‘He said that he liked football and playing out with his friends, the usual stuff. But then he told everyone that he was frightened of somebody called The Midnight Child. He said he was terrified that The Midnight Child was going to come into his room and take him away.’

  Perspiration breaks out on my top lip. I have no idea what this means but I can tell by Carrie’s face that she thinks little or nothing of it, that it was simply the musings of a young child with a vivid imagination.

  ‘Could it have been linked to him going missing, do you think?’ I say, my breathing suddenly difficult and onerous, a large bubble of air trapped in my chest. I drain my glass, needing the effects the alcohol will bring, the blurring of the edges, the numbing of my thoughts. The switching off of the fear that has lain dormant in me for almost all of my life.

  ‘Linked?’ Her eyebrows shoot up, her mouth shaped into a small O. ‘Oh my goodness, I shouldn’t think so. In fact, I’m almost certain it wasn’t. It was the awful coincidence of it that jarred in my mind. No,’ she murmurs, smiling at me, her eyes twinkling with what – sympathy? Happiness? Relief at having finally spoken about it? ‘It can’t possibly have been linked, can it?’

  ‘Really?’ I say, aware that my voice is a squeak, like the cry of a startled animal. ‘Why not?’

  She puts down her glass and tips her head at me, a quizzical expression in her eyes. ‘Why not? Don’t you remember?’ Her voice softens a fraction, as if she is speaking to a timid child, one who is confused, unable to understand the words being put to them. ‘Because it was you, Grace. That was what they used to call you. It was your nickname. You were the one who scared him. You were The Midnight Child.’

  8

  I am lying in bed, the memory of Carrie and how her words left me winded as if all the air had been sucked out of the room, still in the forefront of my mind. And then her face when she realised my distress, her repeated apologies and then the memory of how she had to take my glass from me and place it to one side, like a carer with a patient who had become overtired and overwrought, unable to control their own emotions. It swallows everything, the image of her crestfallen expression, blocking out all logic and common sense in my head. I’m not sure I can bear to think about it, how upset I was, how embarrassing the entire situation became. My lack of control. My stricken expression. How I could hardly stand as I walked beside her to the door, my legs liquid, my guts churning like molten lava.

  She left shortly afterwards, genuinely perplexed by my reaction, telling me it simply wasn’t possible that Simon’s fear of me was linked to his disappearance. I was a young child, she had said, a small, young child who was incapable of harming a boy who was older than me. It was all just a terrible coincidence she had insisted before reiterating how awful she felt for mentioning it at all.

  It was a stupid, thoughtless thing for me to say, she had said as we stood on the doorstep, Carrie red-faced, her manner jumpy and nervous, brought on by both the wine and the recollection of Simon. Of me. Me, The Midnight Child. And what I possibly did.

  Grace. I’m really sorry. And she was. She was utterly ingenuous, convinced she had ruined a perfectly lovely evening. She didn’t ruin it at all. I did that with my reaction, my inability to handle the conversation. I am an adult, still trapped in my childhood years, forever dragged to the past. I asked, begged her for her memories, her recollections and images from the past and then couldn’t handle them when they surfaced.

  I reassured her that it was perfectly fine and that I was over it even though my innards felt as if they were on fire, my bones as heavy as lead. Everything felt forced. Contrived. And it possibly would have been fine had the incident with the fox not taken place days earlier. The dead body in the garden. The blood. Me covered in it; crimson streaks smeared up my arms, over my legs and face. Her father seeing me outside in the early hours of the morning. The thought of that night had slammed into me as I listened to Carrie tell me that my own brother was frightened of me. That he was scared I would take him away. Perhaps I did? Perhaps something terrible happened and I’ve somehow blocked it all out?

