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  But she thought then, what if he was hurt? What if Albert was lying up in his room, on the cold floor having fallen out of bed? What if he had tripped on his way to the bathroom? What if he was ill and couldn’t call out? She knew then that there was no choice; she had to find out if he was okay.

  Two steps, that was all it took; two tiny steps that changed everything. She stepped away from the door, opened her mouth to call his name and as she looked down the hallway, her voice stalled. She saw a hand, palm facing up, fingers half curled. The rest of him was hidden around the curve of the stairs and she was so afraid of him then, afraid of his brokenness, his vulnerability.

  Wide, wide eyes came slowly around the banister. She saw him and for long, long minutes she failed to move as her eyes absorbed every part of that image. A montage of tiny little things that would take up residence in her memory for the rest of her life, no matter how many times she tried to forget them and put something lovely in their place. The clawed hand, the twisted body so bent out of shape that one of his legs disappeared beneath him in hideous contortion; the halo of blood that painted his hair stiff and dark. And his eyes, those empty, empty eyes, blanched of their colour and so very still.

  She bends to him then, her knee smarting and protesting as she touches it to the floor beside his head, careful not to press it into the blood that smells so much stronger now that she is closer.

  “You lucky, lucky man,” she says and kisses him on his forehead, so hard and cold and unyielding beneath her lips. Her eyes close above his open ones and in that moment, when she can smell him above the blood, she feels his loss so keenly it steals the strength from her. She struggles to her feet, using the banister to propel her past the point at which her legs want to stop.

  “Bye bye, Albert.”

  She backs away from him down the hallway, holding her breath until she reaches the door. Feeling behind her for the doorframe she walks backwards all the way down the path until she gets to the gate. She turns and hurries back down the lane, through her own garden and into the kitchen where she scrambles beneath the table and rocks back and forth with her hands over her ears.

  It doesn’t seem that long before she hears the scream, the strange keening sound that seems to be the closest depiction of grief she has ever heard, raw and harsh. The sirens come and indistinct voices filter through the palms of her hands. Then comes the calm, the stillness, where there is nothing but the sound of the wind in the trees, though this too dies away. Until the sudden knock at her door, slightly too loud, that makes her flinch.

  She moves slowly towards the sound, reaching it as the knock comes again. She rears back and claps her hands together over and over again in front of her closed eyes before the clamour from the other side propels her to open the door, shocking the policewoman on the other side into stepping backwards.

  “Lacey Carmichael?”

  Lacey nods and pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. To the policewoman she looks terrified, her breath coming too fast, her skin pale and clammy.

  “Could I come in for a minute? I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  There is a strange movement where Lacey’s nod of assent changes direction, curls around on itself, her head moving in a little, tight circle until she is shaking it and her mouth forms a single word. “No!” She steps backwards, her hands raised in front of her towards the policewoman on her doorstep who is looking at her, perplexed.

  “It will only take a few minutes Ms... ” The door slams in her face as Lacey kicks out at it.

  Sometime later she hears a knock, followed by another and then another. Someone tries the handle; she hears movement in the downstairs rooms, footsteps on the stairs. They find her sitting on her bed, with her coat and shoes on.

  “I left my handbag at Albert’s house, I need to go in and get it.”

  They tell her that she can’t and that they are arresting her for the murder of Albert Allen. She has the right to remain silent.

  Chapter 12 ~ Rachel

  The sun rose steadily above the hills behind the house, pushing the night from the landscape as it came, the darkness receding into pools of shadow beneath trees and fences. I stirred as the light outside the window began to grow brighter. Dawn was my favourite time of the day. There was something magical about the way the light would seep into the land, a pastel perfection that the birds would greet with song. Overcast days were no less beautiful as dark silhouettes became recognisable in the grey light.

  As I blinked away the sleepiness I had a feeling of difference, of absence, that I couldn’t put my finger on. It took me a few more moments to realise I couldn’t hear any traffic. There was no background hum of engines, no sound of tyres on tarmac or doors slamming, people talking, none of the familiar noises of the city coming to life. How long would it be before the stillness became just as familiar? Exhausted though I was, I had found it difficult to sleep and perhaps this was why. The silence was deafening.

  I took my morning tea out into the still shaded garden, pulling a blanket around my shoulders to ward off the morning chill. There were few clouds in the sky and only a slight breeze to stir the trees. I munched on a cereal bar and decided that after dressing I would go for a wander into the village and find the grocery store that the letting agent had told me about.

  It was still early when I stepped into the lane, and I had plenty of time before the store opened. I wanted to walk around the village as it was waking up and I relished the idea of being alone in the streets for a while before doors opened and people started going about their business.

  The lane I lived on opened up on to a single-track road. There were no signposts and the hedges were high enough to only offer a view of the church tower. I knew that the village lay to the right and after a short time of walking between the maze-like hedgerows the road widened and the first houses began to appear. They were typical chocolate-box cottages, some thatched with walls that looked like they were bowing outwards because of the weight of all that straw; others were tiled, but all of them seemed not quite comfortable in the twenty first century.

