PROLOGUE

1

It is happening again.
Soon the girl will be dead.

There is the sound of running feet. It is a gentle sound, like drops of rain falling softly onto tight canvas. It is the sound of a child. You know it from the faint, dull thud the footsteps make as they run towards you. There is an unbearable lightness to the steps. They can only be those of a child.
The sound rips at your senses.
You know what will happen. You’ve experienced it before.
You are there again now… standing in the open. Exposed and frightened. There is barely enough light to see your own hands as you hold them up in front of you. Your fingers appear like ghostly shadows, pale flesh covering grey, ashen bones.
You hear her coming. The footsteps running towards you. But you cannot place her. Your sense of direction is confused, your fear heightened.
Your heart beats raggedly. You sense her fear; it is a physical entity. It pervades the atmosphere. Fear lives and thrives in this place. For the child who is running to you, it is her constant companion. Fear dominates all her memories. Fear that damages deep inside; like a punch hard and low in the guts. The fear takes her breath away. She constantly fights the urge to vomit. Fear is at the core of everything.
It is malevolent like cancer.

And now there is something else.
The sour smell of stale sweat. Acrid cigarette smoke. And then more, the sickly sweet scent of lemon scented aftershave. The smell triggers an immediate reaction. A trickle of sweat runs slowly down your temple. It rolls onto your cheek. Ice cold but scalding.
Your breathing becomes shallow. You inch slowly forwards.

Somewhere in the darkness, the child is running towards you. You know who she is; her face is etched in your mind.
She is running with desperate hope towards you. She trusts you. She believes you will save her.
But you will fail her.
She will never reach you, no matter how hard she runs. You cannot repay her trust. You cannot save her. Not now. Not ever. There is only one outcome.

You hear a high-pitched, scream that pierces the heavy air. You are too late. The muted sound of a fist punching a fragile body. It ricochets around your head, spiralling in volume with every echo. The fist and the little girl; the little girl and the fist. Your stomach contracts. Acid floods your mouth. There is a pathetic cry in the distance. A strangled whimper of fear.
And then you hear her scream again as he places the burning tip of a cigarette against her chest. The little girl who was running for you. The little girl who was desperate for you to save her.
You hear the crack of bone as a boot hammers into her ribs. You hear her screech pitifully as he pulls her clothes off. You hear her shouting, you hear her pleading, but it will all fall on sick and deaf ears.

You are back in the house. You have been there before. You’ve seen her and you’ve seen him.
He is her stepfather. He reeks of bitter sweat which he covers with lemon scented aftershave. He smokes unfiltered cigarettes. He is unshaven and his dark eyes bore into you.
The little girl has blond hair and a face that stares at you in sweet innocence and childish confusion.

Her mother is in the kitchen, but may as well be in a different world. She is ironing. Rock music plays loudly on a radio. You know where the kitchen is, but however much you shout to her, it does no good. She switches off her mind to what is going on. She chain smokes filter tipped cigarettes and stares listlessly at a spot somewhere in the overgrown, litter-strewn garden.
The iron is running backwards and forwards over a small white blouse.
It will never be worn again.
As she finishes one cigarette, she drops it and stubs it out on the kitchen floor. Burn marks scar the grimy surface. She will light another cigarette immediately, her eyes never losing their dull, mindless glaze.
She believes, somewhere far back in her mind, that it will stop soon. Then she can go and see the little girl. And she will put her hand on the little girl’s forehead and smile at her through eyes that struggle to generate any tears of remorse or sadness.
The little girl will look back at her through fear and pain, confusion and betrayal. That is where you are. You recognise it with chilling clarity.
Before the scene changes.
And with a sickening lurch, acid floods into your throat.
It is still dark in the house. It still smells of stale sweat and smoke. The nauseous undertone of lemon still prevails. But the footsteps have now stopped, the screams have been cut off. The outstretched hand is not reaching for you. The scene has played out again; and once more, there are only the losers left.
The night is cold as you wake shivering and trembling in the pitch dark.

2

Dirty swine, she thinks, dirty, dirty swine.
She can smell it throughout the house. It seeps into every room. The stench is pervasive. She wrinkles her nose in tired disgust.
She propels the wheelchair with one hand, and carries the bucket of hot soapy water with the other. The chair makes slow progress along the wooden floor, veering from one side to the next as she switches hands to maintain progress. Water splashes over the side of the bucket onto the polished floor and she curses quietly.
The smell is unmistakeable.
The dog dirt lies on the mat inside the front door. It has been pushed through the letterbox on a piece of folded paper that has opened out on its fall to the floor. She stares at the mess and shakes her head. She knows it will be smeared on the outside of the door as well.
The bucket of water strains her hand. It stretches the tendons in her wrist and aggravates the arthritis in the joints of her fingers. There is a sharp streak of pain marching up her arm. She winces, but keeps the wheel chair moving. She has never been one to give up, never one to feel sorry for herself. In all her eighty-one years, she has been proud of her resilience. She knows she can take a paracetemol later if the pain gets too much.
A good cup of tea would probably be enough though…once she has finished cleaning.
She has to clear the mess up. She has to clear it up before Martin gets home. He would know who had done this. He’d be angry, and she doesn’t like to see him angry. She worries about him. He isn’t as young as he once was. People can have coronaries if they get worked up or too angry. He is of an age where this is on her mind.

