‘And there’s Grandma,’ Bea said. ‘She’s carrying something. Is it… a toy?’

  Mummy waited on the rain-dampened steps, the lions below her. She raised one hand in regal greeting, her other clasped the dead dog tucked under her arm.

  ‘It’s her dachshund, Dilly,’ I said. ‘She had her stuffed. Don’t say anything.’

  Mummy waved at us again but didn’t descend the steps to greet us. She was cradling Dilly, stroking the little dog’s head. I slid out from behind the wheel, stretching my spine, smelling wet air, the scent of the fells and wild greenery. I approached my mother and kissed the thick layer of face powder caking her cheek. Mummy’s lipstick looked as if it had been drawn on by a clown, a swathe of scarlet over her puckered mouth. ‘And who’s this?’ Mummy turned to Bea, smiling.

  ‘I’m Beatrice, Grandma,’ Bea looked startled.

  ‘Your granddaughter, Mummy,’ I said in a clear voice. She was getting worse. It must be some kind of early dementia.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she nodded, vaguely. ‘You must come in. Is Alice here?’

  I shook my head, taking her arm tightly. ‘Let’s go inside, Mummy. Which bedrooms are we in today?’

  ‘Who’s Alice?’ Bea asked, when we’re alone in the Pink Room.

  ‘Oh, just… a cousin. She died ages ago. Grandmama’s getting forgetful in her old age.’ I put my weekend bag on the bed. ‘Run along to your own room, darling. You know we mustn’t be late for lunch.’

  I walked the draughty corridor, heading for the bathroom, passing Henry’s room on the way. The door was shut, just as it was that day. Unlock the door, Cecily. No, I told him across time, across oceans of what-ifs and maybes. Too late. If only I could go back and change what happened that day.

  In the bathroom, I sat on the cold wooden loo seat, and let out a long-held pee, hoisted up my knickers and tights and pulled the dangling chain. Pipes groaned and heaved, but for all its roaring, the flush was a dribble, leaving the water lemon coloured. I went over to the rust-stained sink. Turning the tap, it spluttered and spurted out brown water. I smelt metal and old earth. Waited for it to run clear and splashed my face with cold.

  Tell me, Henry begged me. Where’s Jude?

  The voices in my head were bad today. I pulled a rectangle of worn towel from the rail, the nap worn into bald patches, and scrubbed my face hard, scratching my skin. I looked at my watch, taking comfort from the thin gold band. I’m not that teenage girl. There were still fifteen minutes before lunch. I’d go and find Daddy. I was a married, grown-up woman with a daughter, I should be able to talk to him like another adult.

  I knocked on his study door. There was no answer, and full of my new confidence, I turned the doorknob, putting my head around. ‘Hello? Daddy?’

  The room was empty. I sniffed cigar smoke, old leather, dark wood, damp wool. I remembered how I’d sat at one end of the desk and typed up his manuscript. How he’d talked to me about Hawksmoor, telling me stories of the past. We’d laughed together. I smiled at the memory.

  Emboldened, I went in, running my fingers over the dusty, cluttered desk. A stub of cold cigar lay in an overflowing ashtray. My old typewriter crouched under a litter of loose papers. He was still writing it by hand, I thought, as I picked up pieces of manuscript covered in his dense, cramped scrawl. I peered down. It was more illegible than ever. There was long, cruel-looking sword lying at the other end of the table. I touched the end of it, the handle darkened with murderous sweat, and I finally understood that he was never going to finish this book.

  I sat in his chair, the leather softened and worn into the shape of his buttocks and spine, certain of this new knowledge. It made me feel oddly protective of him. I’d been in awe of the great manuscript for as long as I could remember. It was a mantra repeated daily. He must never be disturbed. He had to have absolute quiet. But the truth was that the book was a useless ramble, a vanity project. I’d have to be careful not to damage his pride if it came up in conversation.

  All the drawers in his desk had been left open or half-open, carelessly abandoned to droop, with things spilling from them, a mess of weapons, papers, books, pens, apple cores and dog collars. I began to tidy up – closing drawers, shuffling the contents to flatten them. In the bottom one, I found certificates, documents that looked official, important. He should really file these properly, I tutted, picking up a sheaf of them. I began to arrange them into a neater pile. One of them was my parents’ marriage certificate. I glanced at it, and then looked again. There was Daddy’s name. But where Mummy’s name should be, another one had been written.

