‘It’s been a long day. I’ve got to get this home.’ She holds the foil parcel aloft by way of explanation, though it is too late to eat and it will be going in the fridge.

  ‘Fine.’ He backs away, shaking his head like he doesn’t understand her at all. She doesn’t understand herself either.

  ‘Stephen, don’t be like that… I’ll come down after I’ve had my supper tomorrow. For a bit.’

  He pauses, looking hopeful. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’ve said I will.’

  ‘I’ll see you, then.’

  She slams the car door harder than it needs. Knows he watches her as she drives away. Her arm still hurts. But she’ll go tomorrow because something is better than nothing.

  Her parents have left the hall light on. It’s always like this at the end of a shift – it’s late, she should go to sleep, but she’s exhausted-awake; her feet throb with pain and heat. She won’t be sleepy for at least an hour. She unbuttons her sleeve and inspects her bicep – a bruise is already flowering, tender to the touch.

  Layla slots two slices of bread into the toaster and massages her feet while she waits for it to ping, lifting each in turn and rubbing the arches, the balls, flexing her toes.

  ‘You should wear flat shoes.’

  She jumps. Her mother has come down in her pink velvet dressing gown and is standing on the threshold looking in at her, the buttons done up to her neck.

  ‘Mum! Don’t creep up on folk. How long have you been standing there?’

  Surreptitiously, she rolls her sleeve down to cover the marks.

  ‘Not long. You should get to bed if you’re riding in the morning.’

  ‘Aye.’ Layla grabs the toast and slathers butter on. ‘I will do.’

  Jean watches her, saying nothing, and Layla half wants her there and half wants to turn and shout: what? She lays her knife on the side and takes a bite of toast. Her mother huffs and bustles in beside her, lifting the knife and taking it to the sink, putting the lid on the butter, walking it to the fridge.

  ‘Leave it, Mum, I’ll do it.’ But Jean ignores her, takes a cloth and wipes away the grease, follows it along to parts of the surface that are perfectly clean. ‘Mum, I said leave it. I might have some more. I’ll do it after.’

  The walls close in a little more.

  ‘You never do though, do you?’ Her mother stares at Layla, looking for more faults. ‘You’ll eat us out of house and home. Make sure there’s some of the loaf for your dad in the morning, will you?’

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ Layla huffs under her breath, taking her plate through to the lounge and flicking the TV on to one of the few late options – a talk show filled with sick pranks that hospitalise the participants.

  She waits for her mother to start on at her about her language, but when she turns to look through to the kitchen, the cloth hangs neatly over the tap and Jean has gone to bed. The darkness pulses at the window, its emptiness filling her.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  LAYLA, 1986

  ‘He’s a wee shite.’

  Layla catches the threads of conversation from the back door of the hotel, where she is eking out her cigarette break as long as she can. Her name is mud as she was late again for the breakfast shift and Chef bawled her out; she can’t afford to push it at the moment. Being treated like a child has made her feel huffy, trapped. She’s tempted to lash out at everyone, so she’s taken herself off for a breather. Hearing some gossip might still her restlessness, quench the boredom.

  ‘Who’s a wee shite?’ she calls, stepping out onto the gravel to where the bar staff have clustered, taking their break before the lunchtime requests begin.

  ‘Yon idiot. He thinks he’s God’s gift.’ Irene huffs on her own fag and folds her arms.

  Glen gestures to where a spotty boy is staring at a box of empty bottles, a sulky look on his face. ‘Full of it, that one.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘The nephew of one of the boss’s friends, so we have to put up with his bollocks,’ Irene tells her. ‘Otherwise, he’d be long gone.’

  ‘Ssshhh,’ another of the barmen says. ‘He’ll hear you.’

  The boy kicks the box and the glass crashes against the side.

  ‘Watch it,’ Glen shouts over. ‘If they smash, you’ll be picking the bits out of the gravel.’

  The youth looks up and pushes his floppy hair out of his eyes.

  ‘I won’t be.’

  ‘See?’ Irene turns her back and raises her eyebrows at Layla. ‘It’s his first week. Gobby wee shite.’

