I reverse into a space in the car park at the back of the pub, grab my bag from the boot and hurry inside the building. The murmur of human voices, bright lights and the familiar smells of alcohol and chip fat make me feel better at once. It’s all wonderfully normal. My heart begins to slow. The bar is half empty, just a few locals by the look of them, sitting over their pints. A cheerful landlady shows me up to my room. She opens the door and switches on a side light, gives me a key, and tells me breakfast is served between seven and nine.

  A double bed takes up most of the space. There’s a kettle on the side, a saucer of tea bags and little cartons of milk, two white cups. Heavy beams criss-cross the ceiling and a mullioned window looks out onto the road. I put my bag down and use the bathroom, splashing my face with water, cleaning my teeth.

  I’m longing to get into bed, my body aches with tension. I touch my chest, bruised from the seat belt, and walk to the window to draw the curtains. But as I look out, my heart crashes into my mouth. The red car is parked across the street.

  38

  CECILY

  1995, three weeks earlier

  I left Edith Baxter at her front door and managed to walk to my car on trembling legs, fumbled with the key and slid in behind the wheel. But I couldn’t start the engine. I’d lost my ability to make decisions. I don’t know how long I remained inside the parked car, unable to move, staring through the windscreen. It was as if her words had ripped a blindfold from my eyes. For the first time, I understood the real magnitude of the sin poisoning my life. It had taken someone else’s story to unlock my own pain, my own rage.

  When I roused myself enough to turn the key in the ignition, I knew where I had to go. It was more than curiosity – it felt like the punishment I deserved. A pilgrimage or penance.

  A bored-looking security guard stepped out of his booth when he saw me approach. ‘You can’t go in,’ he said, holding up a beefy hand while he finished chewing a mouthful of pork pie. ‘It’s dangerous.’ I ignored him, looking at the yellow digger, like an outsize Tonka toy, parked in the muddy drive. I had to get inside.

  I reversed and drove back along the country lane until I was out of sight of the guard and parked at the entrance to a track. The roof of the old hospital was visible above leafy trees; I could make out a water tower, the skeleton of exposed rafters and broken tiles. I kept the water tower in my sights as I walked down the rutted track through fields, hoping I could get in from the back. A tangled copse of rowan, hawthorn and elder stood between me and the grounds. I pushed through the thicket of trees, edging past overgrown blackberry bushes, and came up against a tall perimeter fence. I ignored the signs screaming ‘KEEP OUT, DANGER’, and followed the enclosure, one hand bumping over knotted ridges of wire, until I found a hole ripped in the mesh.

  Inside, I fought my way through undergrowth and long grass. Coarse blades brushed my shins, brambles snatched at my legs, tugging at my jacket. The hospital grounds were bigger than I’d imagined. The first building I came to was a low, brick shed with a heavy padlock on the boarded-up door. As I walked around the corner, I nearly fell over a couple of charred logs, a circle of burnt earth whitened with ash, a small, deserted encampment with an empty whisky bottle and two crumpled beer cans abandoned in long grass. But I was standing in the shadow of the main building. It rose, gutted and forlorn, into the grey sky. Half the roof had gone. Saplings sprouted from crumbling walls. Weeds pushed through paving stones. I walked the length of it, frustrated. All the doors were sealed with metal. When I eventually found a ground floor window without bars, I half-dragged, half-rolled an empty oil drum over and stood on it precariously, hauling myself over broken glass.

  I let myself drop into a long corridor. The peeling walls had been daubed with graffiti, and there was a stink of urine. I wasn’t the first to break in. I thought uneasily of the abandoned campfire. I made my way across mounds of rubble, destroyed books, splintered wood, and broken slabs of plaster, breathing in stale, dank air. Either side of me, doorways gaped into dim rooms. I stepped inside one and found myself in a narrow cell. There were stains on the floor and bars on the window; the walls were covered in some kind of padded fabric, frayed and rotted, coming away in chunks like a dead animal’s hide. It was as if I could hear the screams and cries that had once sounded there, an old fear surging forwards to reclaim the space, to claim me. I edged away into the corridor, my hands thrown out to grasp the edges of the doorframe as if someone or something was trying to drag me back inside.

