

A beat of silence. ‘What do you mean?’

Daniel’s eyes narrowed. ‘You know what I mean. I’ve heard you on the extension. More than once, in fact. And I’m going to tell Mum.’

Dad went very still. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Nor did I.

‘It’s nothing,’ said my brother when I questioned him.

One of Daniel’s lies, I told myself, to cover his own behaviour and move the spotlight on to someone else. It had happened enough before.

That night, Daniel refused to come down to dinner. Instead, he stayed in his room, playing loud music that reverberated through the ceiling and made our heads ring.

‘Turn that down!’ yelled Dad, hammering at the door.

Daniel didn’t bother to reply. As usual, he’d put the bed against the door so no one could get in.

Later, as I passed my parents’ closed bedroom door, I heard them having an almighty row. There’d been others of course. All about Daniel. What is wrong with that boy? How can we cope any more? That sort of thing.

But this one was different. This one sent a chill down my bones.

‘I heard Daniel. Who were you on the phone to? Who is she?’

This was my mother.

‘No one.’

‘You swear? On the children’s lives?’

There was a silence. Then a low voice, which meant I had to press my head against the door to hear the rest. ‘… your fault. Don’t you realize?… lavished all your attention on Daniel… looked elsewhere.’

Mum’s distressed voice was all too clear. ‘So it’s the truth? How could you? Do you love her? Are you going to leave us?’

I couldn’t hear the reply. Only the desperate sound of weeping. On the other side of the door, I was bent double. Almost sick. Dad had been having an affair?

Then I saw him. Daniel walking up the stairs. Daniel grinning as though there was nothing wrong. Daniel with huge black pupils.

I rushed up after him to the bedroom. ‘Mum and Dad are splitting up. And it’s all your fault.’

He shrugged. ‘She needed to know.’

His lack of concern made me boil. ‘If you weren’t so horrible, Mum and Dad would be all right.’

Daniel looked shocked, as well he might. Hadn’t I always protected him? Loved him. Looked after him, just as I’d been instructed from the day he entered our lives. Even though he tested us to the limits.

But the shock of my father’s affair had made me see red. And that’s when I said something else.

‘We should never have adopted you. Then you couldn’t have hurt me too. I hate you.’

Daniel’s face crumpled. Instantly I knew I’d hurt him. No. I’d destroyed him.

I put out my hand to try to make up with him. He threw it off. Then he seemed to change his mind. He took my hand and squeezed it, crunching my knuckles with his fingers. The pain made me cry out. Then he pulled me towards him so that his eyes – mad with blackness – looked down on me.

I could smell his breath.

My heart pulsed in my throat. Words lay on the edge of my tongue, ready to be spoken. Words that would change our lives for ever.

‘You’re a bad person, Daniel. Everyone else says it, and they’re right. Really bad.’

Then he laughed. And I knew what that laugh meant.

I slapped him. Hard. First one cheek. Then the other.

‘You know what? I wish you had never been born.’

‘What happened then?’

Joe’s hand is on mine. Our heads are bowed together. Mine with grief. His with empathy. I can feel the same electric shock that passed through me in the prison when I gave him the sticker albums.

I’m certain he can feel it too.

That’s the thing about people like Joe and, up to a point, Daniel. They might not seem to show the ‘right’ kind of emotion at the appropriate time. But if you push them far enough, they bleed. Even cry. Just like the rest of us.

‘I went out,’ I mumble.

‘Where?’

‘I… don’t want to say.’

He nods. ‘OK.’

‘When I got back, Mum was frantic. Daniel had left a note just saying “Gone”. We searched everywhere. But it’s… well, it’s a big house. We have a few acres. And… and we have stables. That’s where I found him. He often went there. We often went there… But this time he was… hanging. From a rope wound round a beam.’

Joe’s hand tightens on mine.

My words are blurting out now along with the tears. ‘I tipped him over. He wasn’t well…’

Joe’s voice is gentle. ‘What exactly was wrong with him?’

I shake my head. ‘What they used to call “wilful disobedience”, possibly brought on by a difficult childhood. That’s what the so-called experts said.’ I laugh hoarsely. ‘He was never officially diagnosed, but sometimes I do wonder if…’

I stop, not wanting to cause offence.

‘If he was on the autistic spectrum too?’

‘Possibly.’ I twist my hands awkwardly. ‘But there were other things he did that didn’t fit.’

Joe is looking thoughtful. ‘So that’s why you understand me.’ It’s not a question.

