‘Hungry?’ He squats before me, takes the knife from his belt and, with a thrust and a tug, he opens the soft rabbit belly. A slithering of twisted flesh spills between his fingers, releasing the metallic smell of guts and bowels. I grimace. He shakes his head at me, amused at my squeamishness, as he pulls out the dark, dripping heart. If Faith were here she wouldn’t look away; she’d be craning to get closer, itching to examine the ropy mess in his hands.

  ‘I’ll light a fire, after dark.’ He is busy, ripping back the skin, turning the creature inside out. A naked milky thing emerges, blue veined. I see the shocking contours of limbs and torso, the neck and shoulders, and I think of a child, the dead body of a child.

  ‘I got you these…’ He kicks a pile of fabric towards me. There is a pair of boys’ jeans, slightly damp and smelling of detergent. I imagine him taking them from a washing line, quick fingers pulling them from the pegs, a furtive dash to the gate. And there is a navy jumper, thick and oily. I don’t ask where it came from. I clutch them to me gratefully. The nights are cold in the early hours, when the mist rolls in from the sea and the pagoda slips from black to grey.

  3

  Clara opens her eyes and frowns. This is how every morning begins. With one word in her head: ‘No.’ Sometimes she says it aloud. Her days are no longer a gift, but a shock of reality. Her daughter is dead. Every object in the bedroom, dim and implacable behind the drawn curtains, insists that it is true. The alarm clock begins to jangle. It’s seven o’clock and she must get up. Her other daughter is alive and must have breakfast, have her homework diary signed, her shoes polished. Faith needs her mother to love her.

  It’s not the loving that Clara is finding difficult. It is the actions that love requires her to make. Her limbs are heavy, useless; her heart is a stone crushing her insides so that she can’t pull air into her lungs. From her pillow she can hear the muffled voice of a man, the modulated tones of Radio Four. Max is listening to the news in the bathroom as he does every morning. She finds it strange that old habits continue to carry them through each day, the things they do, never-ending tasks and rituals performed over and over again. She can’t listen to the news, isn’t interested in politics, doesn’t want to hear of other tragedies. The world is full of conflict: Arthur Scargill’s battle with Thatcher, the Sikh militants’ battle for the Golden Temple in Punjab. She saw the headlines announcing the introduction of GCSEs to replace O-levels and knows she must take an interest for Faith.

  Behind the blare of the radio, she can hear Max moving around, the gurgle of water in pipes, a sudden splashing and the sound of a door closing. She must get out of bed and into her clothes before he comes in. She doesn’t like him to see her naked anymore.

  Clara struggles with a tangle of jeans. She’s taken to wearing the same clothes for days on end. As she pushes her arms through the sleeves of her shirt she is aware of birds singing in the garden: ecstatic music. She imagines for a moment what it must be like to be a thrush, the air spinning with summer warmth, alive with pollen and the vibration of insects. Not to be herself. Then she remembers that baby birds fall out of nests at this time of year. She’s seen the parents fluttering helplessly above their tiny offspring, a cat slinking low through petunias and lupins.

  Max puts his head around the door. He’s doing up his tie. He must have dressed in the bathroom. It occurs to her that her husband feels as uncomfortable naked as she does. It’s part of the shutting down of anything natural between them, like open grief. There is too much anger in her, too much guilt in Max for them to risk anything but their new politeness. ‘Want me to start doing Faith’s breakfast?’ he’s breathing deeply as if he’s been running.

  ‘No, I’m nearly there.’ She sits to tug on some socks.

  He looks at her, rubs at his bottom lip with his thumb. ‘You don’t have to get up… I can manage.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ Clara pushes her hair behind her ears. ‘Of course I’m not going back to bed.’

  For several weeks after Eva went missing, Clara had hung onto the possibility that she was alive. That somehow she’d been picked up by another boat or had been washed up miles away and not made it home yet. But with every passing day it became more unlikely. Eva had disappeared into the mouth of the sea, swallowed whole by a weight of water. When Clara finally allowed herself to understand that, she’d gone to bed and stayed there. She’d taken an old T-shirt of Eva’s with her and buried her face in the worn folds, breathing in traces of Eva’s skin, the scent of her hair, a smudged imprint of lip-gloss still caught on the neckline.