  She had lived here. She was imprisoned in a padded cell while we swam in the tarn, while we sat in the Deveraux pew with our heads bowed in prayer. Easter and Christmas and summer holidays, she was here. While he lectured me on my sins and failings, she was here. While he locked me in the chapel with him, she was here.

  I heard a movement further down the corridor, a shuffle, the noise of old bricks tumbling; I turned and ran, panic compressing my heart. I scrambled to get over the windowsill, but it was too high, and I failed to drag myself up, trying again and again, sobbing, scraping my elbows on the wall as I looked over my shoulder, not knowing what I was afraid of, but desperate to get away from it. Finally, I managed to heave my body onto the sill, catching my left knee on a serrated point.

  I only stopped the car when the hospital was far behind. A fine rain was falling, the wipers smearing oily wet across the windscreen. I got out and stood in the road, letting my skin and hair get soaked. Beads of moisture trembled on my sleeves. I longed for the kind of downpour that would strip me clean.

  I bent down and touched my knee, finding a rip in my jeans. My fingers came away sticky. Anger burnt, licking at my belly, rising into my throat. He’d ruined her life, just like he’d ruined mine and Alice’s. The world slipped and slid, tarmac rocking beneath my feet. Bending at the waist, I vomited onto the wet road.

  I sat in the car. My damp clothes clung to my skin, and I shivered, wiping the back of my hand across my lips. I didn’t know who I was any more. All the pieces of me were jumbled and broken. The unravelling of everything I thought I knew became the unravelling of myself. I remembered my aunt’s letters to my mother, and how as a child I’d destroyed their last link with each other by leaving the letters for Daddy as if they were a gift for an unpredictable God. I thought of Henry, and how I’d judged him by Daddy’s standards and got it wrong. If it wasn’t for me, he might still be here. I’d tried so hard to avoid being sent to hell, but I was the biggest sinner of all.

  The soul that sinneth, it shall die.

  He’d used God’s name to do terrible things. To lock his first wife away. To punish his children. To lie to his family.

  The son shall not bear the iniquity of the father.

  But what about the daughter? What about her?

  39

  ALICE

  I can’t sleep. I’m listening for stealthy footsteps outside my room, a creak of floorboards, the sound of someone twisting the doorknob. I’ve locked it and pulled a chair over to wedge under the handle. My body is rigid, senses on high alert, hounded, hunted. I stare into the flickering shadows the streetlight casts over the beamed ceiling, wondering if the driver of the car is out there, sitting behind the wheel, or if they’re standing under my window, looking up.

  I must have dozed off, because I wake with a start, fragments of a bad dream clutching at me. Morning seeps into the room. I get up and immediately go to the window and cautiously twitch the curtains apart. The red car has disappeared.

  Everything seems more normal in daylight. The landlady has laid out a place in the bar for me, a checked tablecloth, and a basket of fresh bread. I seem to be the only guest. She appears from the kitchen, bustling and busy, with a maternal manner. ‘What would you like, lovie?’ she asks. ‘I can do you eggs, bacon? I’ve got some muesli, too?’

  The room carries the tang of last night’s alcohol, a dash of bleach. My stomach is bilious with nerves and refuses the scrambled eggs on toast I’ve ordered. I nibble a corner of crust and manage a cup of tea, spooning sugar into it. After settling up, I leave the pub by the back entrance, throw my bag into the boot, and drive away.

  As I leave the village, the red car pops up in my wing mirror again. My belly contracts. I can’t pretend it’s a coincidence. My fingers tighten around the gear stick, as if that will help me to think, gripping until my knuckles whiten. Should I turn around, drive back to the pub, or better, a police station? But the village won’t have a police station, and what could I say if it did? There are plenty of red cars on the road. The driver hasn’t threatened me. Nothing has happened.

  I keep going, remembering the directions the landlady gave me, my gaze sliding to my rear-view mirror, watching the car behind me. They’re keeping their distance today, but I can just make out the outline of the driver, sitting high behind the wheel. The landlady said it was short drive through the forest. The trees look ancient, most of them oaks. Rotting trunks lie at the side of the road, living branches making a canopy above the car. I glance behind. The car has dropped out of sight. I get to some tall gates and turn in at the entrance of The Hall with a feeling of relief. Surely, whoever is following me, wouldn’t risk coming down a private drive?