I nod. Embarrassed. And yet also grateful that this man understands me too.

‘I’m so sorry about your horse.’ Joe’s voice has a softness I’ve never heard before.

I look up at him. His eyes are brown now. How can he do that? Go from brown to black and back to brown again?

‘Actually,’ I add, searching in my bag for a tissue, ‘he was Daniel’s. That’s what made it so difficult.’

‘Let’s go for a walk,’ says Joe. And as we stand up, it seems quite natural for him to take my hand in his.

22 Carla

A few days after Carla’s visit, Maria had put up her hand at register and asked if she could be moved to another desk in the classroom.

‘Why?’ whispered Carla, even though her sinking heart told her the answer.

Maria ignored her. It was as if she hadn’t spoken.

‘Who would like to sit next to Carla?’ said the nun with the gappy teeth.

No one volunteered. Instead, everyone shuffled away. One of the girls – the one with pigtails who usually invited her to play hopscotch – cupped her hand around her neighbour’s ear to say something quietly. The other one let out a little gasp.

It was like being at the old school all over again. Carla was so upset that she could not complete her maths exercise: a subject she now shone at. The figures hung in the air with giant question marks. What was going on?

‘They have sent you to Coventry,’ said another girl – the most unpopular one in the class, whom the nun had sent to fill Maria’s place next to Carla. She had greasy hair which her mother would only allow her to wash once a month because, so she had told Carla, it was better for the ‘natural oils’. This girl was always last to be chosen for teams: to be placed next to her was one of the gravest insults.

‘Coventry?’ Carla did not understand. ‘Where is that?’

The girl with the greasy hair shrugged. ‘It’s where they don’t speak to you.’ Then she held out her arm. ‘It will be much nicer now there are two of us.’

But Carla didn’t want to be friends with the girl with the greasy hair whom everyone else despised. She wanted to be friends with Maria, whose mother had invited her back for tea in their lovely big house on the road with the wide pavement, where no one kicked beer cans in the street.

At milk-time, Carla sought out Maria in the playground. ‘Tell me what I have done wrong,’ she pleaded.

For the first time that day, Maria raised her face and looked at her. Those beautiful blue eyes were cold. Disdainful. ‘Papa has an uncle who lives at the foot of the mountains, not far from Florence.’ Maria was talking as if Carla smelled of something nasty. ‘He knows your grandparents. They all do. And they say your mother is a bad woman.’

Mamma? A bad woman? Mamma with her kind warm smile who smelled of Apple Blossom and all the other lovely scents that she sold every day at an expensive shop for other men’s wives? That could not be true.

‘Maria! Maria!’ It was the gappy-toothed nun, striding towards them with her crucifix necklace swinging and her lips tightening. ‘I am under instructions from your mother not to let you talk to that girl.’

Carla’s eyes welled with tears. ‘Why?’

The nun crossed herself swiftly across her large breasts: breasts that she and Maria had giggled about together only last week. ‘You will find out soon enough. Be sure to collect an envelope addressed to your mother from the school office before you go home this afternoon.’

Mamma wept and wailed when she read the letter. ‘The Mother Superior wants to see your birth certificate,’ she sobbed, head in hands on the wobbly kitchen table. ‘She wants proof that you had a papa. This is my fault for sending you to a Catholic school. The old one wouldn’t have cared.’

Carla put an arm around Mamma. ‘Perhaps it is under your bed where you keep your special things?’

Mamma’s lip curled. For a moment, she reminded Carla of the wicked witch in one of her favourite books from the library. ‘How dare you go looking there?’

Carla thought of the handsome man with the funny hat whom she looked at every now and then when Mamma wasn’t home. He always smiled at her so kindly!

‘They are only pictures, Mamma. I was curious.’

Mamma let out a groan. ‘Perhaps you deserve to know. That man is your papa.’

Her father! So that is what he had looked like. ‘Maybe,’ said Carla, trying to be helpful, ‘he has taken these papers with him to heaven.’

‘No. He has not!’ Mamma rose to her full height, tossing back her glorious black hair. She was angry now instead of sad. ‘If you had not opened your mouth to Maria’s mother, none of this would have happened.’

The sob burst out of Carla’s mouth like a giant hiccup. ‘But I didn’t know I was doing anything wrong.’

It was no good. Mamma took herself to her bedroom and – for the first time that Carla could remember – locked her door.

‘Please, please open it,’ she begged from outside.