  The boy walks over to them.

  ‘Who’s she?’

  He points at Layla and she almost laughs as he makes a play of checking her out. He must be three or four years younger than her.

  ‘Have you done any of those boxes yet?’ Glen steps in front of Layla and fixes the boy with a glare.

  He holds his hand up, steps back with a cocky swagger. ‘All right Grandad, keep your hair on, I’m doing it.’

  ‘He’s been doing it for the last hour. It should have taken him five minutes, tops.’ Glen grimaces.

  ‘Someone needs to take him down a peg or two,’ Layla says as they watch him saunter back to the cellar.

  Glen stubs out his cigarette. ‘Aye, and it might just be me if he carries on with his nonsense.’ He sighs. ‘More than my job’s worth, though. Better get back to it. Funny day for a wedding, Thursday, but I don’t imagine it’ll change the amount they drink.’

  Irene echoes his sigh, picks at the corner of her lip. ‘It’s going to be a long afternoon.’

  ‘I wouldn’t put up with that,’ Layla tells them, watching as the boy talks back to the usually unflappable Glen.

  ‘Any ideas are welcome.’

  ‘I’ll give it some thought.’ She laughs and returns to the kitchen.

  * * *

  It’s a hell of a shift. No one is in a good mood and the minutes drag as the wedding runs late and the food threatens to be dry and inedible.

  Chef is in an unbearable state, turning the air blue with his ranting, so when the duty manager attempts to calm him, Layla takes advantage of the moment to sneak into the ballroom and breathe some fresh air. As she flips back the door into the corridor, one of the younger waitresses, a schoolgirl who normally helps out at weekends but came in early evening to help with the wedding, brushes past her, cheeks red, tears in her eyes.

  ‘What’s with you?’ The girl turns her head away, doesn’t slow her pace. ‘Hazel?’

  ‘Nothing. Need the toilet.’

  Layla frowns. As she swivels, she glimpses the boy ahead of her, tucked into a dark corner of the corridor. The brazen look sends chills through her.

  ‘What did you do?’

  He says nothing, just shrugs then drops his gaze to her chest and moves his hand to his crotch, so briefly she thinks she might have imagined it. She hears her name called.

  ‘Better go,’ he says.

  * * *

  She can’t get the boy out of her head. As the afternoon progresses and she stands pressed against a wall with a tray of drinks, listening to yet another variation on a best man’s speech she’s heard a thousand times, she lets the memory wind her up. She can see him washing glasses behind the bar. When he comes out to collect more, he catches her eye and smirks. Hazel is quiet, keeping her head low.

  By the time the meals are cleared and the band is tuning up, Layla has reached a satisfying boiling loathing. The weather is dry enough for them to have kicked the guests out onto the lawn while they clear and the tables are moved back off the dancefloor. She needs the reprieve – the bride’s father has wandering hands and more than half the guests are already half-cut. Glen slips past with a tray of empties and she catches his eye.

  ‘Is he still winding you up?’ She gestures to the bar.

  Glen rolls his eyes. ‘He’s worse. Doesn’t shut his trap. Ever.’

  ‘I think he upset Hazel.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘She won’t say. Don’t let him near her, though.’

  ‘I won’t. You come up with a way of sorting him out?’

  He’s joking but Layla flushes with an idea.

  ‘I might just have…’

  Glen draws closer and she leans in as she tells him her plan. She can smell his aftershave, his arm grazes hers and she feels a flutter of excitement as the lights dip and the first guests reappear.

  ‘Layla!’ The head waitress sticks her head out of the kitchen. ‘You can take a break while they start.’

  ‘Tell the others,’ she murmurs to Glen. ‘In the car park after work.’

  * * *

  The word goes round and the smirks and smiles carry them through an arduous shift. It’s one in the morning by the time the music wraps up and the guests stagger off to their rooms or the main bar to continue drinking. Layla surprises a couple behind a potted palm, giggles at the flash of thigh and their red faces as they scuttle off.