  I shiver, suppressing a sob. A shadow slinks around the back of my brain. How could I have not remembered such a thing? Was I even aware of it then? Am I aware of it now? There is a memory skulking about in the back of my mind but it is vague, elusive, refusing to reveal itself despite me trying to beckon it out of the shadows. Me, The Midnight Child. That title. That name. The bouts of sleepwalking. And now it’s happening again. History is repeating itself now that I’m back living at Woodburn Cottage. I have stirred up something from the past, opened up a Pandora’s box of family secrets and I have no idea how to stuff everything back inside and lock it again.

  The bed is cold as I turn over and curl up into a ball, my knees tucked up into my chest. I don’t want to think about it anymore. And yet I do. I can’t just forget about this thing, allow it to fester in the recesses of my brain. It needs to be brought out into the open, teased and enticed out of its hiding place. Tomorrow I will give Kim a call, speak to her about it. No matter how reluctant she is, I will demand she start being more open about our past. It was my childhood. Simon was – still is – my brother. Our brother. Whatever took place in this house, I have a right to know.

  * * *

  I’m standing in front of the garden shed, the cool breeze winding itself around my ankles, gliding against my bare calves, the flesh on my upper arms puckered in resistance to the cold. I blink, stare around. Everything is blurred, my vision marred by exhaustion and the darkness. An owl hoots in the distance, its call echoing through the night sky. Above, the inky blackness is punctuated with a smattering of stars, pinpricks of light that twinkle and glisten, forcing me to hang on to the fence for balance. My perspective is skewed, the darkness and the silence making me dizzy. I crane my neck, tilting my head upwards to stare at the sky, at the moon, the stars. I feel as if I can reach out and grab them, hold them tightly in my palm like diamonds, their weight and solidity anchoring me to this house, to this moment.

  If I stand here for long enough, I am sure I can cast my mind back to all those years ago, force myself to remember my childlike nocturnal wanderings. They’re in there somewhere, my memories of that time, tucked away in a dusty corner of my brain. Very little has changed in this house. Aside from my efforts at cleaning up the old place and giving it a lick of paint, the design of the building is still the same as it was when I was a child. No internal walls knocked through to allow for more space, no patio doors, no sweeping extension with skylights and an expansive view out onto the back garden. It’s still the same ancient cottage with Georgian windows and uneven flagstone flooring.

  The only difference is that Woodburn Cottage, many, many years ago, used to be two houses, built for local farm workers. Most properties nearby now resemble this one – two abodes knocked into one bigger house making them more appealing to families. And the garden is almost the same. This shed, the old coalhouse, the shape of the lawn – it’s as I remember it from when I was a child. It’s being here that has triggered it, the sleepwalking. Of that I am certain. The familiarity of the place has unearthed something in my mind, the shifting sands of time calling me, making me cast my mind back to that moment, to that night when Simon went missing from his bed, the one place where he should have been safe and yet wasn’t.

  The police at the time, after investigating and finding no evidence to the contrary, went with the theory that he took himself off for a late-night walk and got lost. What sort of child would do such a thing? It’s silly. Unthinkable. Simon was a quiet boy, a gentle boy. Not the sort of lad to go off on adventures on his own in the dark. The police got it all wrong, of that I am certain. I don’t remember the details of their investigation, but I do recall it being over with in what felt like no time at all. Perhaps my woolly memory and the passing of the years have made me view things differently. Perhaps they did all they could to find Simon. Or perhaps they put it down to misadventure and closed the case due to lack of evidence with the notion that boys will be boys and he probably deserved everything he got, wandering off on his own like that.

  The breeze picks up, the noise of it in the tree forcing me out of my thoughts. I blink, rub at my eyes and head back inside, locking the door behind me. I should have done what I promised I would do and hidden the key from myself. Tomorrow I will do just that. I will tuck it away somewhere safe. Somewhere I won’t think to look when I am confused and blinded by sleep.

