She stands by the flooded reservoir with her girls. Sky arches above them, blue and clear. Flat water ripples and shudders, blown by the wind. ‘Look,’ Faith is shouting. ‘There’s something under the water!’

  The three of them crowd around, sandals sinking into the mud at the edge of the reservoir, shoulders knocking against shoulders, Eva shrieking as her foot slips, and they peer at the lip of water, trying to see through the shadowy movement below. Faith is right. There is something just under the waves; it looks like two horns nudging the line between water and air.

  ‘It’s a deer,’ Eva says, her voice shaking.

  Clara follows the shape of the horns, curving like stiffened seaweed, and understands that they are really nascent antlers. In a head that bobs slightly, tipping towards the surface, a pair of large eyes gazes upwards. The deer seems to be looking straight at her. Clara starts, a gasp catching in her throat. Of course it’s dead. Sightless. It is standing upright, fur rippling gently. The creature must have got stuck, Clara realises, then drowned as the water rose. Its tiny, sharp feet caught deep in the mud.

  Eva is down on her haunches. She turns, her mouth sagging. ‘Poor thing,’ she whispers.

  Faith nods, ‘Horrible.’ But she is staring with fascination at the deer, unblinking, enthralled.

  Clara struggles out of the memory, opening her eyes into the dark room. She’d forgotten about finding the drowned deer. An afternoon of flat heat, the tail end of the holidays, after an August storm. She thinks of Eva with her hand pressed over her mouth. The three of them had stood together in silence, as if at the opening of a grave, before they’d turned and walked away, subdued, into the altered afternoon.

  Clara blinks away the memory, snatching the cloth from her forehead. The coolness has leached from it, the damp fabric filled with her body heat. She lets it fall to the floor in a soggy heap. She turns over with a groan, pressing her face into the pillow. Forces herself to empty her mind. Feels a tumbling into nothingness. At last she can sleep.

  There is breathing next to her, the breathing of a baby: that soft snuffling, the lift and fall of tiny lungs. Clara knows without looking that it is Eva, curled in blankets, swaddled tightly, her tiny face scrunched shut. Clara is filled with complete happiness. Her baby sleeps beside her. Nothing is more beautiful, nothing more perfect. There is the creak and whine of a door opening. A slice of light cuts across her face. She opens her eyes and squints into a yellow glare. The rustling of robes alerts her to somebody else in the room, fumbling movement, figures bending at the borders of sight. Clara forces her head off the pillow. Above her, they are lifting Eva out of the cot. There are two of them. Black cowls over their heads, the flutter of loose sleeves, thin white hands around her child. Eva begins to cry, a staggering, hiccupping protest.

  ‘You’re not fit,’ one of the figures says in a low voice. ‘Not a fit mother.’

  Clara is trying to struggle out of bed to stop them taking Eva, but she is chained up, heavy and weak, her limbs bound tightly. She can’t move, can’t call out. No, she tries to scream. Don’t take my baby.

  ‘It’s for the best,’ the voice says. ‘She’ll be better off without you.’

  ‘She has a new mother,’ another voice whispers. ‘A new family.’

  The door shuts.

  12

  I found a dead stag beetle behind the cellar door. Normally I find them in the log pile by the shed. It has red antlers so I know it’s male. In the Middle Ages they thought stag beetles did the work of the devil. Mum seemed to think so too when I showed it to her. She screwed up her face at the black armour and pincers. She didn’t get up this morning. She’s stayed in bed with one of her migraines, her bedroom door closed.

  I’m tiptoeing along the landing because I don’t want to bother her. I know where to step to avoid each creaking floorboard. My bare feet make no sound on the worn carpet. Sophie’s door is open. I peer into the room, seeing Sophie brushing her hair in front of the mirror, her head tipped to one side. The brush travels up and down, pulling through a shining curtain. Some of her hair flies out in crackling strands. I catch the gleam of pinky gold around her neck before I understand. She is wearing Eva’s pearls. She catches sight of me in the reflection and her hand goes to the necklace, curling it inside her fingers.

  I meet her stare in the mirror. She doesn’t blink or look embarrassed. I’m the first to turn away. I walk on, my heart hammering inside my ribcage. I don’t know what to do. I pause outside Mum’s door, listening. I can hear nothing but a rush of silence, the faintest trace of breathing. I bite my lip, my hand resting on the curve of the doorknob. I imagine Mum raising her head from the pillow, blinking through the gloom at me, her voice hushed and tense. I let go and hurry down the back stairs into the kitchen.

