‘Must be over six foot long.’ Jude whistled. ‘We could use some of these at school. That would give the monks a nasty shock.’ He laughed without humour.

  ‘It was fixed in the ground and covered with leaves and grass.’ I pointed to the central plate. ‘When someone trod just here, the steel spring sprang shut. You’d lose your foot, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he agreed with an odd twist in his voice. His brow furrowed as he stared at the device. I wished there was some old family story I could conjure to keep him enthralled. Perhaps I could invent a tale about an ancient relative. But Henry’s voice came from outside, calling for him.

  He blinked, his expression clearing as he looked at me. ‘Better run.’

  The door creaked open and shut. I kept my gaze on the rusted edges of the trap. I imagined I could see blackened blood there, a century-old stain.

  I didn’t notice my father, not until he was standing right beside me, and his fingers had encircled my arm in an iron grip.

  14

  ALICE

  On Sunday morning I wake late with a sour mouth. When I get out of bed, my knees are strangely sore. In the bathroom, I splash my face and pee, and wonder if I’m coming down with flu. I stumble downstairs feeling as if I’ve been poisoned.

  Gabriel comes into the kitchen, looking at me in my pyjamas making coffee and screws up his forehead in surprise. ‘No church today?’

  Church! My body clenches. It’s been years. When I left home, it was the first time in my life I’d missed Mass, then as the years went on, I met people from different faiths, and the prayers Father Michael intoned in our chapel seemed like spells and incantations.

  Gabriel is still waiting for an answer. I touch the skin above my eyebrows with a hesitant fingertip. ‘I woke up with a headache,’ I falter. ‘Thought maybe I was coming down with something.’

  It’s true. I do have a thundering headache, like a hangover, but without the fun.

  He frowns. ‘Not like you to miss Sunday communion.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to give the rest of the congregation a bug,’ I say, a defensive note creeping into my tone. I lift the lid of the bread bin and take out a loaf, avoiding his eyes.

  ‘Should you be in bed?’

  ‘No, turns out it was just a headache,’ I say. ‘I’m feeling better.’

  I can sense his puzzled look, but Monday is almost close enough to touch. I just hope that Cecily shows up as arranged. I push the doubt away. Of course, she will come.

  ‘What do you want to do today, then?’ he asks, getting two cups down from the cupboard and sliding them across the counter to me.

  Before I can answer, he slaps his hand theatrically to his forehead. ‘Choir practice. We’ve got a performance coming up soon.’ He glances at me. ‘Want to come along?’

  ‘To the practice?’ I pour coffee into the two cups. I’ve told him I’m feeling better, so I can hardly refuse. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Really?’ he looks so disbelieving and pleased; it makes me laugh.

  ‘Really,’ I confirm with a smile. ‘Is that so strange?’

  ‘Yes, actually,’ he says, giving me a puzzled glance.

  Luckily, I don’t have to respond because Bea appears. Instead of the baggy tartan trousers and loose jumper she had on yesterday, she’s wearing a figure-hugging pencil skirt that ruches over her curvy hips. She has bare legs, and her clumpy DMs are brightened with short, glittery socks. She’s lined her eyes in thick, black kohl, winging it out at the sides.

  ‘Going somewhere nice?’ Gabriel asks.

  Lots of dads might protest about the skirt or eyeliner, but his face is open and uncensorious. I can imagine our father’s reaction if he saw us dressed like that. Cecily and I had to be careful what we wore around him.

  ‘Megan’s house,’ Bea says. ‘She’s having some people over. Just to hang out.’ There’s a glow about her, a barely suppressed excitement.

  ‘Want me to do your hair?’ I ask. ‘I used to be pretty good at backcombing.’

  She looks at me with disbelief. ‘Okay,’ she agrees slowly.

  After she’s eaten her breakfast, we traipse upstairs, with me hobbling behind. Maybe I fell out of bed last night. I slip into the bathroom and swallow two paracetamol from a packet in the cabinet and find Bea in the sanctuary of her room. Wielding the comb, I work upwards through her hair with short strokes, remembering Cecily shivering in her silver dress between my knees. I tease Bea’s thick, chestnut hair into a messy mop, pulling strands out to frame her face. When I’ve finished, she looks in the mirror and turns her head from one side to the other. ‘That’s amazing,’ she says. ‘Didn’t know you could do that. Thanks.’