  One morning she’d heard Max and Faith talking outside her door. Faith had lost her PE skirt. Max had no idea where it was. And Clara knew that it was hanging up in the airing cupboard and that she must get out of bed, fetch the skirt and put it in Faith’s satchel. It was time to get up, to face the world, to be a mother to the child that was left.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She’d pulled Faith into her shoulder, kissed the unruly hair as she handed her daughter the skirt. ‘I’m going to do better now. Promise.’

  ‘It’s all right, Mum.’ Faith had rubbed Clara’s back with consoling palms as if she was the adult and her mother the child. ‘I understand.’

  Clara had felt ashamed. She’d finished with staying in bed. Every day was a struggle. But she was determined not to let Faith down again. Faith, her miracle child, the one she never thought she’d have. A quiet baby, Faith had slept soundly at night, been content to sit on her bottom until she was nearly fifteen months. Despite her thin limbs, Faith had been surprisingly hardy, rarely falling ill. As a toddler, she’d squatted on her haunches to examine insects and flowers, happily playing in mud puddles, humming. It was too easy, because Faith didn’t ask for attention, to forget that she needed it as much as her noisy sister. ‘Eva’s the squeaky wheel,’ Max’s mother liked to say.

  The kitchen is full of steam, Max waving his hands through billowing white. ‘Bloody kettle,’ he says. ‘Electrics must have gone.’

  There is a heap of un-ironed clothes in a basket on the floor. Silver scratches at the door, wanting to be let out. Faith is peering into the fridge. ‘Is there any cheese?” she asks. ‘I’ve got to make a packed lunch.’

  ‘I forgot to get any,’ Clara bites her lip, ‘sorry.’ She turns the door handle, the dog pushing past her knees into the garden. Eva’s dog. She watches the animal padding across the lawn, tail swinging. There’s an unopened letter on the hall table from the vet. Clara suspects that it’s time the dog had its boosters. The list of things to do starts to rotate inside her head, flipping round and round. A familiar stabbing begins at her temples.

  Faith is putting an apple and buttered bread into a container, at the same time as cramming a biscuit into her mouth. It’s time for her to leave for school. Clara has failed to remember the packed lunch, failed to feed her child.

  ‘That’s not breakfast.’ Clara blinks through the ache that shimmers across her vision. ‘Let me get you some cereal.’

  She reaches for a plate, and as she turns to pick up the cornflake packet Max is there at her elbow, stretching across her. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll do it…’ he’s saying, and she’s about to protest when Max’s long arm knocks the milk to the floor: glass smashes, milk exploding, rushing across the flagstones. Gleaming puddles form around their feet. She bends to pick up a large piece of broken bottle and gasps. A shard of glass protrudes from her finger. A small blue dagger. She pulls it out. Red pulses from the throbbing tip. Drops run down her hand, staining her clothes, splattering onto the floor. The milk curdles pink.

  ‘God, Clara!’ Max is close. ‘That looks deep. Hold your hand up.’

  She feels his fingers around her wrist, warm and strong. She wants him to hold her like that, not to go away. His touch has always made her feel safe. She keeps still and stiff. Closes her eyes. ‘Run and get a plaster,’ she hears him telling Faith.

  She pulls her wrist away. ‘Don’t fuss. I’m all right.’ The room tips and spins. She sucks in air, concentrates on clearing the wavering mist, pushing away the blur so that the clarity of everyday objects can centre her.

  ‘You’re not all right.’ He takes hold of her wrist again and walks her over to the sink, turns on the cold tap. She watches the flaps of her flesh spring apart under the sluice of water, the spiralling of red inside the clear gush. It nips with a sharpness that is almost a relief. The pain in her finger drawing away the dark, deep pain in her heart.

  Faith has come back, handing the tin of plasters to her father with an air of importance. ‘Get your satchel, Faith,’ he tells her as he holds Clara’s hand under the tap. ‘I’ll drive you to school, or you’ll be late.’

  When Faith has gone, Max leans in closer, wraps a plaster around her finger. ‘You need help, Clara,’ he says quietly. ‘We should get an au pair. This is a huge house. You have too much to do.’

  She turns away, looking into the garden. A blackbird pecks at the lawn with an orange beak. She can hear the low whine of the dog wanting to come in again.