  I’m relieved to see Dad standing by the sink eating a piece of toast and listening to the radio.

  ‘Hello, Shrimp,’ he says through a mouthful of Marmite toast. ‘Want some breakfast?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Not hungry?’ He swallows. His fingers are shiny with butter. ‘I’m going to watch the Olympic opening ceremony later on the telly. I expect the president will do the honours… that man loves the limelight.’ He looks at me. ‘You do know who the President of the United States is, don’t you, Faith?’

  I shrug.

  He rolls his eyes. ‘Ronald…’ he starts to say, but then looks at me properly. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘It’s Sophie,’ I say, rubbing my left foot against the back of my other ankle. ‘I think she’s wearing Eva’s pearls.’

  He frowns.

  I balance on my right leg. ‘You know, the ones she got from aunt whatsherface.’

  His smile fades and I feel guilty because I remember that that is how he looks nowadays and that I’ve altered his mood.

  ‘Are you sure?’ He scratches the back of his neck. ‘Because that’s a serious accusation, Faith.’

  I nod, feeling sick. ‘I saw her with them.’

  He sighs and glances up briefly at the ceiling and I know he’s thinking of Mum, asleep in a darkened room with a cold cloth over her forehead. He wipes his mouth and says, ‘Right then.’ His shoulders slump. ‘I suppose I’d better go and have a word.’

  I don’t know what to do, alone in the kitchen. The rain has gone and the sun is flat white above the trees. Wood pigeons coo in the oak trees at the end of the garden. I imagine the river, sparkling, full of fluttering sails, holiday voices and people setting out to have picnics. I hate to think of Sophie wearing the pearls–even though we never met the aunt that gave them to Eva, even though Eva said the pearls weren’t her style and hasn’t worn them for years. It doesn’t matter. The necklace belongs to her. I lean against the sink looking at the roses just outside the window, creamy petals falling open. There are bees hovering. The low buzzing is a friendly sound. I am alert to any noises above me: raised voices or shouting. What will Dad say? Maybe he’ll sack her. I hope so.

  Dad’s footsteps are heavy behind me.

  ‘You must have made a mistake, Faith,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘She’s not wearing the necklace.’ He crosses to the sink but he doesn’t look at me. He scrapes his toast crumbs off his plate and then puts it in the sink. ‘She’s cleaning the bathroom.’

  I put a fingernail in my mouth and bite it, tearing a strip off. I want to put my hand on his shirtsleeve, feel the strong twist of his arm underneath. I want him to stop talking and hug me, forget about the pearls.

  ‘She was upset and I don’t blame her.’ He turns to me, looking disappointed. ‘Actually, she was very understanding in the circumstances, said anyone can make a mistake.’ His face softens. ‘We should be kind, darling. Sophie is alone here, remember, in a strange country. Think how you’d feel.’

  I open my mouth to protest, remembering the bruise on her neck, Robert Smith leaving our house with a smirk on his face. I want to tell Dad that I don’t trust Sophie. She was wearing the necklace. I know she was. But I don’t want to upset him anymore.

  ‘Look, I know it’s hard at the moment, but I need you to be grown up for me.’ He puts out his hand and draws me close. I lean into the bulk of his chest, smelling a trace of washing powder, his spicy aftershave. ‘You know how Mum is–we don’t want to put more strain on her, do we?’ I shake my head, rubbing my cheek against his shirt.

  The caravan park is on the outskirts of the village. After the rain, the air is complicated. I can smell scents pooling in water, petals and leaves, rotting things, fox pee evaporating into the thick light. Mist clings and separates as I walk slowly through the heat, up the lane past the castle and the Robinsons’ farm, brushing away flies and mosquitoes with swipes of my hands. I have to pass Joanna’s bungalow on the way and I hear her voice in the garden, laughing with another child. They are on the swing in the front. I catch a glimpse of red dress flying up, the kick of feet in white sandals. I hurry past, head down.

  There are about twenty caravans in the field, cars parked next to them, and a cluster of tents in the far corner. A dog is tied up outside the nearest van. It barks steadily. It’s an Alsatian with a long, shaggy coat. I hold out my hand towards it in the way that Eva taught me. Let them smell you first, she said.

  ‘You must be hot,’ I murmur. His damp black nose touches my fingers and he wags his tail.