  ‘Very Courtney Love,’ I say.

  ‘You don’t think I look silly?’ she says, suddenly doubtful.

  ‘You look gorgeous, Bea.’

  ‘Do you think I should bleach my hair, like she does?’ She scrunches up her face, and gestures towards the poster on her wall. ‘Not sure if Dad would be happy, though.’

  ‘I like your hair the colour it is,’ I say. ‘But if you’re going to experiment, get a professional to do it. And talk to Dad first.’

  She nods into the mirror. ‘Maybe I will.’ And she flings herself towards me in one sudden movement. I’m pressed against her solid, warm body, inhaling hairspray, the ends of her hair tickling my nose. I put my arms around her shoulders and squeeze. As I shut my eyes and hold her, the complications fall away, and it’s just me and my niece sharing a hug. An unfamiliar feeling wells up inside me like a wave, a surge of joy. But then I remember, and the hug suddenly feels corrupted, false.

  When she pulls away, she wrinkles her nose. ‘You smell different.’

  ‘Do I?’ I say, deliberately vague. ‘I don’t think I put any perfume on this morning.’

  ‘Yeah, I can smell your skin,’ she says. ‘Maybe that’s it. I’m not used to smelling the real you.’

  Gabriel drives Bea to her friend’s house. When he gets back, we eat a sandwich for lunch. I force it down, thinking that the food will help my unsettled tummy. Then we get back in the car to cross town, and as we drive along suburban streets, I gaze out of the window, searching for a familiar silhouette, hoping to recognise her walk, her profile. Cecily feels distant, unattainable as shadow, and yet she is my other half, known before oxygen, before the world claimed us. As children, whatever our disagreements, being different from everyone else united us. I should have an instinct for what she’s doing. I should be able to sense her whereabouts.

  Gabriel parks up near a large hall next to an Anglican church and gets out clutching his songbook to his chest.

  I follow him inside, limping a bit. The drugs have helped. My headache has gone. A group of people have gathered in ages that seem to range from early twenties to seventies. They are drinking tea and chatting. Gabriel introduces me as his wife to a couple of middle-aged women, who shake my hand and look at me with curiosity. Gabriel waves towards some chairs pushed against the back wall. ‘Make yourself comfortable,’ he says. ‘Take some biscuits and tea.’ He smiles. ‘I won’t blame you if you want to slip out before the end.’

  A young man with spectacles claps his hands, and instantly, the group arranges itself, gathering sheet music, waiting expectantly. I make my way over to the back of the room and choose a chair in the middle.

  I try to feel where Cecily is now – she could be nearby, passing this very hall, turning at the bottom of the street – I could be missing her by moments. There’s not the slightest trace of her in my consciousness. Even in a small town like Exeter, the odds are against me bumping into her by chance. If only I had the address of where she’s staying. Why didn’t she leave it for me like she said she would? There’s no reason that makes sense.

  The music plucks me from my thoughts. I’m surprised by how good they are. I was expecting hymns, but each song is different: a rousing gospel prayer, a lilting folk song, a run of pop and rock songs, Elton John’s ‘Benny and the Jets,’ Seal’s ‘Kiss From A Rose’. And then a gorgeous, soaring version of ‘Amazing Grace’. The harmonies are lovely, and I close my eyes to listen better. A female voice sings a solo, before a deeper voice takes over, and I open my eyes. It’s Gabriel, his face alight. His voice is bright and strong. The music moves me, creeps inside me, opening something in my chest, my heart.

  ‘You sat through the whole thing,’ Gabriel says, coming over to me, beaming.

  ‘It was wonderful. You have a beautiful voice.’

  He looks pleased and slightly embarrassed. ‘It’s a really nice thing to be part of – singing with other people is therapeutic, bonding.’

  ‘I can see that,’ I say, feeling almost envious.