  From the beginning of the village I could see more of the church over to my left, the tower peeking out over the rooftops and I headed towards it. I loved churches. There was something about the peace and stillness inside the ancient buildings that I cherished, the sense of hope in the air as if the very stones of the walls had absorbed the centuries of prayer offered up to whoever happened to be listening.

  Stepping through the iron gate that left flakes of black paint crumbling beneath my fingers, I looked around at the headstones. Old and lichen-covered, weather had long since erased the words that identified the people beneath. Some had toppled over completely; others leaned towards each other, conspirators of secrets long since forgotten. On my left were the more recent graves, some yet to have their headstones placed. These were the graves I turned my face from, my own grief lending a depth of compassion to the recently bereaved. It was too easy to imagine strands of sadness coming from the turned soil and stretching beyond the churchyard, disappearing towards houses where families would wake with the loss etched on their faces. I averted my eyes and walked on.

  Through the graveyard and out through another gate on the opposite side of the church, I determinedly pushed my thoughts away and looked at the scene before me. I had thought places like this only existed in paintings. Opposite the church lay a village green, complete with a duck pond and bench. The paths around the beautifully kept grass were cobbled and well worn. Two pubs, perpendicular to each other stood behind traditional signs that swung slightly in the breeze. Next to one of the pubs, the Rose and Crown, was the village shop, its leaded windows completely at odds with the bright green sign above the door.

  Walking to the bench beside the pond I sat down. Everything was perfect. Despite the unpacking waiting for me at the cottage, I was overwhelmed with the novelty of it all, the age of it all. Here in the newness of the day, I felt like the only person in the world and
I submerged myself in it. But as I watched, the sleepy little village slowly came to life around me, chasing away my solitude and leaving a slight feeling of regret in its wake. I sighed and leaned back. The wooden bench cool against my skin as I looked for familiar shapes in the wispy clouds and waited for the shop to open.

  A bell rang, discordant and grating as I opened the door. A man stood behind the counter watching me with one eyebrow raised in question, laughter lines wrinkled his eyes and sparse salt and pepper hair receded back from his sunburnt forehead.

  “You must be the young lady that’s just moved in to Dove Cottage!” He smiled at me and I returned it, nodding and feeling my cheeks tinge pink.

  “Old Albert’s place, been empty a little while now.” He was laying out newspapers as he spoke and I reached out for a local one to see what I could learn about the area.

  “I haven’t met Albert, I rented the cottage through a letting agent.”

  The shopkeeper’s smile grew some more, stretching across uneven teeth. He had the kind of look I would love to paint, all lines and character, lived in and interesting.

  “Only way you’d get to know old Albert now is if you’s one of them mediums. He passed some time ago. His daughter Martha’s got the cottage now but she lives in the newer part of the village. Guess if you’ve not heard about Albert, you’ve not met her?” I shook my head and he carried on, his strong West Country accent refreshingly different from the singsong lilt of Birmingham.

  “Martha’s alright, bit opinionated but harmless enough to most people.”

  He smiled again and turned back to his papers. I wandered around the shop, browsing through shelves of random things from everyday food items to fuse wire and added to the basket what I needed for the next few days.

  “The name’s John by the way.” He belatedly offered his hand as I placed the basket on the counter and shook it lightly, calluses pressing into my palm. “If there’s ever anything specific you need, you just let me know. I’ve a tendency to cater for individual tastes rather than buy a load of crap that won’t shift.”

  “I will, thank you. I’m Rachel,” I said smiling at him as I gathered my things together before turning to leave.

  Walking back through the graveyard with bags swinging from both hands, a flash of colour caught my eye. I glanced towards it and saw an elderly woman kneeling in front of one of the graves in the newer section. She was an explosion of colour against the headstones as she roughly plunged a trowel into the soil, preparing a hole for the rose bush next to her. The woman wore orange baggy trousers and a lime green sweater, with bright red wellies. She was muttering under her breath, the words swept away on the light breeze and indistinct from where I stood. Her brow was furrowed beneath a shock of pure white hair that stuck out in every direction, her cheeks full and rosy like fresh apples. Moving nearer, I stilled the swinging bags so they wouldn’t disturb the kneeling woman.

  She didn’t look up as I passed but continued carefully pressing the rose bush into place with chubby hands as I reached the gate.

  “There you go, you miserable old bastard, choke on that.”

  Surprised, I turned back to look at the woman, who was getting to her feet and rubbing the dirt from her hands. Her eyes met mine and she paused, looking self-conscious, like a child caught with a forbidden sweet.

  “He hated roses,” she said simply, by way of explanation. She turned quickly away and headed out through the other gate.

  Chapter 13 ~ Lacey

  She sits in the same room as before. Not room. Cell. She tries to get her head around that word. It is simple, small; one syllable that hangs over her head. She feels it pressing down on her. What if they think she is guilty? What if she has to stay here? What if she murdered her one and only friend?