  ‘It would be the most sensible thing.’ He looks at her. ‘Even if it’s just for the summer holidays. We talked about it before. I thought you agreed. Let me call an agency. I’m worried about you. Please.’

  Clara gives a small shake of her head. ‘I don’t know if I can have someone else in the house.’ Her voice cracks. ‘A stranger. And the money… it’s an extra expense we don’t need.’

  ‘Clara, look at me.’

  Slowly she raises her eyes and sees that he has cut himself shaving and there are bits of tissue stuck to his face: dots of scarlet bloom in the middle of the white. ‘We’re both bleeding,’ she murmurs.

  ‘It would be good for Faith,’ he says steadily, ‘company for her.’

  ‘All right.’ Clara stands up. ‘I’ll think about it.’ She looks at the mess on the floor, the uneaten cornflakes in the bowl. She must pick up the glass before she lets the dog in. Silver is barking outside, a frustrated yelping. He’s hungry. She doesn’t know where to start–the milk or the glass? Mop or broom?

  She glances at the clock. ‘Where’s Faith? You both have to go.’

  It’s my fault, she thinks. I’m useless. Selfish. She has the desire to slap herself hard. Wake up, she tells herself, fiercely. She grabs the broom and begins to sweep the gritty mess into a pile, bubbles of liquid around her feet. Faith is neglected; Max is unhappy. She doesn’t know what to do about any of it. Perhaps Max is right. Getting some paid help is the first step.

  She hears the sound of the car engine starting outside and drops the broom with a clatter, runs to the front door. Faith is fastening her seatbelt. At the wheel, Max turns his head, surprise on his face. ‘I’ll call an agency,’ she calls out. ‘I’ll do it today.’

  Faith looks up at her mother, putting her hand on the passenger window, her fingertips white against the glass. Clara stretches out her own hand, spreading her fingers to mirror her daughter’s, fingertips touching fingertips. But what she feels is the cold glass between them. ‘Goodbye, darling. Have a good day,’ she mouths as the car begins to move.

  Clara forces her muscles to pull her lips apart, to make the shape of a smile. She waves as cheerfully as she can, her finger throbbing; the plaster sticky with seeping blood.

  4

  You can go anywhere in your mind. Closing my eyes I’m back in my bedroom where I tug open the chest of drawers, rooting through fabrics: here is the green Lurex skirt that I found in a jumble sale, my soft yellow T-shirt with FIORUCCI picked out in pink letters. I find the black dress cut off one shoulder, and untangle a pair of white fishnet tights to wear as gloves, a length of black fabric to twist in my hair. I will look like Madonna with my armful of bangles and a lipstick sneer.

  I imagine Marco’s gaze on me as I walk into a club. Music pumps from a sound system, something by Joy Division or The Cure. There are flashes of strobe in the darkness. A smoke machine fills the air with mist. ‘You look incredible,’ he says, with his lips brushing my neck, white skin glowing. I can put any words I like into Marco’s mouth. But he really did tell me that I looked incredible, and I remember the lurch of my heart as he said it.

  I concentrate on holding my daydream behind the tight press of my shut lids. I want to keep it there. But already it’s fading, Marco’s face slipping away, my sense of home dissolving. I can hear Billy moving about at the other side of the room. Reluctantly, I open my eyes. The pagoda pulls into focus around me. This is reality: these scratched, windowless walls, my filthy clothes and an old blanket on the floor. It’s the dim fading light and shadows hugging corners and crevices. I rub my face, pressing into the planes and hollows of my skull, needing to hold myself together. I want to go home, the real one, not the place in my imagination. I want it so badly that it creates a pain, sharp as curse cramps.

  Squinting into the oblongs of sky visible in the gaps between wall and roof, I guess that it must be late evening. That means there’s a whole night to get through. Even though it’s summer, the floor is always cold, and the chill of it seeps through my blanket. However I position myself there’s a draught on my back that makes me shiver. Inside darkness I strain to hear the sound of Billy. I listen for his breathing and his mutters and sudden shouts. If I can’t sleep, the hours stretch and open up into a void of waiting, waiting for the light to come; but if I can sleep, really sleep, then it’s a kind of escape.