  I stared at the signatures under the printed names. My mind went blank, my skin rimed in cold sweat. It couldn’t be true. There must be a mistake, an explanation. The certificate slipped from my fingers, fluttering to the floor.

  37

  ALICE

  I sit up in bed, sliding one leg out of sheets, inhaling the ripe ammonia of sex. I grab a shirt and pull it over me to cover my tattoo as I pad softly towards the door, not wanting to wake Gabriel. I look back at his sleeping face on the pillow. It felt so right between us. But I can’t let it happen again, not until I’ve spoken to Cecily.

  Tiptoeing into the bathroom to pee and clean my teeth, I catch something out of the corner of my eye. Big red letters scrawl across the bathroom mirror.

  DIE DIE DIE

  My heart flips in fright. A cry escapes me. A red lipstick is lying on the side of the sink, the cap off, the stick of colour crushed flat. I pick it up. One of Cecily’s from her cosmetic bag on the bathroom shelf.

  My God, was she here when I slept with her husband? Does she know what we did? My skin prickles with heat. I look around as if she might be crouching in the bath, standing behind the shower curtain like a scene from Psycho. The small bathroom is benign, empty of anyone else. The scarlet letters scream at me.

  I rub at them with soap and warm water, smearing greasy colour over the glass. I rub harder, a sob in my throat. She saw me kissing him the other night; she must know about us. Is that why didn’t she show up at the gatehouse?

  Back in Cecily’s room, Gabriel is awake and beckons to me with both arms. I sit on his side of the bed, trying to shake off my shock. I’m still trembling. I plant a light kiss on his forehead. ‘Time to get up, sleepy head,’ I say as evenly as I can.

  ‘Let’s forget everything and stay in bed.’ He entwines his fingers in mine. He smells musty and warm.

  ‘Wish we could.’ I smile, pulling my hand away and standing up. ‘But I’d better get dressed and make breakfast.’

  He looks a little hurt. Then he sits up, running his fingers through his hair. ‘Cecily,’ he says. ‘I won’t expect to move back in here straight away – I meant what I said before, about taking things slowly.’

  I nod and look down at my hands, noticing red stains around my nails, and quickly wipe the waxy residue on Gabriel’s shirt, taking it off to bundle into the linen basket. Keeping my back turned away from him, I slip into the clothes I was wearing last night as nimbly as I can, aware that I’m naked and he’s watching me. My body tingles with the memory of his touch. I refuse to feel guilty. What does she expect when she’s left me alone with him? She’s abandoned her family. Her marriage was broken when I arrived – it’s me that’s picked up the pieces.

  Downstairs, as I fill the kettle and feed the cat, I remember his earlier suggestion of a weekend break. It will be the easiest way of me visiting Edith Baxter without having to explain.

  He looks surprised when I tell him my plan, then, ‘You should go,’ he says, encouragingly. ‘Of course, you should. You’ve been… on edge these last few days. Having a rest could be just what you need.’ He slips his hands into his pockets, rocks back on his heels, affecting a casual manner. ‘Sure you wouldn’t like company? We could find a nice little hotel… and then we could stay in bed all day.’ His mouth curls into a smile.

  ‘I need some time to think, Gabriel.’ I see him flinch. ‘Don’t worry,’ I add quickly ‘It’s positive thinking.’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief.’ He takes his hands out of his pocket, and pulls me in for a kiss, and I let him, opening my mouth. He’s grinning when we break away. ‘And where are you planning to go?’ he asks. ‘A spa, maybe?’

  ‘I’m going to Hawksmoor,’ I say, the idea coming to me as I speak, because I know it’ll put him off suggesting that he accompany me again. ‘It’s time I checked on Daddy; he’s getting frail. And I should visit Mummy in the home.’

  He makes a slight grimace. ‘Doesn’t sound like the most relaxing weekend.’

  ‘It’s my duty,’ I say, sounding like my sister.

  Am I doing the right thing, rushing off to talk to a woman I don’t know? It might be a wild goose chase, and meanwhile I’m leaving Gabriel and Bea alone. I still don’t know what Cecily’s intentions are. Maybe this is a trap? A way to get rid of me for a night?