But all she could hear was Mamma sobbing.

Maybe, Carla told herself, Mamma’s mood would pass, like it had after Christmas. Perhaps on Monday the girls would start to be nice to her again.

But she was wrong. It got worse over the weeks. Then Mamma received a letter from the Mother Superior. She had until March to produce the birth certificate. Otherwise, Carla would have to leave. It should have been ‘presented’, apparently, when she had started school. But there had been an ‘oversight’.

No one wanted to play with her at break-time. Snow had started to fall last week: all the others pressed their noses against the window and talked excitedly about building snowmen when they got home. Maria had already got a new best friend: a pretty girl whose uncle had given her a silver cross which she showed off to everyone. Even the greasy-haired girl moved away from Carla when they had to crowd into the gym because it was too wet to play outside.

‘I heard someone say you were a bastard,’ she said quietly.

Carla ran the word around her mouth all afternoon and until she got home. How strange. It wasn’t in the Children’s Dictionary. ‘What does “bastard” mean?’ she asked when Mamma returned from work in her smart white uniform.

‘Is that what they are calling you now?’ Then her mother placed her head on the kitchen table and beat her fists so that one of the legs cracked and had to be propped up with the telephone directory.

Another day passed. And another.

‘The certificate has not come from Italy yet?’

‘No, cara mia.’

Even when Mamma eventually admitted there was no such certificate, they still both waited for the postman. ‘Then we can honestly say that we are waiting for it to arrive,’ explained Mamma, brushing Carla’s hair as she did every night. ‘If only I could tell Larry. He could help.’

That was another thing. Larry was working very hard. So hard that he didn’t have time to visit them. ‘He is an important man,’ Mamma often said. ‘He helps the Queen decide what is right and what is wrong.’

Then, one evening, when Carla was already in bed, she heard his voice at the front door. Usually he came in through the back. Besides, it was a Wednesday! Larry only came here on a Tuesday and Thursday and sometimes on Sundays (although recently his visits on the Lord’s Day had become more frequent). Something had happened. She could tell. Creeping out of bed, in her pyjamas, she saw Larry twirling Mamma in his arms right out there in the corridor for everyone to see. Ugh!

‘Love you… We won the case… Wanted to tell you before I went home.’

Words drifted out. Words she didn’t understand. Then there was another voice.

‘Tony?’

It was Lily!

‘That’s not Tony.’ Carla came running up, keen to make it all right. ‘This is Larry. He is my mother’s friend. The one who sees her on Sundays while you have me…’

Then she clasped her hand to her mouth because, of course, Lily thought Mamma had been working. Not lying in bed with Larry.

Now Mamma would be cross with her again. But instead, she seemed confused. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Tony, what are you doing?’ Lily was staring at Larry with a strange look on her face.

Mamma started to sound scared. ‘This is no Tony. You have made a mistake. Larry! Tell her.’

But Larry pushed her hand away and was moving towards Lily. His neck was very red. ‘I need to talk to you,’ he said.

It was difficult to hear exactly what he was saying in the corner, although she caught words like ‘appreciate’ and ‘confidential’, both of which she could spell perfectly because they had been at the beginning of the dictionary.

‘You want me to keep quiet about your sordid affair?’ Lily was shouting now. Then she turned to Mamma. Carla had never seen her friend’s eyes flash like that. ‘How could you go off with someone else’s husband? Don’t you have any shame? As for you, Tony, if I see you again with this woman, I will tell your wife.’

Carla had a sudden picture of the curtains closing in the house they had walked past at Christmas.

‘It’s none of your business.’

‘There’s a child involved here, Tony. I’m warning you. I meant what I said just now.’

Then Lily stormed back into her own flat, slamming the door behind her.

‘Why is she angry?’ asked Carla as Larry pushed them into their own flat.

‘How do you know Lily?’ frowned Mamma, pulling at Larry’s sleeve.

Larry wasn’t red any more. He was white. ‘She,’ he said, pointing, ‘needs to go to her room.’

‘No.’ Mamma stamped her foot. It reminded Carla of the dancing noise through the wall at night, but her mother wasn’t dancing now. ‘My daughter hears too. You tell lies to me? Then you tell lies to her too. We deserve to know the truth.’

We? A lovely warm feeling ran through Carla. For the first time since Larry had come into their lives, it felt as though she and Mamma were a team again.

Larry’s face had its angry look on. ‘As you wish. You know I have another family. I made that clear at the beginning.’