  My feet are freezing as I pad upstairs, longing for the warmth and comfort of my bed. After Warren died, I used to dread night-times, slipping in between the sheets knowing he wasn’t there and that I would have to lie alone, cold and miserable, but as the months passed, I grew accustomed to it. Now I long for a night where I remain asleep. I long to wake and find my body still in the same position as when I climbed into bed; not find myself standing in the garden or – worse still – out in the middle of the main road in the early hours with no memory of how I got there.

  The bed is still marginally warm as I climb back in. I’m glad I haven’t been outside for too long and I am more than a little relieved that there were no dead animals laid at my feet.

  Simon’s face merges with Carrie’s words as I slip into a fitful sleep, waking every hour or so before eventually falling into a deep and welcome slumber.

  I finally wake up at 9am, my body aching, my limbs heavy. Still, I am determined to plough ahead, to tackle some of the less appealing things that have been preying on my mind since last night. Somewhere amongst Mum’s things are the police reports about Simon’s disappearance.

  I am going to read them, if only to satisfy myself that they did everything they could to find my brother. I realise that policing methods back then weren’t as advanced or as scrupulous as they are today but I want to be sure that every effort was put into finding Simon and that he wasn’t written off as a wandering miscreant, somebody who became embroiled in an adventure that turned sour. I also want to find out whether or not our family is mentioned, whether or not my name comes up as a person of interest. I know this is highly unlikely but I won’t settle until I see every single report, read every newspaper article I can find about when he disappeared.

  Living at Woodburn Cottage has stirred up something in me, some latent force that has set me on the path to finding out what happened to Simon. And now I’m down that route, I won’t turn back. Not until I discover what happened to him and where he is now.

  9

  ‘I got rid of them.’ Kim’s tone is sharp, unrelenting. She won’t be backed into a corner on this. I have no idea why she thought it was in our best interests to dispose of them, but it would appear that that is exactly what she has done. She had no right to do such a thing without first speaking to me. I know this. She knows it too.

  ‘All of them? Every single article and police report?’ I am trying to keep my voice even, to disguise my growing frustration and anger but it’s not easy. My face is hot, my chest tight, every blood vessel in my body fit to burst. Frustration and anger swirls in my head, a dark thick cloud leaden with unspent fury.

  ‘All of them.’

  I wait out the silence, breaking it only as my temper takes hold. ‘You had no right, Kim. You should have consulted me first.’ There is ice in my voice, fire in my veins, a fusion of the two fuelling me, pushing me on. ‘I wanted to see them. You had no right!’

  If she is shocked by my sudden outburst, she doesn’t show it. I rarely lose my temper. I’m the quiet one in the family, the reserved one who tiptoes through life, smoothing troubled waters, building bridges. But not anymore.

  ‘I had no right? Grace, you were grieving. Mum’s dementia had worsened. I did what I had to do. Keeping them was never going to bring Simon back, was it?’

  I flinch, bruised by her callous manner, the way she can wound even from a distance, using words as weapons. This isn’t Kim lashing out, defending her actions; this is Kim being vindictive, showing me that she is the one who is in charge in this family, that I am in no position to dedicate any time to finding out the truth about my brother. She thinks that it is none of my concern, that much is obvious. I was too young when it happened and therefore have been robbed of any liberties when it comes to enquiring about what took place that night all those years ago. Kim is in charge of our little family and decides who can rake through our past. That is her reasoning. It’s not mine.

  ‘And pretending he never existed is? I always knew you were a tough one, Kim. I just never realised that you’re hard to the point of being cruel. You disposed of the last things we had of our brother. It wasn’t your place to do that. And don’t you dare use my grief as an excuse for trampling over my feelings, for making decisions on my behalf, pretending I was too cut up to be consulted.’ I am breathless, my stomach roiling, my throat thick with unshed tears. I want to say more, years and years of unspoken words spilling out of me in a heady rush, but I don’t. They stay inside my head, trapped by my lack of power, the inertia that often cripples me when it comes to dealing with my sister. Instead, I visualise myself marching into Kim’s living room, snatching the phone out of her hand and slapping her hard across the face. It gives me enormous pleasure, sending a rush of blood to my cheeks, my neck and ears. I can practically feel the smart on my palm, the sting of pain as flesh meets flesh.

