By the time she’d met Jimmy two years later—and oh, what a glorious thing that turned out to be—she and Jason were virtual strangers. New friends, new lives, as if none of it had ever happened. Unlike Gina and Rob, she and Jason may not have left Streatford in body, but somewhere in their spirit they did. And slowly she’d forgotten. Put that summer away in a box of hazy childhood

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  memories, barely ever revisited. Real life had taken over. The serious business of growing up and being grown up. Until today. Today, the rusty hinges of that mental treasure chest were creaking open.

  First, that awful rape up at the house. They say she’ll never be able to have children. What did those boys do to her? I hear there was a bottle involved. Girls these days never seem to learn. … And then one week later Rob was back. Could it just be a coincidence? But why the hell would Rob, the big success, want to come back here?

  Not that Rob had done much better than the rest of them. Not really. She’d read the stories in the papers, sometimes with a touch too much curiosity for Jimmy’s liking. He’d never forgotten that she’d once had such a crush on Robby; although how anyone who didn’t give a shit about her himself could get jealous over some schoolgirl thing from so long ago, she’d never understand. But hey, that was her Jimmy, lucky girl that she was. Yeah, she’d read all the stories, and if even only half of them were true then despite all his money, Rob Black was in a pretty sorry state. The drugs, the booze, the girls, all those girls, pretty and blond, sharing an empty few months before the next one took her place. She watched his life in pictures as it all took its toll. When Jimmy had last ripped a tabloid from her hands and seen what she’d been looking at, he’d snorted in disgust. ?How can someone have all that and still look so fucking miserable??But then, Jimmy didn’t get Rob. Jimmy would never get Rob because, after all, Jimmy didn’t know.

  But she knew. She knew, even if he himself didn’t, that Rob didn’t want to be happy. He didn’t think he deserved to be happy. And she knew that because she was there that summer, and maybe she knew because she’d never gone away. She didn’t have so many places to hide. Even Jason eventually had gotten away from time to time, if you can call the odd stretch in Parkhouse, getting away. Sometimes she wondered whether he made sure he got caught

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  just so he could go somewhere he could breathe. It was a crazy idea if he had, because now he’d trapped himself in Streatford. Who would employ an ex-con these days except someone who knew you, or your mother, or your auntie? And you had to give that to this town. It definitely knew you.

  That summer had tainted them all, and now she had a feeling in her blood that it was happening all over again. Again, but different. Maybe they had gotten it wrong back then. Maybe they hadn’t understood at all. Something was starting; she could feel it fizzing in her. She’d felt it when she poured the boiling water from the kettle over Jimmy’s arm only half an hour ago, and she could feel it in her last night when she took the kitchen scissors to the boys’ clean clothes in the washing basket waiting for ironing, and then hurriedly hid them away when she realized what she’d done.

  She sighed and pushed the paper away, no answers to be found there. Because maybe there was nothing but her. Maybe she was just going a little bit crazy. How had her life come to this? A husband who beat her, two kids she didn’t like, not even a little bit, her looks disappearing long ago into her saggy waistline. Where was the point of it all?

  She remembered a time, back at the beginning of that fateful summer, when she’d believed that life would hold better things for her. The future looked exciting, so full of possibilities. She’d wanted a family, yes, but not one like this. Not like this at all. She’d wanted a happy family, a man who would work hard, a man who wanted to get off the estate as much as she did. She’d wanted a life where the sun shone and she’d been damn sure she was going to get it. When had that carefree girl died? A long time ago, that’s when. She’d died before CaroleAnne Bradley had even set eyes on Jimmy Locke. Maybe she too hadn’t felt she deserved to be happy. Maybe that’s why she’d chosen Jimmy.

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  Pushing the chair away from the table, she hauled herself to her feet and picked up the cheap plastic handbag that she’d once thought might be a passable imitation of soft leather. Whatever was or wasn’t going on with that house named Syracousse, she had things to do. The last installment of the electric had to be paid; they’d had another one of those nasty letters threatening to cut them off, and so that was going to be the last of her cleaning money gone. Not that the two hours she did each night between nine and eleven brought in very much, as Jimmy was so fond of pointing out. She pushed her bitterness aside as she pulled up her jacket and opened the front door. Maybe the walk down to town would help clear her muggy, disturbed thoughts.

  The gravel track hadn’t changed in twenty years; the only difference she could see was that it had gotten smaller. But she knew that wasn’t possible. A road was a dead thing; it didn’t gain and lose weight, withering to nothing like those who trod along its way. No, the track hadn’t shrunk; it was that she had grown. The last time she’d come down here, CaroleAnne Bradley had been just about to turn thirteen. A slim, shining girl with her whole life ahead of her. Now that girl was dead, and this enormous husk was all that was left behind. As she walked, the wind stung her eyes, creating a camouflage for the tears that were threatening there.

  Why she had turned away from the high street and headed for the river she didn’t really know; it was as if she had done it on automatic pilot, the course change completely out of her control. Maybe a search for answers had driven her, a need to understand what had happened to them all that time ago, a need to unlock the secrets in her head, a child’s secrets too complex to understand. To see whether what she suspected was right. And the only place she could do that was at Syracousse, the house that was the root of it all.