Mamma hung her head as if hearing something she didn’t want to.

‘I work with Lily. She doesn’t know about… about my life at home. She doesn’t know about us. Nor does anyone else. I told you my name was Larry to keep some kind of anonymity.’ There was a deep sigh. ‘But my name is really Tony.’

‘Tony Smith like Larry Smith?’ whispered her mother.

The angry look had gone. Instead there was a sigh. A big, tired one. ‘No. Tony Gordon.’

Mamma’s lips were moving as if she was repeating all this to herself. Or maybe she was saying her Ave Marias.

‘I understand,’ she said at last. ‘We will have to be more careful.’

Tony took her in his arms. ‘Francesca, listen to me. We will have to have a break until this blows over. I can’t risk Lily telling my wife…’

As he held her, he looked at Carla. She knew what he was saying. Knew it as clearly as if he was speaking. Go away. You are not wanted right now. This was her chance.

‘What about the woman in your car?’ she burst out. ‘The woman you were kissing before my birthday. Do you love her too?’

There was a terrible silence. Her mother took a step backwards, falling against the kitchen table as she did so and knocking the telephone directory out of place. Larry opened his mouth and roared, ‘You conniving little -’

‘Get out!’

At first Carla thought Mamma was screaming at her. But no. It was at Larry. ‘Get out, get out!’ she yelled again. Horrified, Carla watched as Mamma hurled a tin at him. A tin of baked beans. It missed. Just. Then another. This time it was a tin of tomatoes. Italian tomatoes.

Larry’s face was so angry that Carla thought the tomatoes had broken out of the tin and painted his cheeks. ‘You’ve made a big mistake, young lady,’ he said, bending down to her level. ‘You will see.’

Then he stormed out, leaving Mamma to weep, kneeling on the floor with her body folded over, rather like a snail’s shell.

‘I am sorry, Mamma,’ Carla whispered. ‘I should not have mentioned the lady in the car. I promised Larry I would say nothing. That was why he gave me the caterpillar…’

Mamma lifted her face. It was red and blotchy. Just like Larry’s had been. ‘He bribed you?’

Then Mamma cried even more. She cried so loudly that Carla’s stomach began to hurt. The pain grew worse and worse so that it became a knot that throbbed inside her.

When the phone rang, they both ignored it.

‘I’ve got a tummy ache,’ said Carla quietly.

Mamma was still lying on the floor. ‘Do not expect me to believe you,’ she sobbed. ‘I will believe no one. Ever again. Not even myself.’

That night, Carla’s pain grew worse. In her dreams, it became a red-hot stick, beating her inside. Someone was holding it. Maria. Lash, lash, against her body.

‘Maria!’ she called out. ‘Please stop. Let me play!’

‘It’s all right, little one.’ Mamma’s voice floated over her. ‘The doctor is coming.’

23 Lily

By the time I come back from Hampstead, it is nearly seven o’clock. Ed is sitting at the kitchen table, working on a sketch.

‘We won,’ I say.

He starts, and I can see that he’s been so involved with his work that he’d forgotten today is verdict day. Then he collects himself. ‘Wonderful,’ he says, leaping up and throwing his arms around me. ‘We must celebrate! Open a bottle.’ His face tightens. ‘Then we can have that talk you’ve been promising.’

My hand shakes on the fridge door at the thought of the conversation ahead. My heart sinks. The Pinot that had been there at breakfast time is gone. No guesses as to who drank it. But I don’t feel up to having an argument.

‘We’re out of drink,’ I say shortly.

‘I’ll go round to the off-licence.’ He’s trying. I’ll say that for him.

‘Let me.’ Even though I’ve only just returned, I’m already feeling claustrophobic. My heart is juddering so badly at what I must do that I simply have to get out of here.

As I make a move, I see a man through the window, striding towards the front entrance. His hat is firmly down over his forehead but there’s something about that walk that looks familiar.

I close the front door behind me and step into the corridor.

My eyes struggle to understand what they’re seeing.

The man who was striding towards our apartment building and who is now twirling Francesca round and round in the air (while little Carla watches in her white pyjamas) is Tony.

‘I love you,’ I hear him say, as he puts her back down. ‘We won the case! Wanted to tell you before I went home!’

Coincidences are one of those things which sound contrived until they happen in real life. During my short time as a lawyer, I’ve already seen so many. Most of them tragic. The father who ran over his toddler by mistake on the day his new baby was born. The grandmother who was held up at knifepoint in the dark by her adopted son, neither aware of the connection at the time. The woman who had a child by a nightclub bouncer, who turned out to be the father who’d left before she was born – he, unaware of even having a child.