  Her silence seems to go on for an age. I refuse to be browbeaten into speaking first, letting her wield her older sibling authority over me. I will wait this one out, stand my ground until the imbalance of power tips in my favour.

  When she does answer, it’s as if I haven’t even spoken at all. She is calm, measured and, as always, brimming with self-confidence. ‘Well, anyway, what’s done is done, isn’t it? Time to move on. Are you still up for coffee this week?’ Her tone is brusque, efficient; the voice of somebody utterly unmoved by what we have just spoken about; Kim, the ice queen, impervious to the usual range of human emotions.

  Once again, she has rendered me speechless. I stumble backwards, lowering myself onto the sofa in a clumsy heap. Lost for words. I am completely lost for words and do something I have never ever done. Not to Kim, not to anybody. I end the call without saying goodbye then throw the phone onto the floor, watching mesmerised as it spins around on its back, rocking back and forth like a tiny, upturned turtle.

  Everything slows down, the world decelerating as my heart speeds up, pulsing angrily beneath my shirt. The floor swirls at my feet, tiny specks of dirt dancing around me. I rest my head in my hands, wait for everything to rebalance itself, for my blood pressure to lower itself. For my world to return to normal. Whatever normal is.

  Only when I have calmed down do I stand and pick up the phone, replacing it on the table. I almost laugh at the idea of meeting her for coffee, picturing her sitting there, wondering where I am, why I haven’t turned up, her mind genuinely perplexed at my absence. I wonder how Greg does it. Is he immune to her insults and overbearing manner? I don’t see him as somebody who needs a strong partner in his life, the sort of man who likes being supported by a domineering person. Greg is a capable man. He has his own opinions, his own interests and a successful career.

  That’s when it comes to me – she isn’t the same person when she is at home with her own family. Her absurd bossiness is reserved solely for me, her much younger sibling. Time has failed to diminish the roles of our family structure. If anything, it has strengthened them, fortifying Kim’s belief that she can say or do anything she pleases when she is in my presence, strengthening her belief that I am still her little sister, that young, shy, scared little girl who admired her older sibling, following her around the house begging to be in her company. It is a misplaced notion. Her ideas are out of kilter, anachronistic and skewed. I am her equal, somebody with the same rights as her, the same needs and wants. Somebody who is worthy of her respect.

  I am thinking all of these things when I hear a tap at the door. Not the sharp rap of a delivery man, more of a gentle interruption into my day, an almost apologetic tapping.

  Her smile is lopsided, her eyes half hidden behind the array of white silken petals.

  ‘Carrie?’ My voice is hoarse, a low growl. I clear my throat and step aside to allow her to enter, my palm outstretched as I beckon her inside.

  ‘These are for you. As an apology for having such a big fat mouth.’ There is a hint of laughter in her tone, not an abrasive sound, more of a soft quality that resonates with me, catching me in my solar plexus. I need this. I need this moment and I need Carrie to be standing there smiling at me. She has broken the moment, severed the cord of anger that had me trapped in my own dark thoughts.

  I reach out, touch her shoulder and smile. ‘Absolutely no need. But thank you anyway. It’s a really kind gesture.’

  We walk into the living room, Carrie looking around for somewhere to place the flowers.

  ‘Here, let me take those. I’ll get them in some water. Coffee?’ I take the flowers, surprised at the weight. There must be at least a dozen white roses here, interspersed with sprigs of fern and a sprinkling of pale lilac flowers whose name escapes me. ‘They are really beautiful. Thank you so much. But as I said, there really was no need, you know.’

  ‘I didn’t sleep last night, thinking about it. Every time I dozed off, the thought of what I said came back to me and woke me up. So stupid and crass. Innes often tells me to think before I speak.’