  The crowd in the car park isn’t big – just the waiting staff, the bar staff and a couple of chefs. Hazel went home early with a headache. The boy has no idea what’s about to happen and Layla relishes the shock on his face as Glen and another barman grab his arms while the others cluster around him, laughing.

  ‘What’s going on?’ His voice has already lost a fraction of its cockiness, the sound of his confusion makes her giggle.

  ‘Off, off, off,’ she chants, and the others follow her lead.

  The chefs step forward to help as he realises what’s happening and tries to make a run for it. He’s outnumbered but it doesn’t stop him kicking and lashing out.

  ‘Fuck off. Get the fuck off!’

  There’s a whirl of movement and someone manages to get his trousers to his ankles. This is where it ends, a harmless warning, or it should do, but a cloud of adrenaline and excitement seems to have settled over them all. Layla can almost taste the shift in the air.

  Maybe it’s him. The boy is yelling obscenities, writhing, making it all so much more dramatic than she imagined. A different person is holding each limb so he can’t escape and they don’t let go. She doesn’t tell them to. His underpants have Donald Duck on them. Layla thinks of Hazel, of her shamed tears, hoots in glee at the retribution. She catches Irene’s eye and shakes her head at the look of worry on her face.

  ‘It’s just a bit of fun. Don’t look so serious, Irene.’

  ‘Aye, but…’

  Layla ignores her. She cups her hands to her mouth and shouts, ‘And his kecks!’ not really expecting them to do it, but she is in control now, holding the puppet strings. No one questions. All they hear is the direction. One of the other waiters dashes forward and tugs them sharply down and then they drop the boy and dart back.

  Maybe it’s the dark, or the residue of the excitement, but it’s only when their laughter dies away that they realise he is crying, curled in a ball. He drags up his underpants, his face distorted and his body shaking.

  There is a moment of silence, the sense that it all went too far swirls around them.

  ‘Shit,’ someone says, as the boy sniffles at their feet, his face hidden behind his curtain of hair. ‘You okay, like?’

  ‘It was only a joke,’ Layla says, stepping forward, arms crossed. ‘Can’t you take a laugh?’

  He turns, looks up at her.

  ‘You’re a fucking bitch,’ he screams, and she steps back at the hatred on his face.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CAL

  The cottage isn’t tumbledown. That’s too picturesque a description. The harled walls have weathered a grubby beige, the wooden window frames look rotten. Weeds stand a foot tall and automotive equipment is scattered across the drive. Parked on the edge of the road, Cal takes in the bleak horizon: fields rolling endlessly, exposed to the weather. In the snow, the road would be cut off, the steep track treacherous.

  He has miked himself in the car. As he moves towards the front door, he narrates the scene before him, notes the pitiful windchime, threads twisted and knotted, unable to sound any longer.

  The door is answered by a short man whose face is carved with the anger of decades, his hair a grizzled white, whiskers poking from his chin. He hasn’t shaved and his checked shirt is not fresh.

  ‘Mr Mackie, I’m Cal Lovett. We spoke on the phone.’

  ‘Aye.’

  The man turns and makes his way back through the house without another word. He moves quickly. Cal hefts his bag of equipment over the threshold, closes the door behind himself.

  The house smells of soup, animal and damp. A ginger cat loops its tail around the door frame to the kitchen, then flees when it sees Cal. The narrow corridor leads to a conservatory that leans against the back of the house. Added later, it is more pleasant. There are two cane chairs, a matching two-seater sofa, and a small electric heater. He takes in the views of the countryside, the breadth of the sky before him. This is a place where you could sit and watch the weather pass, see everything. It is also exposed: there is nowhere to hide from the raw openness before you.

  Mrs Mackie – Jean – is the one who contacted him. She rises from her chair and stretches out a hand. Small and thin, she looks older than her seventy-five years. He feels like a giant beside her. Her fingers are knobbly and arthritic – the skin tight and red across pronounced knuckles. He is careful not to grip too hard.

  ‘Mr Lovett. Thank you for coming.’

  ‘Thank you for seeing me. And it’s Cal, Mrs Mackie. Call me Cal.’

  ‘Jean.’

  ‘That’s quite a view you have there.’ He smiles.