And now Tony and my neighbour.

I am disappointed. And fiercely, overpoweringly angry. How can someone uphold the law when they are acting immorally themselves? Such hypocrisy.

Perhaps it’s also because I remember my mother’s grief when she found out about my father’s affair. An affair which must have been quickly extinguished, because after that row, my parents appeared to carry on as normal. After Daniel’s death I doubt either of them had the energy for love, or for fighting. But it marked my mother. She never spoke to my father the same way again. Part of me thinks she somehow blamed his infidelity for Daniel’s death. Since then, I’ve tried to forgive my father. But you can never really put back the pieces of a fractured family.

That’s one of the reasons I let rip. ‘How could you go off with someone else’s husband? Don’t you have any shame? As for you, Tony, if I see you again with this woman, I will tell your wife.’

Of course I wouldn’t really tell Tony’s wife (who I’ve never actually met). That would only cause more hurt. But I’m so angry, I don’t really think about what I’m saying.

‘What was all that noise out there?’ asks Ed when I return.

I tell him what happened.

My husband looks up from his sketch. It’s a nose. A cute, pert, turned-up nose. Just like Carla’s. ‘You don’t think you should have stayed out of it?’

‘No.’ I turn away. ‘It’s not fair – either on her or Tony’s wife and children. Or Carla. Tony was carrying on with Francesca when we were looking after her. Her mother choosing a man over her child! And how on earth did he meet her?’

‘You seem more bothered about them than us.’ Ed looks nervous. I know he wants to talk, and I owe it to him. ‘Shall we open that bottle?’

‘I forgot to get it.’

‘Then I’ll go. This is finished now.’ He lays a hand on my shoulder. ‘I think we both need a glass, don’t you?’

As he shuts the door, something Tony said during the case comes back to me: ‘There are times when you’ll find yourself swearing that blue is black. You’ll truly believe it yourself. We all do it. It’s not that lawyers lie. It’s that they twist the real facts to make another world that everyone else believes in too. And who’s to say that won’t be a better world?’

When Ed comes back, I am in bed. Pretending to be asleep.

In the morning, I wake before my husband and leave a note.

Talk tonight. Promise. Sorry.

It is a relief to get back to the office the next day, where I can attempt to block out the confused look on Carla’s face which is preying on my mind. The phones are ringing like an orchestra. People are rushing everywhere. The place is going mad.

PRISONER’S RELEASE OPENS GATE FOR MORE BOILER LAWSUITS, screams the headline on the corner news-stand.

‘Well done,’ says one of the partners, who’s never bothered to give me the time of day before.

‘You did a good job,’ nods my boss gruffly.

There are balloons on my desk. A bottle of champagne. And a stack of messages. None from Tony. How will I ever face him again? Yet he is the one who should be ashamed.

‘We’ve had a flood of calls from potential clients who want you to take them on,’ adds my boss. Then he pats me on the back: a laddish pat. ‘But we’ll talk about that later. Why don’t you have the rest of the day off to make up for all those extra hours you put in?’

Coming home from the office at lunchtime is virtually unknown in law unless you’ve been ‘let go’. But my heart is heavy. There’ll be no getting out of the talk with Ed this evening. Everything, I think as I turn the key, is such a muddle.

‘Ed?’ He’s in his jeans instead of the usual office suit. A half-eaten bowl of mushy cereal is on the table, surrounded by charcoal sticks and sketches. His feet are bare. ‘Have you come home early from work?’

‘No.’

There’s a slur to his speech, a smell to his breath. At the same time I notice the half-full bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the side.

‘I’ve been sacked.’

Sacked?

For a minute, all kinds of possibilities flash through my head. Upsetting a client? Having an argument with his boss?

‘They found me working on this when I should have been doing proper work.’

He says the word ‘proper’ with finger gestures, making sarcastic inverted commas in the air.

I glance down at the drawing in front of him. Little Carla smiles up at me. It’s always little Carla smiling. Or dancing. Or riding her bike. He’s lost in a world of make-believe.

‘For God’s sake,’ I explode. ‘How on earth are we going to manage without your pay? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?’

‘I need to know what our future is,’ Ed continues as if I haven’t spoken.

‘I don’t know.’ I want to scream. ‘I can’t think after what you’ve just told me.’