  Her breath was rapid as she saw the walls and gates

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  coming up ahead of her, her pace brisk, unsure of whether her fear would make her turn back if she slowed her feet down to her normal speed. Why was her heart pounding? ?It’s just a house,?she whispered to the wind. ?It’s just a house.?

  She passed the main gates without glancing at the solitary building and followed the curve of the bricks, leaving the gravel that headed up the drive. She picked her way through the overgrown grass and stinging nettles. They had never used the front entrance, and that wasn’t where she wanted to do her thinking now. She had to go back, back in her memory, back to where it had all started. Her heart had slowed down now that she had finally arrived, and she could almost hear the ghosts of carefree childhood laughter. The laughter of three ordinary children coming to play with their extraordinary, beautiful friend.

  The old oak tree stood where it always had, and would stand for decades to come. Just a little to its left, she fought through the long weeds and brambles until she found the tiny gate, the wood almost black where the damp had seeped into it time and time again over the abandoned years. Peering through the mess of the gardens, she could just make out the top of the old swing they had played on, although it was now listing dangerously to one side, and somewhere beyond her vision was the large pond, probably now dried up or covered with algae, something at least living in this rotting home.

  We are both shells, she thought, as she gazed at the walls that rose not so very far from her. We are both empty shells in which people used to live. What happened to us? She rested her hand on the gate and felt a surge of warmth go through her. The wood was feeding the heat to her, and her body started to tingle with the strength of it.

  She wasn’t surprised when it swung silently open on hinges that should have roared with pain, and beckoned her in. The glow had reached her head now, dulling her senses like a good joint used to back when she first met

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  Jimmy. But better, better than that, because for the first time in a very long time, she felt a little of the old Carole Anne stirring, waking up in her light-headedness. Her feet itched to move forward, to walk through those gardens she’d tried so hard to forget. Why, why had she wanted to forget something so beautiful, so peaceful? How silly that she hadn’t come back before. Why hadn’t she come back before? She wanted to find a way in, and sit in the kitchen and dream for a while. Everything was fading from her, Jimmy, the kids, Rob and Jason. Nothing was important except to be here. Where she had been happy.

  Far below, her feet started to move slowly forward as she gazed through half-shut lids at the past. Everything would be better now. Everything. She had come back home. The scented air filled her lungs as her mind drifted, confused by sensation.

  The kestrel dived with an ear-splitting screech toward its small prey, its wings beating past her cheeks as if she weren’t there, so intent was it on its kill. Gasping with shock, CaroleAnne stumbled backwards, her senses reeling as the chill flooded through her limbs, numbing her fingers as if it had never really left. Once again on the other side of the gate, the safe side, her head felt as if it had just been submerged in icy water, her thoughts clear again. Her thoughts her own.

  What was I doing? What did I think I was doing? Her heart was pounding again, and her head began to ache, to throb in time with her internal beat. She looked at the gate, which still stood open and inviting, with wide eyes as the awful realization dawned inside her.

  Oh Jesus, we got it wrong. We got it so wrong all that time ago. She resisted the impulse to laugh, to laugh or cry, undecided as to which urge was stronger. We were children, and we didn’t understand. But oh God, I think I understand now.

  She had to talk to Jason and Rob. She had to find them and explain. They’d listen to her. They wouldn’t think she

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  was crazy. They were the only ones who could stop it. She’d put an end to this if she had to drive the bulldozer herself.

  She reached for the gate and defiantly grabbed it, pulling it shut.

  ?Shit!?she yelped as a splinter embedded itself in her finger, pushing out her blood. She pulled her hand away and sucked it, then peered at it, trying to squeeze out the wood, but it was lodged deep. God, it hurt. Why did the little cuts always hurt the worst? Shaking her wrist to try to alleviate the sting, she glared at the house before turning away. She’d get the fragment out with tweezers when she got home. Pay the electric, get rid of the splinter, then ring Jason and Rob. That’s what she had to do today. It was time to end it. To finish what had started around them, what had never really let them go. Deep in her pocket, the tip of her finger turned purple as the silent secret expanded through her capillaries, merging into the warmth.

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  ?You ought to put something on that hand. It looks like you might have a bit of blood poisoning there.?Connor O’Neale’s concerned face appeared beside CaroleAnne as she stared at the row of colorful bottles in front of her. For a moment she looked down absently at the mottled red that was spreading up from her wrist and then grunted without concern.

  ?I have weeds. Weeds that I just can’t kill.?Her voice was a monotone and she didn’t look at the man who had once had a soft spot for her when he was two years behind her in school. Well, a soft spot probably wouldn’t be the right way to put it. A hard spot would be technically more correct. CaroleAnne Bradley had been his masturbatory fantasy for six glorious months of his third year. That was the longest he’d stayed faithful to one girl in all his short, solitary sexual life, and he’d been vaguely sad when his mind and hand had moved on to Jenna Compton of the short skirts and too tight shirts.