  Outside, the early evening light is full of the throaty cooing of wood pigeons, the nascent, fecund promise of summer, and I’m back at Hawksmoor again in the August holidays, swimming in the tarn with Alice, the boys playing cricket on the lawn. Those moments glow gold in my memory, a seam of goodness inside darkness. My chest squeezes tight. Gabriel’s talking, but I don’t hear him as we walk to the car together. His swinging hand brushes mine, and I step away, pushing my fingers into my pocket.

  15

  CECILY

  As soon as Daddy caught me in the armoury, I knew what would happen next. Mutely, I followed him up the main stairs, along the landing, and up the last narrow flight into the old servants’ quarters. He opened the priest hole and waited for me to get in.

  The stink of damp and decay hit me. Terror lived in the hole. A monk had died in there while he was hiding from searching soldiers. As he prayed to be released, he suffocated to death. There was a plaque with his name in the chapel.

  I crossed myself, and stooped low, bending my head to duck under the beam, then getting onto my hands and knees to crawl into the tiny space.

  ‘Consider your sins,’ Daddy said, before he closed the secret beam, leaving me sealed inside. I could hear his voice, muffled through the thick slab of wood, praying for my soul, and then his footsteps moving away.

  I groped for the gold cross under my shirt. Dear Lord, have pity on me.

  The metal was hard and unforgiving between my fingers. Daddy’s face swam before me. His noble nose and eyes as bright as a flame. Like the face of Jesus, without a beard. The two faces slid across each other, became the same.

  I was lost inside blackness, compressed into a shape smaller than an upright coffin. Just the sound of my own heart hammering against the walls of my body. I forced myself to breathe slowly, to wait for my eyes to adjust to the pitchy blindfold. I knew that eventually I’d be able to make out the faint glow of my own hand in front of my face, like the promise of a candle flame. I must be calm. I must wait for this suffering to pass. But I was crying like a baby, salt stinging my cheeks.

  The only way to fit was to sit hunched over, hugging my knees tightly, spine against the wall. If I lifted my head, the top of my skull hit dusty plaster or a wooden beam. I kept my nose lowered to my kneecaps. The smell of damp mortar, rotting wood and animal droppings crept into me. My body was my anchor, the bone and flesh scaffolding of myself. I dug my fingernails into my shins reminding myself that I was still alive. I took sips of stuffy air, worried about running out of oxygen.

  My mind fragmented, drifted.

  A little girl clambered onto my knees, slipping into the tiny gap between my legs and my chest and leant her trusting head against my shoulder. She was wearing fairy wings, and the gossamer stretch of them folded against my ribs, the fragile wire crushed and mangled, meshing us together. I hummed a tune into the delicate curl of her ear, and she echoed the sound back to me, holding me with starfish fingers, her sweet breath mingling with my own. We sang together, her voice pure and wavering, until I realised it was only my voice I could hear.

  There was something wrong with me. I should be punished. Suffering was necessary for my soul. I must endure my punishment and pray for forgiveness. It was for my own good. I tried to think of something I could do to make it up to Daddy. I would have to convince him that I was obedient, that I was dutiful and committed to God.

  The little girl was crying, her sobs shaking my body as they sounded from my mouth. She pressed her burning forehead against mine. We wanted our mama. Our lungs faltered and heaved, our heart stuttering like a candle about to go out.

  Not much longer, and he’d open the door.

  But minutes and hours didn’t exist. I’d fallen through time and thought I could hear the voices of soldiers shouting commands, footsteps echoing through the house, the clatter of horses’ hooves outside on the drive. And there was another person inside the hole with me. Someone in rough textured robes, whose rasping voice muttered prayers in a language I didn’t understand. His bony finger brushed my cheek, and I spoke his prayers for him, knowing they would save me.

  16

  ALICE

  It’s my last night in this house. The dark insinuates itself, cat-like, against the kitchen window. I can sense Gabriel upstairs in his room, leaning over his desk, his reading glasses slipping down his nose as he concentrates on his marking. I’m scared of what I might say or do if I see him. I want to confess the plan, tell him who I really am, tell him that Cecily lied about his drinking, lied about everything. But this is not my life. It’s safer to shut myself away for the evening.

  In her bedroom, I collect a dressing gown to take into the bathroom. When I go to the window to draw the curtains, there’s a figure on the other side of the street. They’re standing in the shadows. Someone with a hood up. They seem to be watching the house. A shiver runs through me, and I close the curtains with quick tugs.