  ‘You messing with my dog?’ A thin woman with a sharp nose, a cigarette jammed in her mouth, leans out of the caravan door.

  I jump and shake my head.

  ‘You want to be careful.’ She narrows her eyes, showing thin blue skin on her lids. ‘He eats girls like you for breakfast.’

  I step back quickly, my hand falling to my side.

  She laughs, a rasping sound, and waves her fingers, smoke trailing. ‘I’m only kidding, love. Soft as anything, he is.’

  Encouraged, I ask her if she knows which caravan Joe lives in. She purses her lips and shrugs. ‘Not on first-name terms with anyone; only got here the other day.’

  ‘Joe is African,’ I explain.

  ‘Oh, the little coloured boy. Yes,’ she nods towards the other side of the park. ‘I’ve seen him. Think they’re in the big brown van with the green estate car next to it.’

  The caravan is parked out of the shade. The sides and roof blaze. There is a black plastic bucket outside the open door. I lean over to look inside. The bucket is half-full of water and two large crabs lie motionless at the bottom. I nudge the bucket to see if they’re alive. One of them moves its claws inside the swell of movement.

  ‘Hello.’ Joe stands beside me. His skin gleams.

  ‘You’re not supposed to keep them,’ I tell him. ‘They’ll die. You’re supposed to let them go after you’ve caught them.’

  ‘Don’t belong to you though, do they?’ Joe says, his mouth folding into a line.

  ‘She thinks everything belongs to her. ‘The plump boy steps out of the caravan. ‘Crabs. Boats.’ He winks at me. He has a burnt nose. Skin peels in shrivelled layers.

  ‘It’s like a rule,’ I say. ‘An unwritten rule.’

  ‘Don’t like rules, do we Joe?’

  Joe smiles broadly.

  A man’s voice calls out from inside the caravan, and then a head appears in the doorway. A large, bald man sweating dark patches stands in his shirtsleeves. He’s holding a fat baby in his arms. There are mermaids tattooed on his bristling forearms. ‘Come and watch Carol for me,’ he says to the two boys. ‘I need to get down to the village shop. Look sharp, Fred.’

  The man looks at me curiously and gives a small nod of greeting, but he’s already handing the baby to Fred, who grasps her with both arms, holding her so that she faces outwards, her creased legs dangling down. She smiles at me, showing gums with two teeth pushing through. ‘This is Carol,’ Fred tells me.

  ‘Hello, Carol.’ I touch one of her curling pink fingers. ‘I’m Faith.’

  The inside of their caravan is unbearably hot. It feels sealed up. A fat bluebottle blunders against a grubby window. The place is packed with things. A tiny fold-out table is piled with plates and cups, jars of ketchup, a bag of apples and cartons of tea. There are folded towelling nappies, board games, crabbing lines, children’s clothes and toys spilling over every surface.

  I look around for a space in which to sit and give up. Fred jiggles Carol on his hip. He stands at an angle, jutting his hip out to make balancing a baby easier. It is obvious that he’s an old hand at it. ‘Sandra’s at the castle with Penny, our foster sister,’ he explains mysteriously. ‘That was Les. Our foster dad.’

  The last caravan I was in belonged to Granny. It had rose-patterned curtains at the windows, jasmine oil wafting from the folds. Her bed was covered in a faded eiderdown, mended with neat stitches, and she had jars of homemade jam on the shelves labelled in her writing.

  Carol has begun to sob and Fred bounces her up and down, throwing her so high that her cheeks wobble. Her eyes widen. She looks surprised and then scared and then surprised again. But she stops crying.

  A sharp knock on the outside of the window makes us all turn quickly. I catch a spreading leer, a flash of red hair. Joanna. I let out a gasp. There is the sound of giggling. Fred and Joe and I crowd into the caravan doorway to see two girls running off. The other one is Ellie Dawkins.

  Joanna pauses to ask over her shoulder, ‘Do your new friends know that you’re mental, Faith Gale?’ She runs on and stops again, pointing at Fred, laughing, ‘Is that your boyfriend?’

  ‘What’s he called?’ Ellie calls out. ‘Fatty?’

  ‘No,’ Joanna shouts. ‘Look, that’s her boyfriend–the black one!’