  ‘Make sure you use the chains on the doors,’ I tell him. ‘And don’t let a stranger into the house. I’ve heard there’s a spate of burglaries happening in the area.’

  He raises his eyebrows. ‘Really?’

  I nod, a little too enthusiastically. ‘It was on the local news.’

  ‘You’ve got extra jumpy since you thought we’d been broken into,’ he says gently. ‘But that turned out to be a false alarm, didn’t it?’

  I nod again, tightly. ‘But you must be careful, Gabriel. Promise me.’

  He inclines his head with a serious expression, but I can see from his eyes that he’s humouring me.

  ‘And while I’m not here, why don’t you and Bea get takeaways?’ I suggest in my brightest voice. ‘It doesn’t seem fair that I’m eating out if you’re not.’

  ‘Alright,’ he shakes his head, laughing. ‘If it makes you happy, I’m sure Bea and I can endure a Chinese takeaway and a fish and chip supper over the weekend.’

  ‘I was thinking as well,’ I add, ‘that maybe we should get the locks changed, just to be on the safe side.’

  He scratches his head, making his hair stick up. ‘That would be expensive.’ He catches my expression. ‘But if it will make you feel safer,’ he says. ‘I’ll look into it.’ He gives me a straight look. ‘Sure you don’t want me to come with you?’

  ‘No,’ I say, holding his gaze. ‘You’d hate it. And you’re in the middle of term. You’re busy. I’ll be fine.’

  His forehead furrows. ‘It’s a long journey.’ The furrow deepens into a worried frown. ‘I don’t like to think of you doing it alone. You’re taking the car, of course? I can cycle or take the bus to work.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.’ I take his hand and bring it to my mouth, pressing my lips to his knuckles. ‘Gabriel, whatever happens,’ I say slowly, ‘I’m glad we talked. These last couple of weeks have been important to me. You’re important to me.’ I can’t stop myself saying it, as me, as Alice. I clench my jaw to prevent other words spilling out. My confession held back.

  ‘Cecily…’ his eyes darken, a shadow moving behind the iris. ‘There’s something else isn’t there?’ He’s frowning. ‘Something you’re not telling me?’

  I shake my head, but my gaze drops.

  He pulls me close. ‘You know, you can tell me anything,’ he murmurs into my hair. ‘Anything at all.’ His heart beats against my sternum, the pulse finding a rhythm in me.

  I close my eyes, inhaling the clean scent of his skin, orange blossom soap, the faint drift of lanolin from his fisherman’s jumper. ‘One day. I’ll tell you everything.’ I whisper it softly, too softly for him to hear.

  The doorbell rings early on Thursday evening. I keep the chain on and open the door just enough to see who it is. A familiar figure looms on the step, peering through the crack at me; my instinct tells me to slam the door shut. Instead, I slip the chain off, as I attempt to look neutral and unfazed. ‘Ambrose?’

  ‘Cecily,’ he says, leaning towards me. ‘I thought I’d call in to see how you are.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say, remembering that I’m supposed to have been ill.

  ‘You’ve been absent from church for days,’ he says. ‘I’ve been worried.’

  I cross my arms. ‘I’ve had… family things to sort out,’ I tell him, annoyed by his persistence, the unnerving way he has of staring at me with his colourless eyes.

  ‘Cecily, it’s in times of stress and uncertainty that you need God as your guide more than ever,’ he says, taking a step nearer. ‘Pray with me. We can ask Him for his help together.’

  ‘Ambrose.’ Gabriel has appeared behind me. He leans to take the other man’s hand. ‘What can we do for you?’

  Ambrose looks put out. ‘We haven’t seen Cecily at the Sacred Heart recently,’ he says. ‘I wanted to check that everything is alright.’

  ‘That’s kind of you,’ Gabriel says. ‘But she’s leaving very early tomorrow morning, aren’t you, Cecily? Crack of dawn. A long road trip. So, I’m sure you’ll understand that she has things to arrange now.’

  ‘A trip?’ Ambrose repeats.

  ‘Yes,’ I tell him. ‘To visit my parents.’