She knows who has done this. But what can she do?
If she went to the police, then next time it might be a burning rag, or a petrol bomb. She can’t risk that, not in the wheelchair, she wouldn’t be able to get out in time.
She’d kept the note they’d sent though. It is in her drawer along with her diary. Her fine blue handwriting documents it all. All the dates, all the times. Everything they have done to her.
It might all help one day.

She puts the bucket down and reaches with a plastic bag to pick up the dog dirt. She inverts the bag so she can pick the mess up without touching it. Once she has it all in the bag, she knots the top, seals it in a second plastic bag, and takes it to the back door where she puts it in the outside bin. Then she returns with a mop, specially adapted with a shortened handle for wheelchair use, and starts to wash the floor.
Soon it might stop...
Soon they might get bored.
She has had to fight for most of her life, and she won’t give up now. Clearing the mess is slow work. She changes the water three times, pouring in a strong disinfectant each time. Once the hall is clean, she opens the door and starts on the outside.
By the end, nearly an hour has passed. She is sweating. Her face is red. Her wrists are aching; it feels like broken glass has been pushed into her veins. Her joints are on fire and her fingers tingle.
But all is clean. Everything is ready and Martin need never know.

She looks at her watch; it hangs loosely over her bony wrists. She rubs one wrist gently with her other hand, every movement makes her wince. She will start on a meal for Martin soon. Shepherds Pie - it is one of his favourites. She might cook some cakes too. They both like a slice of cake in the evening.
He tells her off because she cooks for him. He says she should take it easy, rest more. He says he could prepare them both a meal when he gets in.
But that isn’t right, that isn’t right at all.
Martin has given up a lot for her even though he never admits it. She understands this, and appreciates him all the more for it.
She wheels the chair towards the kitchen where she opens a kitchen cabinet to take out a bag of potatoes. She starts peeling them and hums an old song as she moves to the low-level sink. The humming helps her to forget the pain burning in her hands.

3

Birdsong surrounds him, a fresh clear sky, the palest of blue, with dispersed wisps of cloud above, a pleasant breeze moving the air.
He breathes in deeply and smells the freshly mown grass. The gardener has been recently. The place is neat, the lawns clipped and edged. He walks past the rows of headstones that stand at varying angles to the cut grass. A few of the plots are overflowing with flowers, an abundance of colour against the grey headstones. Three new graves have been filled near the rear wall of the churchyard.
He walks over to them and reads the inscriptions; Maisie Allan, 1938 – 2006, beloved wife, mother and grandmother. A flower arrangement spells out the words Mum and this has been placed carefully next to the new marble headstone.
Next to Maisie Allan lies William Koch who has died at eighty four and is now next to his dear wife, Annie, who died in 1962.
The final grave is of Tom Dancer who has died tragically aged 14. He recognises the name from the local paper. Tom Dancer had been riding his bike from school when a car ploughed into him.
He stands there for a moment and closes his eyes, trying to pull his thoughts into some semblance of normality.
Fourteen is no age to die.
He moves on through the churchyard, skirting some of the older graves where time and decay has obliterated the inscriptions. The mixed colours of lichen growth mottle the surfaces with shades of greens, yellows, whites, and greys.
Finally, he reaches the plot he has come to visit.
He puts down the shopping bag he has used to carry the fresh flowers. He bought them at the Barfield village florist where he is now on first name terms with the assistant. He kneels down by the side of the joint grave and picks up the flowers he brought the week before. Their heads are wilted and brown. He places them by the side of the bag and pulls out the fresh bouquet. He places that by the headstone and puts the old flowers into the shopping bag.
Then he sits down on the concrete edging to the plot, reaches slowly into his jacket pocket, and brings out a packet of cigarettes. He puts a cigarette into his mouth, reaches into his jacket again for a lighter, and lights the cigarette.
‘I’m not sleeping well,’ he says as he turns and faces the light grey marble headstone.
He can remember choosing the headstone at the Funeral Directors. He’d been fifteen, his mother holding his arm, as they went through the arrangements for his father’s burial.
She had been silent, her face shockingly white, her eyes grey and sunken. He had held her close as they talked with the funeral director. His mother had cried a constant flow of tears.
His father’s death had been sudden. He’d died late on a cold, stormy night in a road accident, the wreck of his car embedded in a tree, a fatal embrace, death instantaneous.
They had chosen this particular headstone over the darker, more sombre headstones that surrounded it. It looked brighter and more alive, and that was how they wanted to remember him.
He’d died too young, long before his time.
The writing was engraved in black: John Arthur Davenport, 1947 – 1989, Husband of Katherine, Father of William. May he live on in the memories of those who loved him, and now miss him, with every day that passes.
Will traces his index finger around the lettering as he draws on his cigarette.
Underneath the first inscription is a second. Joined by Katherine, his Wife, 1946 – 1991, beloved Wife of John and Mother of Will.
William had become Will in the intervening time and it was he who had arranged for his mother’s funeral not 18 months after his father had been buried. Cancer had taken her; it had been first diagnosed 2 months after his father had died.
He pulls at a small growth of grass missed by the mower, closes his eyes, and draws deeply on his cigarette.