  Joe pushes past me and is down the steps and onto the grass. He’s running fast, legs flashing behind him, and the girls scream, terrified and delighted. He stoops and picks up a stone, lets it fly with a firm twist of arm. The stone hits Ellie’s ankle and we hear her yelp.

  ‘Friends of yours, are they?’ Fred hands me the baby and I find that she is heavy and warm in my arms. She tangles some of my hair in her fat, sticky fist.

  ‘Sandra’s taking me and Joe to see Indiana Jones tomorrow,’ he says. ‘I’ll ask her if you can come too.’ He shrugs. ‘If you like.’

  I lay my cheek against Carol’s head, breathing in an unfamiliar baby smell. Under her hair, thin and sparse as an old lady’s, she has brown scabs on her scalp. She gets hold of my wrist and pulls it to her so that she can suction her lips around the cold circle of my watch. She is surprisingly strong. I feel the slip of saliva on my skin and remember Eva. How she made me promise not to tell Mum and Dad about her boyfriend. Her wet palm pressed against mine.

  13

  I have that fraction of time when I wake in the morning, just before I remember where I am, when I feel normal. When, for a second, I think that I’m in my own bed at home: sketches and paintings are tacked up on the walls, clean brushes waiting in an old jam jar. On the floor, among a mess of discarded tights and shoes and sliding piles of books, Silver sprawls, his nose twitching as he sleeps. Downstairs, Mum is clattering around in the kitchen. Then the horror rushes in. I feel the deadness of it in my stomach, a cold, dead weight of pain, as if I’ve swallowed stones.

  I read a novel once about an African slave in England. She ate dirt because she wanted to die. I wonder what would happen if I crammed my mouth full of shingle, choking it down. But I don’t want to die. I want to see Mum and Dad and Faith again. I want to feel Marco’s lips on mine. My ankle hurts. The swelling isn’t so bad, but I’m walking with a limp. It aches at night and if I slip on uneven pebbles hot spikes shoot through the bone.

  Billy has begun to keep a closer watch. He’s tying my hands again when we go fishing, even though I hobble to make it over the shingle. He’s right if he thinks I’m planning to escape. I have an idea. I’m going to push him into the pit. It is the most simple and logical solution. Only the plan is flawed because he rarely stands anywhere near it, and never with his back to me. He’s not stupid. Also, although I am tall for a girl, he is taller and broader, and I’m at a disadvantage with my ankle.

  If I had a run up, maybe I could do it. He warned me ages ago to never come up behind him. ‘Don’t surprise me, girl. Soldiers don’t like surprises,’ he’d said, and his thumb rubbed the hilt of his knife.

  Hard to believe that he was a soldier. He’d be a disgrace to any army with his straggly beard and rancid clothes. He has no pride in his looks. Not like Marco. I can’t bear to think what I look like. I’m glad there is no mirror here. My scalp itches all the time. The skin on my hands is dull with filth, my nails broken. I must smell. Sometimes I catch a whiff of myself: a pungent, thick scent, like an animal. My teeth are furry and I have ulcers that I can’t stop probing with my tongue. I dream about my teeth falling out.

  I’m a couple of miles from home, but I may as well be the other side of the world. When aeroplanes pass high in the sky, leaving vapour trails, I wonder if any of the passengers can see me, a speck on the ground. I don’t exist in the outside world. I suppose I’m a memory. Sometimes I’m afraid that I died in the accident and really I’m a ghost. Billy is a ghost too. We exist in a limbo with the invisible scientists and soldiers waiting for something that never happens.

  Each day Billy and I follow the same dull routine. It’s all arranged around finding food–picking it or killing it–and then the eating and drinking and expelling waste. At least Billy has his book to read, although it makes him angry. He shakes his head, repeats sentences aloud. It’s better when he reads his letters. He keeps them folded in an old tin. He smiles when he looks at them, smoothing his fingers over the scrawled inky writing. He must have re-read the same ones over and over again.

  We walk around the island and depending on his mood, he’ll either bind my hands tightly behind my back, or he’ll leave them free and just attach the rope to my waist. We stoop to pick wild sea peas, pulling them from under their purple flowers, and I’ve shown Billy how to eat samphire; he can’t be a local because I had to show him how you can tear the green flesh away from spiky stalks with your teeth. ‘You cook it in boiling water,’ I explained. ‘It’s a bit like asparagus. But you can eat it raw too.’ I think he thought I was trying to poison him; he watched me chewing with suspicion, before licking a plant with a cautious tongue.