  It’s a substantial, ugly house with thick, grey stone walls, flying buttresses at either end. Tudor-style chimney stacks tower over the roof; a large, pointed porch almost conceals the heavy front door. Thick layers of ivy climb the walls, gnarled vines sprouting dark green foliage. Overlapping leaves press up against windows, almost completely concealing some. Chunks of mortar are missing, tendrils digging their way into the brickwork.

  The red car hasn’t followed, and I park and hurry over to the porch. I tug the bell pull. When the door opens, I take a sharp inhale. The woman standing before me in a tweed skirt and brown cardigan, stout brogues on her feet, has hardly changed from the day I opened the door to her at Hawksmoor. I only saw her for a few minutes, but she’d cursed our family as Cecily and I had crouched on the back stairs. The corners of her thin mouth are edged with folds of skin, her chin dissolving into a straggly neck. She scowls. ‘You again,’ she says.

  ‘No,’ I say quickly. ‘I’m Alice.’

  She stares at me with a suspicious frown. ‘You look exactly the same.’

  ‘We’re identical twins.’ I raise my shoulders a fraction as if to apologise for the confusion and attempt a reassuring smile. ‘Mirror image.’

  She gives a disbelieving harrumph, but shrugs, opening the door wider. ‘As you’re here, I suppose you’d better come in.’

  I turn to look behind me. Still no sign of the red car.

  She shows me into a room dim with viridian light under a vaulted ceiling. Beyond the windows, folds of creeper press against the glass, making it feel as though we’re under water. I sit on a lumpy brocade armchair. My bladder is bursting. I’m desperate for a pee, but I don’t like to ask. An ancient Pekinese dog wanders in, a small tongue protruding from his panting mouth. He bumps against my shins.

  ‘He’s blind,’ she says. ‘Don’t touch. He bites.’

  The room is stuffy. The windows sealed with green. Edith Baxter’s mouth is a thin trap, a line of disapproval. She seems to resent me, dislike me. We regard each other warily. As far as I know, Edith only visited Hawksmoor that one time. I can’t imagine why Cecily wants me to meet her. ‘When… when did my sister come to see you?’ I ask.

  ‘A few weeks ago,’ she says. ‘Two, three, perhaps. My memory isn’t what it was.’

  Folding my hands in my lap, I wait for her to continue. She settles deeper into the sofa opposite me, crossing her ankles, knees pressed together as she stares at a place just over my left shoulder.

  I sit forward, clear my throat. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, what’s the connection,’ I ask. ‘Between you and my family?’

  ‘My sister was married to your father.’

  ‘Your sister…’ her words clatter inside my brain. ‘And my father,’ I repeat stupidly. ‘Married. But… when?’

  ‘1956.’

  Numbers click through my mind. Five years before Cecily and I were born. Four years before Henry. I’m trying to grasp what this means.

  ‘I think, perhaps, she was happy for a while,’ Edith is saying. ‘He was handsome, even if he wasn’t a kind man. Proud of course. But not cruel. Not then. But she had three miscarriages in quick succession, and the local doctor, a friend of your father’s, said it was unlikely she’d be able to carry a child to term.’

  ‘So… she died?’ I manage to ask. I’m finding it hard to concentrate on her words. My father. Married to someone else before our mother. It’s unbelievable.

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘She died years later. Physically died, that is.’

  I frown, not understanding.

  ‘It was after the last miscarriage that that she became ill, staying in bed, crying a lot,’ she goes on. ‘Depression, we’d call it now.’ Edith smooths her skirt over her knees. ‘But your father had her committed to a mental hospital.’

  I understand now why we’ve never been told about his first wife. Never heard her name. I dig my thumb nail into the fleshy part of my hand.

  ‘The doctor agreed she was a danger to herself and needed constant psychiatric care. I tried to stop it, tried to get her out. My parents had died, so it was left to me. But it didn’t matter how many times I wrote, how much I begged him, Edmund refused to sign the paperwork. He knew the governors. He blocked me at every turn.’ Her voice is strangely devoid of emotion. She sits very upright. ‘Within a year, he’d had the marriage dissolved and was engaged to your mother.’