  My stomach rumbles–we’ve run out of food–all I’ve eaten today is a handful of wild sea peas. There was nothing in the traps this morning and no fishing today; it must be a Saturday or Sunday because there were sailing boats in sight of the shore, and Billy said it was too risky to fish. He gives me my quota of fresh water every morning and I have to make it last, sip by sip. I can’t stop thinking about the contents of our kitchen cupboards at home. Even if supper had been over-cooked or soggy, I took it for granted that there would always be packets of cereal and tins of biscuits to snack on, a loaf of bread to carve into.

  Billy stands over me. He nudges me with the toe of his boot, a casual prod at my thigh. From this angle I can see the bones of his cheeks protruding, the sinews in his arms. Despite the disguise of his beard and layers of baggy clothes, I can tell he’s lost weight since we’ve been here. I suppose I have too. I’ve got used to feeling hungry. But I can’t stand the feeling of dirt on my skin. I itch under a layer of salt and grime.

  ‘Get up, girl,’ he says, holding a length of rope up. ‘Boats have gone. We’re going fishing.’

  The sky is already dark, clouds obscuring the stars, so that we fumble our way without moonlight. We follow the concrete road, past empty huts, stepping over barbed wire. Tramping up the incline, we circle the gorse bushes and walk on across a crunching expanse of shingle. Waves surge onto the steep shore, pulling back over stones with a sigh and a rattle. It’s hard to walk with my hands tied behind my back, following Billy, who doesn’t slow for me. He picks a spot by the water and stops, squatting on his haunches with an ‘omph’ as he drops his rod, bucket and bundle of wood. I kneel beside him, blinking, my eyes getting used to the inky blindfold, picking out different shades of grey. Gradually the unfathomable night becomes a limpid blue. The dark sea shifts, silvery skinned and restless, stretching out towards the horizon.

  It is odd to think that Faith and I sat on this same stretch of beach in daylight, our boat pulled up on the other side of the island. I wonder what Faith is doing now. She’s afraid of the water. She could never take a boat out on her own, so she won’t come here, thank God, because what if she came to the island and Billy took her as well? She is safe at home humming some old dance tune she learnt from Granny and Jack, collecting bits of bone and flint, helping Dad make cakes in the steamy kitchen, flour on her fingers.

  Billy said he threw my lifejacket out to sea so that it would be found floating alone. It would look as though I’d never worn it, or that it hadn’t been done up properly and I’d slipped out of it. You wouldn’t have survived without a lifejacket, he says. Not a chance. People get lost at sea. Bodies are never recovered.

  Nobody is looking for me. Not anymore. I think of the last things I said to Dad, mean things. I told him that I hated him. When I was four he taught me to ride my bike without stabilisers, running next to me along the lane, shouting encouragement. He made me a sledge, hauled me behind him with the rope over his shoulder. He built snowmen with me. Helped me with my homework. Made me birthday cakes. Sat with me when I had nightmares. But he didn’t tell me the truth. He lied. Mum lied. The thought makes me feel weak, bloodless, as if a vampire has emptied my veins.

  Billy baits the hook with rag worm and casts off, sending the line far out into the night. The float lands invisibly. We sit in silence together, waiting. The rope itches the skin on my wrists. My shoulders have begun to ache. I search the horizon for a sign of a boat. There is one ship, silhouetted between sky and sea. Even if someone trains a pair of binoculars in this direction and picks out our small shapes, they will think nothing of it: two anonymous fishermen on a beach. Time passes, and my arms have gone numb, pins and needles tingling my fingers. I shift on the cold pebbles, trying to get comfortable. If I had an object to hide between the stones, something that was particular to me, perhaps someone would find it and understand that it’s a clue. But no one comes, and Billy took away my silver earrings and watch. Even the clothes that I’m wearing don’t belong to my old life.

  The clouds have rolled back, exposing brighter patches of sky. There are so many stars. They seem bigger here, brighter. The Milky Way makes a wide swathe of paler light. Billy isn’t looking at the stars; he’s hunched into his jacket, smoking. The bitter scent brushes my face, stinging my eyes, making me crave a drag. I haven’t had a cigarette since I got here. I know he wouldn’t give me one. He ekes out his tobacco, almost counting the strands each time he rolls up. He stares at the waves as though he’s willing a fish to bite. He must be as hungry as me. I close my eyes and rest my forehead on my knees. We sit together, side by side without talking, like an old married couple.