  I spend ages in the bath, whiling away time until I can go to bed. I have almost nothing to pack for tomorrow. Everything belongs to my sister. I’ll get my dungarees, Birkenstocks and sweatshirt out of my rucksack after the others have gone, change into them and take the old black puffer jacket that hangs in the hall. The forecast is for rain. Before I get into bed, I peer between a crack in the curtains; the figure across the street has gone. Relieved, I unfasten the gold cross, slipping off the wedding ring and watch, and put them on the dressing table for her to find when she gets home. I frown at the icons, at the painted faces of angels and baby Jesus. What if she doesn’t come?

  She has to come. I have a plane to catch. I’m sticking to our plan, even if she isn’t.

  Monday morning. Of course, Gabriel and Bea have no idea that it might be the last time I ever see them. It’s only been a week, but I’ve grown fond of them. A sharp pain presses at the centre of my chest. Who am I kidding? But that’s another reason why I’ve got to leave. They are not my family. A steady patter of rain against the windows. The sky is dull with cloud.

  In the kitchen, Gabriel is the only one there. ‘No Bea?’ I ask.

  He shakes his head, gesturing with his toast. ‘Maybe she slept through her alarm.’

  There’s the snap of the letter box. ‘I’ll get it,’ I say, as I go into the hall. ‘And I’ll check on Bea.’ There are two letters with stamps on, addressed to Gabriel, and I put them on the hall table. As I swivel for the stairs, I notice a folded piece of paper on the floor near the mat. It’s addressed to Cecily. I unfold it.

  Need to stay longer. Just a few days. Cancel travel arrangements.

  I gasp. Cecily? I wrench open the door and run to the end of the front path, peering around the privet hedge to look up and down the empty street. There’s no sign of her. A tall man is letting himself into a car parked further down the road.

  Gabriel calls from the kitchen, ‘Cecily? Everything alright?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say quickly, shoving the note into my pocket. ‘I… I’m just going to wake Bea.’

  I escape upstairs, banging on Bea’s door as I go past. ‘Are you awake? It’s late!’ Then slip into Cecily’s room and close the door. I sit on the bed and squeeze my eyes shut. I’m trapped. I don’t know what to do. And my flight, I think. I won’t get my money back now. I look at her message again. So casual. No explanations or apology.

  I hear Gabriel shouting up to say goodbye. I listen to the front door opening, the hiss of rain on a pavement, the door closing. I go to the window and catch a glimpse of him moving away under a large black umbrella to his car, parked further along the street. I wonder why Bea hasn’t left yet, and then I see her, slipping out just after her dad and walking in the opposite direction with her head down; her backcombed hair is pulled into a messy ponytail, and she has no umbrella.

  After they’ve gone, I continue to stare through the rain-splattered glass, looking down at the sodden privet hedge and the water overspilling drainage channels, rushing towards the river. I chew my lip, frustration making a tight knot in my belly. She hasn’t bothered to let me know where she is, and she’s changed the plan, again, without asking. It feels as though she’s playing with me.

  For God’s sake. I close my eyes.

  Do I go? Or do I stay?

  17

  CECILY

  The shelves in the pantry were full of stacked tins, neatly labelled jars of preserves, pickles and chutneys, dusty sacks of greening potatoes and pulses. I pounced on the bag of dried peas and stuffed it into my pocket. As I went back across the kitchen, Jane glanced up with a puzzled look but shrugged as if to say she didn’t have time to find out what I was up to, so long as I wasn’t taking any of the pies left on the table to cool.

  Jane’s mother had been a maid at Hawksmoor when Daddy was a child. She’d left to marry the gardener. Jane said she’d grown up with stories of the big house and always presumed she’d work there herself just as soon as she could escape school. In her mum’s day, there’d been a cook and a scullery maid, housemaids, two footmen, a housekeeper and butler. Now there was just Jane. She’d looked the same for as long as she’d worked for us: tall and bone-thin in a striped apron, her hands almost as big as Daddy’s, with knobs of red knuckles. She had the inflamed, broken-veined cheeks and nose of a drinker, which Mummy said was unfortunate because to her knowledge, Jane never touched a drop.