  CaroleAnne sniffed and wiped her nose with the back

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  of her injured hand. She didn’t see the man grimace with distaste before he spoke.

  ?What kind of weeds??

  ?Weeds that won’t stop growing. I’ve got to get rid of them. They’re over-running the place, destroying everything.?She seemed to be talking more to herself than him, but Connor was a professional and continued in his cheerful, soft lilt.

  ?We can’t have that, can we? You probably need something like this.?He pulled a blue spray bottle from the shelf that had a big ‘Pet Friendly’ label attached to the front. ?It needs about three applications, but it works rather well and is a good value for the money, especially if your garden isn’t too …?

  ?Don’t have pets.?She picked up a smaller plastic container and turned it around carefully in her large hands. Her eyes lingered on the danger warnings declaring the contents toxic and corrosive. ?What about this?? For the first time she turned to look at Connor with his ruddy face and green overalls, the small logo over the chest pocket reminding her where she was shopping.

  Connor looked concerned. ?Well, that’s not one I normally recommend. It has to be diluted quite a lot and you have to be careful handling it. I’d normally only sell it to farmers or agricultural experts.?

  CaroleAnne’s eyes showed signs of life for the first time in the increasingly dazed hour since she’d left Syracousse. ?Why is that??

  ?It contains Paraquat. It’s quite a newly developed chemical, and although it does the job well, it’s very poisonous and there’s no antidote. Just a small amount can make all your major organs fail. Not one to have around kids.?

  She chewed her bottom lip before silently mouthing the name on the label. Clean-Sweep. Yes, that would suit her very well. Clean-Sweep. She smiled gently. ?My boys aren’t babies anymore. I’ll take it.?

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  Before Connor had a chance to protest, she pushed him out of the way and went to the long old-fashioned payment counter behind which there was a backdrop of a thousand tiny drawers, the contents of which Connor and his brother knew by heart like their father before them. Connor watched the fat woman walk away for only a moment before moving to help an elderly gentleman in search of garden shears. His days of following Carole Anne around were well and truly over.

  ?Good morning, Your Honor.?

  The old man hadn’t been a judge in twenty years, but Connor never forgot to address him that way, in the shop or in passing, and the old man appreciated it, especially now that most of his contemporaries were either dead or had moved into that awful sheltered housing next to the cricket ground, full of remains of people who no longer seemed to count. Connor always made him feel as if he still counted. But then Connor had lived in Streatford all his life.

  ?Good morning, young man. Good to see you. Now could you tell me which of these shears has the sharpest and strongest blades??

  By the time Jimmy got home, the boys had been upstairs deafening her with music and television for more than an hour, but today she didn’t mind. She wasn’t in much of a mood for conversation. After leaving O’Neale’s she’d gone to the butcher’s and then trudged home with her shopping before sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the bags in front of her for two hours, maybe three, her head empty, void of rational thought. Finally, she’d gotten up and started to make the dinner. Her hand was in a bandage, not that it hurt; in fact, it felt fine, but she didn’t want Jimmy questioning her about what had happened to it. You could still see the purply blue halfway up her forearm, but with her sleeves pulled down that would stay invisible. Jimmy stood in the doorway as she stirred the contents

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  of the pan, the spicy aroma filling the room with warmth. He watched her warily. CaroleAnne’s cooking normally ran to pizza and oven chips. Anything that just could be thrown in the oven and that went with chips, that was her forte.

  ?What are you doing??

  She looked up and smiled at him, ignoring the pasty paunch that hung out of the top of his trousers, ignoring the oil and petrol that covered his hands and t-shirt from a day tinkering around under cars. He’d been covered in dirt so long she thought it had probably seeped through to his soul by now, although maybe that was a place where filth had always lived. Maybe the dirt was leaking from the inside out.

  ?I wanted to make it up to you after my accident with the kettle this morning. I’m cooking your and the boys’ favorite. Chicken vindaloo.?

  She saw the look of uncertainty on his worn-out face beneath the patches of thinning hair that he refused to accept could no longer handle the slightly long style he’d had since school.

  ?Don’t worry. I’ve followed the recipe very carefully. It’ll be delicious.?She walked over to him and kissed him on the cheek as he took his seat at the table. She opened a drawer, pulled out some knives and forks, and then handed him a can of beer from the fridge. He took a long swig as she arranged the cutlery around him.

  ?But you don’t like Indian.?

  Laughing lightly, she shrugged. ?That doesn’t mean I can’t make it for you, does it? I’ve put a lasagne in the oven for me.?

  He grunted. ?Well, I hope it’s good. I’m fucking starving. Is it ready yet??

  CaroleAnne called down the boys.

  She didn’t have to worry about them not eating it. If the Locke men were anything, it was greedy. Mark had started

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  developing little love handles when he was ten, and now at nearly fourteen, they were full-grown rolls of fat. Luke, only one year behind, was thinner but not by much. By the time she sat down and started nibbling at her lasagne, the three of them were guzzling the curry. She felt a wave of disgust behind her numbness. Her ears filled with the sound of smacking lips and slurped food. Animals. That’s what they were. Fat, slobbering animals, no use to anyone.