  Mr Mackie – Tam – shifts from foot to foot, the less comfortable of the two. He scowls and Cal recognises the recalcitrance, understands that he has been persuaded. An old dog is curled on a piece of fleece beside the chair, its eyes on its master. It is some sort of collie–lab cross and when he bends to pet its greying head, its tail thumps twice.

  ‘Who’s this?’ He speaks directly to the dog, not the man, knowing instinctively that this animal is the best route to him. You can see it from the way the dog’s blanket is placed, just the right position for Tam to reach down from his chair and touch its head.

  ‘Bessie.’

  He ruffles the dog’s ears; her eyes half close with pleasure at the fuss. He misses Rocket, hopes Chrissie is walking him as much as she promised.

  ‘Tea?’ Tam’s tone remains short but Cal senses an infinitesimal thaw.

  ‘Yes, please, milk and one. Can I help?’

  He straightens and the dog settles back, head on her front paws, moving only her eyebrows as she watches them.

  ‘No, you’re fine.’

  The man stomps from the room and Cal can tell by the way Jean stares, the one step she takes forward then back, that he doesn’t usually do the honours, that he has gone because he wants to escape conversation.

  ‘He’s nervous,’ Jean tells him, perching on the edge of her chair and gesturing for him to take the two-seater.

  ‘I understand. It’s not easy to talk about it.’

  She nods and he takes in the pile of photograph albums to her side. Neatly stacked, prepared for his arrival. He unzips his bags and draws out the microphone packs he will need.

  Tam takes a long time with the tea. Finally, he returns with a tray on which three cups have been placed in a triangle formation, along with a plate of pink wafer biscuits. Cal accepts the cup of tea and takes a pink wafer, smiling his thanks. The wafer is like sweet cardboard, but he knows they will feel more comfortable if he eats one.

  ‘What do you need from us for this, then?’ Tam slurps his tea, eyes the recording equipment.

  ‘Today let’s just talk about Layla, if that’s okay? It would really help me to know a bit about her, who she was and what happened that day, from your point of view, the people who knew her best.’

  Jean sniffs and her hand is already on the top album.

  ‘Knew her best,’ Tam repeats the words as if they are foreign.

  He focuses on Jean, who wants him to see her photographs, wants him to make sense of the pieces she has left of her child, to wave a magic wand and take away the pain.

  ‘Horses.’ She sighs. ‘It was always about horses.’

  * * *

  He stays so long that they can’t keep putting on a front for him. As he sits, listening to their stories, Dubois and his monstrous crimes recede ever so slightly.

  ‘Such a bonny baby.’ Jean smiles, lost in the pictures. He sees a cheeky face that turns into an elfin child with a pointed chin and deep brown eyes beneath her fringe. As she grows, her smile changes, he thinks. It’s not always present in the pictures – as she gets older she glowers or simmers more frequently at the camera – but when it is there, he sees something guarded. Or is that simply fancy? Knowing what he now knows.

  ‘They called,’ Jean says. ‘To say she’d fallen off the horse and they couldn’t find her. Tam went out.’ She nods to him. ‘Didn’t you? Didn’t you, Tam?’

  He sees that she wants to share the burden of telling it.

  ‘Aye.’ He sucks his bottom lip under. ‘I went out with them to look for her, like.’

  ‘It got dark.’ Jean’s lip trembles. ‘They walked all the roads she could have taken, searched the dykes.’

  He doesn’t need to imagine the creeping fear, the gradual knowledge that this would be more than bumps and bruises, more than a good tale to tell. Not a good tale at all.

  ‘Everyone’s moved on,’ Jean says, sadly. ‘She’s forgotten but we…’ She stares out at the fields, her thoughts trailing away for a few moments before she looks back and he sees the hunger. ‘We just need to know what happened.’

  In the other chair, Tam clears his throat.

  ‘What do you think happened to Layla?’ Cal asks.

  A thundercloud passes over Jean’s face. Her husband remains pale and silent.

  ‘That chef. He did it.’

  Cal leans in towards them. ‘Stephen? Layla’s boyfriend?’