‘You said you’d talk about it when the case was over. We could have thrashed it out last night, but you were more interested in trying to redeem our neighbour’s love life before our own.’

What can I say? It’s true. I brush past him, making straight for the bathroom. You’ll get a low after the case, Tony had warned me. It’s like coming off a drug. Winning is an addiction. ‘I need some me-time,’ I say, locking the door behind me. Then I sit on the edge of the bath while I run the taps. Hot. Cold. Hot.

After Sarah Evans, I’m never going to look at a bath in the same way again.

Just as I can never look at Ed in the same way.

Or myself.

Desperately, I force myself to consider the options.

If I leave Ed now, I will be alone. Scared. With an uncertain future.

But if I stay, we might be able to start again. Providing Ed really means it about not caring for Davina any more. But can I trust him? And can I trust myself?

A decision has to be made. One way or the other.

A coin. Daniel used to toss a coin when he didn’t know what to do. I pick up a magazine that I’ve left by the side of the bath. If I open on a page with an odd number, I’ll leave.

If it’s even, I’ll stay.

I open the magazine at a feature on how to make Sunday family suppers. There’s a picture of a happy family sitting round the table. The picture and the print swim before my eyes. Sunday suppers. Normal life. The kind we could have had if Daniel hadn’t come into our lives.

I glance at the page number.

Then I walk out of the bathroom door. Ed’s not sketching any more. He’s simply staring into space with blank empty eyes.

‘Do you want to start again?’ I ask.

He nods. There’s hope in his eyes. Fear too.

I feel exactly the same.

Then I take my husband’s hand and lead him into our bedroom.

During the next month, I try to get back into normal life but it’s not easy. My workload seems dull after the thrill of getting Joe Thomas released, even though everyone in the office, including my boss, regards me with a new level of respect. And still the work comes pouring in.

‘They want Lily to do it,’ says the secretary when my boss allocates himself one of the meatier cases, involving a newly married young man whose father-in-law (an eminent CEO) allegedly hit him on the head with a bottle of Merlot. Fifty stitches.

Yet instead of being jealous, as I feared, my boss nods. ‘You’d better have a room of your own if you’re going to be so popular.’

People ring to ask if I can represent them. A woman whose elderly father was burned by a boiler wants me to take on her case. Solicitors I’ve never heard of ring to congratulate me. A woman’s magazine wants to interview me as ‘a rising lawyer’. Questions about health and safety are being asked in the House of Commons.

But inside my head, it’s hell. Ed and I may have agreed to start again but it was never going to be as simple as that. I have to force myself to believe him when he says he’s ‘having a quick drink with Ross’. Supposing he’s really seeing Davina? For his part, Ed resents me getting back late, laden with files. But then, out of the blue, he will bring me a cup of tea when I’m working into the small hours and kindly tell me not to ‘overdo it’. And now he’s at home during the day, he’s started doing the housework while searching for a new job – something I’m sure his traditional parents would be shocked at. He doesn’t do it as well as I would, but I appreciate the gesture.

The guilt over Carla is getting worse. I’ve been hoping to go round and apologize, but there’s no answer to my knocks. One of our other neighbours said she heard ‘some kind of commotion’ on the evening of the night I last saw them. Is this my fault? Have they moved away because of what I said? The worry actually makes me feel sick.

‘Forget it,’ says Ed. ‘You’ve meddled enough.’

‘Aren’t you concerned about little Carla?’ I say.

He shrugs. ‘You can’t help everyone, Lily. She’s not our child.’

It’s amazing how an artist can take such care and compassion over a piece of work, while ignoring his subject’s well-being.

Yet isn’t that the same as the relationship between lawyer and client? You’re together for hours, talking endlessly about a case. But when it’s over, your relationship is finished. Just like that. Or at least that’s how it’s supposed to be.

To be honest, I can’t help wondering where Joe Thomas is. What he’s doing. Whether he’s made it to Italy.

And then, one evening, he’s there. Hovering by the entrance to the office as I emerge after a long day’s work. How incredible that someone can change so much in a few weeks! Gone is the beard. Gone are the prison scrubs. Gone too are the brogues and shirt. This clean-shaven man in a moss-green tweed jacket (light-brown suede collar turned up) looks more like an estate manager than an insurance salesman.

‘I came to say goodbye.’

We fall into step beside each other, just as we did after the drink when we won the case. Even steps.