  I stare at her, feeling sick. ‘What happened to your sister?’

  ‘Mary. She was called Mary. She died ten years after they gave her a lobotomy.’ She looks down into her lap. ‘It’s not far from here. The hospital. But there was a scandal – mistreatment of patients. It’s been closed for years.’

  ‘My God.’ The room tilts. I glance towards the window, needing air. Beyond the puzzle of ivy, something moves, the shape of a person. I think I see the outline of a face peering in.

  ‘Someone’s there,’ I gasp. The dog at my feet lets out a short, rasping bark.

  Edith doesn’t even turn her head to look. ‘Perhaps the gardener,’ she says, unruffled. ‘He comes once a week.’

  I’m trying to see through the obscuring leaves. I can’t make out the shape any more. My heart rattles in my chest. I sip air, blowing out, trying to relax clenched muscles. I swallow, pushing sweating palms across my jeans.

  Any words I can say are inadequate. I feel ashamed. The woman sitting opposite me is reduced, sad, her only rebellion her refusal to meet my eyes. Or perhaps she can’t bear to look at me. Perhaps I am too offensive, too much of a reminder of my father.

  ‘I have an apology, too,’ she says, examining the backs of her wrinkled hands. ‘Years ago, I left a dead cat nailed to your door. I was half-mad with grief. You must understand how angry I was, how desperate.’ Her mouth trembles. ‘But it was a pointless thing.’

  I would like to make her understand how sorry I am. I want to tell her that my father disgusts me, but I can’t speak.

  She pushes herself to her feet and shuffles across the floor to show me out.

  ‘Your father is evil,’ she says, just before she closes the door. She looks at me at last, and her eyes are cold. ‘He’s still alive, isn’t he?’

  Leaving The Hall, I turn onto the forest road, not knowing where to go. Should I drive back to Exeter? My mind reels. How easily he has scrubbed people out of his life, erasing them from history if they spoil his idea of how it should look. Edith’s words repeat in my head. Your father is evil. I squeeze the steering wheel, trying to imagine Mary – her terror at being locked up, her hope that they’d let her out when they realised the mistake. I have a hazy idea of mental hospitals in the fifties and sixties. Did they give her cold baths, electric shock treatments, before they eventually cut out part of her brain? I grip the wheel tighter.

  It’s then that I see the red car again, tailing me at a distance. My anger at my father leaps into anger at whoever it is that’s hounding me. I press my foot to the accelerator and the car revs, sending me shooting along a straight length of road. I swerve around the first corner, the gearstick sweaty under my hand. The road bends and weaves, and I grip the wheel tighter, shoulders rigid. The red car has fallen back. The driver is struggling to take the corners as fast as me; they don’t have the same reckless adrenaline in their veins. I slam around the next hairpin bend and spot a Land Rover parked up in a narrow forest turning. I check the wing mirror. No red car. I turn the wheel sharply and skid into the turning, just missing a tree. The wheels lose traction on the slick grass, and I crash through a swathe of young bracken. I jam on the handbrake, parking behind the larger vehicle, my car half-hidden by the empty Range Rover and shoots of acid green. Sinking low in the seat, I turn to look through the back windscreen. The red car flies past, and I catch the profile of the driver. A flash of forehead, nose, receding chin. But that’s impossible. It can’t be him.

  As soon as the car’s disappeared, I pull the door handle and tumble out, pushing my jeans down over my thighs, crouching to let out a long stream of urine. I gaze up at the road through the screen of bracken, alert for engine sounds. I pull up my trousers and scramble back behind the wheel. When I turn the key in the ignition, the engine stutters and fails. I try again, nudging my foot against the clutch. The mechanism turns and catches, roaring as I accelerate and reverse out with a squeal of brakes. I’m driving fast back the way I came, checking the mirror; but the red car doesn’t materialise. I’ve lost him.

  Was it really Ambrose Stone? Why would he follow me all this way? He thinks I’m Cecily, I remind myself. And she has told me lie after lie.