  Ambrose closes his eyes, bringing his hands together in prayer. ‘Lord, look down on us, and on your servant, Cecily. Help her, Oh Lord, to make the right decision, to follow you in your name…’

  ‘Ambrose,’ I say gently. ‘Gabriel’s right. I’m busy. Goodnight.’

  We shut the door on him, and Gabriel grins. ‘That man has always given me the creeps. Wasn’t sure if you needed help getting rid of him, but it sounded like it.’

  ‘Your help was most appreciated.’ I smile. ‘Although,’ I add, remembering that I’m being Cecily, ‘I’m sure he means well.’

  I set off on the long drive first thing the next morning, before the others are up, with a packed lunch and a bottle of water. As I unlock the car door, I glance up and down the street, checking for anyone loitering near our house. But it’s too early even for hooded watchers. The car is unfamiliar, and I haven’t driven for ages. I keep crunching the gears, swearing under my breath. On the motorway, it’s easier. I stay in top gear, cruising along, staying within the speed limit, the wind rushing past. The address I have for Edith Baxter is on the outskirts of the Forest of Bowland. I’ll circumnavigate Bristol and Birmingham. I don’t want to break the trip with an overnight stay; I’d rather keep going if I can.

  I switch on the radio to keep me company. The news comes on with a story about a bomb going off in Oklahoma; many feared dead the newsreader says, and then President Clinton’s voice vowing swift punishment for the perpetrators. I change channels. Madonna’s latest song fills the car. I can’t listen to anything, I’m too anxious. I switch it off, tapping my hands on the wheel, wondering if I’ve done the right thing. I left the photograph of me and Cecily on top of Gabriel’s songbook. Two identical girls in plaits. I want him to know who I really am. When he sees the photograph, he’ll understand why I’ve seemed different. He’ll know straight away he’s been living with the other sister – he’ll know who he slept with, who he really loves. Leaving the photograph has blown up the swap and there’s no going back. But I can’t keep this up any more; it’s been going on for too long. We need clarity now, even if it hurts.

  I stop twice at service stations. It’s at the second one that I notice a red hatchback pulling out after me. I have a strange feeling that it might have been parked near me at the last stop, too. It follows me onto the motorway. As I turn off the M6, the small, red hatchback turns too.

  The road cuts through dark forest, and the red car is behind me, twin circles of light dazzling in my wing mirror. My mouth is dry and sweat prickles my armpits. I press the central door-lock down. Something runs across the road, a low body with a long tail. I swear under my breath and brake, watching a form disappear into shadows. But the car behind is closer now. I speed up, and the other car speeds up too. I keep glancing into the rear-view mirror, but the blaze of headlights obliterates the driver. I press my foot on the accelerator, going much too fast down a dark, narrow, unfamiliar road, rushing into the glow of my own lights. I peer ahead, longing for a sign of human life, for houses and streets. Suddenly, I’m staring at bark, leaf shadows, rivers of black. A wall of trees. I slam my foot on the brake, and I’m sliding sideways, trunks sweeping past my window, my seat belt sharp across my chest.

  The car stops on the verge with a judder, the engine cutting out. I look up, anticipating the worst – a man with an axe jumping from the red car, a crazy person coming for me – and I bend over the steering wheel and turn the key, but the ignition won’t catch. The other car is alongside me on the road. It slows. My fingers fumble with the key, turning it again. A sob rises in my throat. A blur of pale face turns towards me through the driver’s window. I twist the key. Please start. Then the other car speeds up and I’m watching its taillights disappear into blackness.

  Relief swallows me. I sit back, exhausted, hands shaking. I must have missed a corner. The car has slewed up onto a verge, but somehow missed hitting trees. I lean my forehead on the steering wheel, breathing deeply. Night presses in around me. An owl cries. I turn the key in the ignition again, and the engine starts. Insects whirl like atoms inside the beams of my headlights.

  My wheels bump back onto the tarmac. Five minutes later, a sign for the village appears. I’m nervously scanning parked vehicles, but there’s no sign of the red car. Perhaps I’m imagining things; after all, if the driver wanted to hurt me, they’d had their chance when I skidded off the road. But I need the comfort and security of other people. I’ve already phoned ahead and booked a room at the pub in the village. I’ll stay there tonight and visit Edith Baxter after breakfast tomorrow.