‘Mum, it’s me, Anna. Everything is OK—’

I reach for her hand, but she pulls it away and lifts it above her head, as though preparing to strike me.

‘Don’t you touch me! Get out of my house right now or I’ll call the police! Don’t think that I won’t.’

I’m crying. I can’t help it. This version of the woman I used to know is destroying my memories of the real her.

‘Mum, please.’

‘Get out of my house!’

She screams the words over and over.

‘Get out, get out, get out!’

Him

Tuesday 10:35

I get in my car and wait, unsure exactly what for, already knowing it won’t be good. I have mixed memories of my former mother-inlaw’s home, and being here always makes me feel bad. Anna never liked to visit. I used to wonder if it had something to do with her father. Losing a parent leaves a huge hole in a person’s life, but losing a child leaves an even bigger one. This house was the last place where we saw our little girl alive. Not that we could have known that at the time; dropping a child off to spend a night with their grandmother should have been a safe thing to do.

I think you reach an age – and it is different for everyone – where you finally realise that all the things you thought mattered, don’t. It often happens when you lose the one thing that really did, but by then it’s too late. Our little girl was only three months and three days old when she died. I sometimes think she was just too precious and perfect to exist in such an imperfect world.

My phone buzzes, and when I read the words in the message, I feel a rush of nausea mixed with an excitement I am ashamed of. Then a fist bangs on my rather dirty car window, and I only just manage to swallow what I’m sure would have been a very manly scream. I wish I’d taken another cigarette from Priya to keep for later. By later I mean now. Today is turning out to be a very bad day indeed.

I wind the window down by hand – that’s how old my car is – and get a clearer view of my angry-looking ex-wife.

‘Are you following me?’ she asks.

Her face is blotchy and I can see that she has been crying. She’s carrying her coat, despite the fact it’s freezing outside, as though she might have left in too much of a hurry to put it on.

‘Would you believe me if I said no?’

‘How dare you interfere with my mother’s health and living arrangements!’

‘Now, hang on. I don’t know what she told you, or what kind of state she was in just now, but she’s been getting progressively worse over the past six months. You would know that if you ever paid her a visit.’

‘She is my mother and this is none of your business.’

‘Wrong again. I have power of attorney.’

‘What?’

Anna takes a tiny step back from the car.

‘There was an incident a while ago. I tried to tell you, but you kept ignoring my calls. She asked for my help; it was her idea.’

Anna’s face reddens as though it has been verbally slapped.

‘What’s this really about? Are you trying to sell my mother’s house out from under her? Is that it? Trick her into giving you money, because you’ve realised that life is a bit harder on one salary?’

The low blow she delivers in self-defence stings.

‘You know it isn’t like that,’ I say.

‘Isn’t it?’

‘Regardless of whether or not we are together, I still care about your mother. She was good to me and to us. What happened to Charlotte was not her fault.’

‘No, it was yours.’

It feels like she just punched me in the chest.

Anna looks as though she might regret saying the words as much as I regret hearing them. But that doesn’t make them less true. I take a breath and carry on.

‘Look, your mum isn’t well, and someone needs to do what’s best for her.’

‘And that’s you, is it?’

‘In the absence of anyone else, yes. She’s been seen wandering around the town, lost, wearing just her nightdress in the middle of the night, for God’s sake.’

‘What? I don’t believe you.’

‘Fine, I’m making it up. I suppose you weren’t in Blackdown yesterday either?’

I didn’t mean to blurt the accusation out like that, but the look on her face tells me a lot more than I expect her response will.

‘Have you finally lost what was left of your tiny mind? No, I wasn’t here yesterday,’ she says.

‘Then why is there a pay-and-display ticket in your car that says you were?’

She hesitates for just a second, but it’s a second long enough for me to see, and she knows it.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I suggest that from now on, you stay away from me, my car and my mother. Do you understand? Maybe just stick to looking after your own family, and doing your job, given what has happened.’

I see her then, my daughter in Anna’s face, her eyes. People always say that children resemble their parents, but sometimes it’s the other way around. It brings it all back and I can’t hurt her any more than I already have.

‘That’s good advice,’ I say.

‘This is some form of harassment. You shouldn’t be here.’

‘No, I shouldn’t.’

She pauses, as though I have started speaking a foreign language she is not fluent in.

‘Are you agreeing with me?’ she asks.

‘Yes. It would appear I am.’

I study the face I have loved for so long now, and enjoy the unfamiliar shape it makes when surprised. Anna is rarely that. Even though it goes against everything I know about what not to do, I want to see how she reacts to what I shouldn’t say.

‘The dead woman was Rachel Hopkins.’

I feel physically lighter once I’ve said her name out loud.

Anna’s face doesn’t change at all, as though she didn’t hear me.

‘You do remember Rachel?’ I ask.

‘Of course I do. Why are you telling me this?’

I shrug. ‘I just thought you should know.’

I wait for some kind of emotional reaction, and can’t yet decide how to interpret the lack of one.

Anna and Rachel used to be friends, but that was a very long time ago. Perhaps her lack of emotion is normal, to be expected. People our age are rarely still in touch with the friends they went to school with. There was no social media or email back then; we didn’t even have the internet or mobile phones. Hard to imagine a life like that now – it must have been so much quieter. We’re both from a generation that was better at moving on, rather than holding on to friendships that had run their course.

I regret telling her almost instantly.

I’ve gained nothing from doing so, and it was unprofessional. Next of kin haven’t even been informed yet. Besides, it isn’t as though I need Anna to confess to how much she hated Rachel Hopkins. I already know that.

My phone buzzes again, interrupting the silence that had parked itself between us.

‘We’re going to have to pause this little reunion. I need to go,’ I say, already rolling up my window.

‘Why? Worried the whole town might find out that you’re stalking your ex-wife?’