  They have told her that they are waiting for forensic evidence before they decide whether they can keep her or let her go, as if she is a bug caught in a jam jar. They tell her that they don’t believe her to be a flight risk and she replies that she has no passport. They tell her that isn’t what they meant and she is confused and doesn’t say anything else.

  This world is alien to her and it makes her afraid. She wants – needs – to be back in her home, where the walls and every mark on them are familiar, where she knows how to get through the days. Where she knows what the light looks like at dusk and she can tell which birds are visiting her garden by the song that they sing. She needs to be where Charlie is, she needs to feed Peachy and her chickens.

  This place, where the corridors echo and the smell is cloying, this place is not good for her. In this place she is forgetting things, like a curtain pulled around that separates her from the time that came before, from the everyday life that she lives. She needs that; she needs her routines, her walls, her trees and garden. She needs the full picture of her life so that she does not forget it, so that she knows where she is, because she lets go of it all too easily and it falls to pieces around her.

  She sits beneath the little eye of the camera and tries hard not to look at it. She tries to act normally, as if this is an everyday thing, a normal thing. She tries not to draw attention to herself. She wonders if they are watching her right at this moment and she turns slightly, so her back is to the lens, so that at least they cannot see the fear on her face, they cannot see her cry.

  She lost track of time but through the little window that is high up in the wall she can see the sky and she watched as it grew dark, then saw when the darkness faded altogether. She listened to the birds tell her it was morning, but she didn’t recognise their voices. Someone came and gave her food and it stayed untouched on the plate, she only drank the tea that came with it. She couldn’t face eating.

  She hears a door open and close in the corridor outside, she hears footsteps approach and stop outside her door, the rattle of keys. A man she hasn’t seen before comes in and tells her to follow him. She tries to stand but her legs are aching from where she has been sitting for too long. He reaches out and helps her to her feet. He towers above her and she shrinks back from him as his hand curls around her elbow and he tries to guide her forwards.

  He takes her back to the same room as when she first arrived and she sits wondering what next. Will she be taken to the prison now? What will happen to Peachy? She imagines him sitting by his empty bowl, his tummy rumbling, wondering where she could be. She has never been away from him. She wonders how long it would be before he realised that she wasn’t coming back. And what would he do then? Would he slowly walk away, leave through the cat flap and try to find someone that could love him enough to fill his hungry stomach? Would he come back once in a while hoping she had returned? She thinks of him searching the empty rooms, desolate without her and she starts to cry; huge shaking sobs that hunch her shoulders and make her curl into herself.

  A hand on her shoulder pulls her upright and she looks into kind eyes in a concerned face. It is the custody sergeant, John. He sits in a chair next to her and she feels as if she has known him for far longer than just a day.

  “I’m going to explain what happens next, Lacey.”

  She nods to let him know that, despite the tears on her face and the redness around her eyes, she is ready to hear what he has to say. Whatever he says, she will try to stay strong, to handle it in a dignified manner befitting a doctor’s daughter.

  “You are going to be released on bail... ”

  “I can go home?” she asks, interrupting him. He nods in return and she throws her arms around him and cries into the dark cloth of his uniform. After a few moments his hand reaches up and pats awkwardly at her shoulder before he moves away and she apologises.

  “You will be on bail for a period of up to eight weeks. If, during that time, we decide that there is no case to answer, there will be no further action against you. If you don’t hear from us then you need to come back here to the police station on your appointed date, which I’ll write down for you.”

  All she can think is that she can go home, she can
go back to her little cottage. His voice is blurred and distant. But then she realises she has nothing with her, no money, not even her own clothes, as if this is someone else’s life she is living, a life that she accidentally stepped in to.

  “How do I get home?” she asks, hearing the tremor in her voice.

  He smiles then, a gentle smile that is kind, reassuring. “We’ll arrange for someone to take you home.”

  Chapter 14 ~ Rachel

  I awoke in a room swept grey by the rising sun and tried to recall what day it was. Somewhere amongst the sea of boxes the days had begun slipping into weeks. I had spent hours among cardboard and packaging, sliding the craft knife down the tape that held the cartons closed and allowing myself to get swept away in the tide of possessions that spilled out. Photographs, books, letters, a duvet cover I spilt red wine on the first night it was used, rag rugs no longer fashionable but old and worn and loved. So many things that created an image of me as they flowed through my hands.

  Several times I looked down and when I raised my eyes, day had again turned into night, so immersed was I in the business of finding unfamiliar places for familiar things.

  I had asked my agent, Jane, to hold off on any commissions whilst I got organised, and the house was beginning to feel as though I belonged within its walls. It was more chaotic and cluttered but among the wealth of fabrics, ornaments, paintings and collections of the unimportant, I found serenity and peace.

  I spent my time cleaning, sorting and whitewashing over memories, attempting to consign them to a different life, but inside I was the same, nothing had changed. I knew that time would have to pass before I truly felt settled, but that didn’t stop the occasional flicker of doubt. I couldn’t deny that there was part of me that felt I should head back to the city.