I don’t know where we’re going and I don’t care. In some ways, this man is more real to me than Ed. Haven’t I spent over half a year of my life trying to save him?

‘You’ve got a job?’

‘Yes.’ He speaks briskly. ‘I took your advice. Remember you talked about working in Italy? Well, I’ve gone for France instead.’

His arm brushes mine as we cross the road together.

‘A friend in Corsica wants me to help out with a renovation.’ He looks down at his hands. ‘I’m quite good with these. And it’ll be a change.’

‘Will there be a problem with the language?’

There’s a grin. ‘No, thanks to the prison library. I taught myself to speak French and Spanish.’

It doesn’t surprise me.

We’re going into a restaurant now. A smart one. ‘This is a thank you.’ He speaks as though this has all been arranged beforehand. Doesn’t he realize that I’m expected home? The presumption both irritates and thrills me. Yet I go along with it, allowing the waiter to take my coat.

‘You did a lot for me,’ he adds, handing me the menu. I use it to hide my blush.

‘I did my job.’ Then my questions pour out as though he is an old friend I haven’t seen for years. ‘How are you? What are you doing? Where are you living?’

‘The same friend in France has a place in Richmond. It’s rather nice.’

Richmond? I compare it in my mind with Clapham. The tiny kitchen where Ed is still drawing, unpaid, with job application forms around him.

‘What about you?’ His voice is direct. ‘How is married life?’

‘OK.’

I’m tempted to tell him about Ed and Davina, but I said too much the last time we met. I’m no longer drunk on too much G&T and that excited flush of having won the case. I have to remind myself that I have a position of responsibility here. Confidences are not appropriate.

‘Only OK?’

I manage a smile. ‘It’s great. We might be moving actually.’ I made that last bit up, but perhaps we will.

‘Sounds lovely.’ Joe Thomas sits forward in enthusiasm. ‘I can see it now, Lily. A country cottage. A horse like Merlin…’

‘Merlin?’ I say slowly. ‘I never told you the name of Daniel’s horse.’

‘Didn’t you?’

His smile is less certain now.

I go cold.

‘You had something to do with it, didn’t you?’

I expect him to deny it. Despite my question, I don’t believe it. There has to be some kind of plausible reason.

‘I had to.’ He rearranges his cutlery neatly around him. ‘I needed to keep you onside. If a lawyer doesn’t believe the client, he or she won’t try hard enough.’

Bile is flooding my mouth. ‘You poisoned Daniel’s old horse to get me “onside”? How?’

There’s a shrug. I’ve never seen him like this before – not with me. ‘I arranged for someone to slip something into his feed when your parents were out. I wanted to make you angry enough to believe my story.’

I stagger to my feet. His cunning is unbelievable. His honesty is breathtaking. Sickening.

‘And my bag? The one that was taken on Westminster Bridge?’ I am beginning to see it now. How stupid I’ve been! ‘You got someone to do that too so everyone in court thought someone in the boiler industry was trying to bully us?’

He shrugs. ‘It was the courts that messed up. The water was too hot. If they’re going to play dirty tricks, they have to expect the same.’

Tony Gordon, I suspect, might just agree. But not me. One wrong does not justify another.

Another thought strikes me. ‘Who helped you?’

A smug grin. ‘When I was in prison, I advised a lot of people on their financial affairs. Gave them advice on insurance and other stuff. I didn’t take any money. But they knew I’d call in favours.’

‘But if they were inside, how could they help you?’

‘Some have been released. Others have contacts on the outside to do things for them. Prison life is like that. Not that I’d recommend it, mind you.’

This is unbelievable. Yet at the same time my mind goes back to the time when Joe agreed to meet a man for ‘table football’ in the prison. ‘Three p.m. on the dot,’ he said. ‘In the community lounge.’ At the time I thought it friendly, albeit a bit out of character. Was this really a business appointment?

‘I could report you.’

‘Really? If you do, I’ll have to say what happened the last time we met.’

‘What do you mean?’ I stammer.

‘Come on, Lily. Don’t play games. Not with me. Those sticker books you gave me in prison are nothing compared with the last present.’

His voice might sound firm but his hands are shaking.

A sickening thought hits me like a sledgehammer. ‘You did it, didn’t you? You did kill Sarah. You murdered your girlfriend.’

An older woman with large emerald-green drop earrings is looking at us now from the neighbouring table. Joe’s eyes grow hard. ‘Be careful what you say.’

‘But you did.’ My instinct is certain.

Joe is now talking in a low voice. ‘Why do you think I arranged to bump into you this evening? To tell you what happened. But remember. When you’ve been cleared of something, you can’t be re-tried for the same crime. I felt you deserved the truth, Lily.’

My heart starts to beat really fast. He seems tense as well. Beating his fists against his knees as though playing a drum.

‘She came in pissed, like I said. Late, too. Then she was sick, but she didn’t want me in the bathroom. I knew she was trying to hide something. When she was shutting the door, I noticed a mark on her neck.’

I have a flash of that mark on Tony’s neck from earlier. ‘A love bite?’

‘Love?’ He seems to weigh this up. ‘That depends on how you define love, doesn’t it? A bite can also be made in anger.’

I’m losing patience at Joe’s constant questioning of non-literal language. ‘How did she get this mark?’

‘Now that’s more relevant.’ He nods as though I’m a child in class who has finally asked the right question. ‘When I accused her, she said the mark was mine. But she was lying. I don’t do that sort of thing.’ More drumming of the knees. ‘I said we’d talk when she was clean, but she wouldn’t let me run her bath like I usually did. Kept calling me a weirdo. So I went and turned the boiler up. Thought I’d teach her a lesson. But she was still screaming at me. Said she’d found someone else, someone normal. That’s when I lost it. How could I let Sarah leave me for someone else? I pushed her. She was so drunk that I hardly needed to touch her. So simple, really. She just fell into the water.’

There’s a shocked silence. On my part. He doesn’t seem fazed at all.

‘You didn’t try to get her out?’

A shrug. ‘She hurt me. She was leaving me. So no, I didn’t try to get her out. I walked out. Then I made a cup of tea. Cleaned the floor because it was sticky from her vomit. I told myself I’d give her thirty minutes to pull herself together. I didn’t mean to kill her. Just teach her a lesson. When I went back in, I found her staring up at me. Purple and red. I’ve never cared for those colours. That’s when I rang 999 and told them the story I originally gave you. If it hadn’t been for that bastard of a neighbour, and Sarah’s stupid made-up stories, I would have been all right.’

I can’t quite believe the way he’s talking. He’s so unemotional – just like the police said.

Joe continues. ‘But then I found out about the boiler problem – real stroke of luck – and realized that if I hired the right person, I might have a chance on appeal. Wasn’t sure about you at the beginning, to be honest. So I set you a test and, I have to say it, Lily, you proved your worth.’

I’m stunned by his lack of repentance. ‘But the mole who sent you those figures? Who was that? And why didn’t you use the evidence sooner?’

Joe snorted. ‘You’re not getting it, are you, Lily? The mole didn’t exist. Or the figures. Great bit of luck, that was. I saw the newspaper stories that had just started to come out, and made them up. No one could prove my boiler hadn’t been faulty.’ A smug look flits over his face. ‘There’s some very useful textbooks in the prison library, you know. Plumbing and all sorts.’

There is a long silence. I am too shocked to talk. Joe, by his own admission, is after all a murderer. When he ‘tested’ me at the beginning to see if I understood the meaning of those figures, it wasn’t to see if I was up to the job. It was to see if I was gullible enough to believe him. Not only that, but he played on his idiosyncrasies to me. Did he already know then about Daniel? It wouldn’t surprise me.

No wonder he told the court that he didn’t want compensation but only ‘justice’. It was just another way to fool the jury into believing his innocence. Just as he fooled me.

‘Come to France with me,’ he says suddenly. ‘I know you’re not happy. We’d make a good team. You’re bright. You earn a living by arguing people out of a hole. That’s a great skill.’

No. It isn’t. The truth is that I allowed the facts to twist me, because I saw Daniel in Joe. I then moved my mind to accept the facts, insubstantial as they were, to make them true.

‘You understand me.’ Joe takes my hand. Part of me wants to snatch it away. Part of me wants to stay in this position for ever. His grip is tight. Is it threatening or reassuring? I’m no longer sure. With a sinking heart, I wonder whether everything I thought I knew about this man is false.

‘Lily…’

And now I’m running out of the restaurant. Down the street. Back home. Past Carla’s silent front door. Retching as soon as I reach the bathroom. Oblivious to Ed’s knocking on the bathroom door to ask if I’m ‘all right’.

Four weeks later, I am still being sick. And just in case there is any doubt, the evidence is now in front of me, courtesy of the long, thin packet I bought from the chemist.

I am pregnant.