I knew what I had to do and it does not cast me in a good light. But I was a child. I was desperate. I was trying to save us all.

The drugs were surprisingly easy to administer. I made sure to cook for my mother as much as possible. I made her herbal teas and vegetable juices. I laced everything I gave her with the things listed in the chapter in Justin’s book entitled ‘Natural Termination of Unwanted Pregnancies’. Tons of parsley, cinnamon, mugwort, sesame seeds, chamomile and evening primrose oil.

As I passed her a glass of juice she would stroke my hand and say, ‘You are being such a good boy, Henry. I feel very blessed to have you taking care of me.’ And I would flush a little and not reply because in some ways I was taking care of her. I was making sure that she didn’t get shackled to David for evermore. But in other ways I was not taking care of her in the least.

And then one day, when she was about five months pregnant and the baby was proper and real and had begun kicking and wriggling and moving about, my mother came downstairs and I heard her talking to Birdie in the kitchen and she said, ‘The baby has not moved. Not today at all.’

The consternation grew over the course of the day and I felt a terrible dark sickness in the pit of my belly, because I knew what was coming.

Of course no doctors were called, no trips to A & E were embarked upon. Apparently David Thomsen was a fully qualified gynaecologist on top of all his other myriad skills. He took charge of everything, sent people running off for towels and water and pointless homeopathic tinctures.

It took five days for the baby to come out after it had died.

My mother wailed for hours. She stayed in her room with David and Birdie and the baby, making noises that could be heard throughout the house. We four children huddled silently together in the attic room unable to properly process what had just happened. And then finally, much later that day, my mother brought the baby downstairs wrapped in a black shawl and David made a grave for the baby at the far end of the garden and the baby was buried in the dark of night with lit candles all around.

I sought out my father that night. I sat opposite him and I said, ‘Did you know that the baby died?’

He turned and stared at me. I knew he wouldn’t answer the question because he couldn’t speak. But I thought there might be something in his eyes to let me know what he was thinking about the events of the day. But all I saw in his eyes was fear and sadness.

‘It was a little boy,’ I said. ‘They’re calling him Elijah. They’re burying him, now, in the back garden.’

He continued to stare at me.

‘It’s probably just as well, isn’t it? Don’t you think?’

I was seeking redemption for my sins. I decided to read approval into his silence.

‘I mean, it probably would have died anyway, wouldn’t it? Without medical assistance? Or even worse, Mum might have died. So, you know, maybe it was better this way.’ I glanced at my reflection in the dark glass of the window behind my father. I looked young, and foolish. ‘It was very small.’

My voice caught on this last word. The baby had been so very small, like a strange doll. My heart had ached at the sight of it. My baby brother.

‘Anyway. That’s what’s been happening. And now, I suppose, we can all try and get back to normal.’

But that was the problem. Because there was no normal. My father’s life was not normal. Our existence was not normal. The baby had gone, but I still didn’t have any shoes. The baby was gone but my father still sat in a chair all day staring at the wall. The baby had gone but there was no school, no holidays, no friends, no outside world.

The baby was gone, but David Thomsen was still here.

48

It’s nine o’clock. Lucy and the children are settled for the night in her parents’ old bedroom. The walls of the room dance with candlelight. Stella is already asleep, the dog curled up in the crook of her knees.

Lucy opens a small can of gin and tonic. Marco opens a can of Fanta. They knock their cans together and say Cheers to London.

‘So,’ he says quietly. ‘Are you going to tell me about the baby now?’

She sighs. ‘Oh God.’ She draws her hands down her face. ‘I don’t know. It’s all so …’

‘Just tell me. Please.’

‘Tomorrow,’ she says, stifling a yawn. ‘I’ll tell you tomorrow. I promise.’

Marco finally falls asleep a few minutes later and then it is just Lucy, awake, in this blighted house that she swore she would never return to. She carefully lifts Marco’s head from her lap and stands. At the window she watches the sun setting in the windows of the shiny new apartment blocks on the other side of the river. They weren’t there when she lived here. Maybe if they had been, she ponders, someone might have seen them, someone might have known, someone might have rescued them and spared them all their sorry fates.

She falls asleep some time after 3 a.m., her mind stubbornly refusing to shut down for hours before, suddenly, she is in her dreams.

And then, just as suddenly, she is awake again. She sits up straight. Marco sits up too. Her phone tells her that they have all slept late into the morning.

There are footsteps overhead.

Lucy puts one hand over Marco’s and touches her lips with tip of her index finger.

It’s silent again and she begins to relax. But then she hears it again, the definite sound of footsteps, floorboards creaking.

‘Mum …’

She squeezes his hand and gets slowly to her feet. She tiptoes across the room towards the door. The dog awakes and raises his head, uncurls himself from Stella’s body and follows her to the door. His claws are loud against the wooden floorboards and she picks him up. She can feel a growl forming in the back of his throat and shushes at him.

Marco stands behind her and she can hear his breathing hard and heavy.

‘Stay back,’ she hisses.

The growl in Fitz’s throat is building and building. There’s another creak overhead and then Fitz lets rip.

The creaking stops.

But then there comes the sound of footsteps, sure and steady, coming down the wooden staircase that leads to the attic bedrooms. She stops breathing. The dog starts barking again and struggling to get out of her arms. She pushes the door shut and throws her body against it.

Stella is awake now and stares at the door with wide eyes. ‘What’s going on, Mama?’

‘Nothing, darling,’ she whispers across the room. ‘Nothing. Fitz is just being silly.’

The door on to the first-floor landing creaks, then bangs shut.

Adrenaline courses through her.

‘Is it the baby?’ Marco asks in an urgent whisper, his eyes wide with terror.

‘I don’t know,’ she replies. ‘I don’t know who it is.’

Footsteps come up the landing and then there is someone breathing on the other side of the door. The dog goes quiet, his ears pinned back, his lips open over his teeth. Lucy moves away from the door and pulls it open a crack. Then the dog leaps out of her arms and forces his way through the crack of the door and there’s a man standing outside their room and the dog barks and snaps around his ankles and the man looks down at the dog with a small smile, offers him his hand to sniff. Fitz quiets and sniffs his hand and then lets him stroke the top of his head.

‘Hello, Lucy,’ says the man. ‘Nice dog.’

III

49

Libby lies stretched out on the hotel bed with its familiar strip of aubergine-coloured fabric draped across the foot. A Premier Inn hotel room is a happy place for Libby; she associates them with hen nights and city breaks and weddings in distant cities. A bed in a Premier Inn is familiar and comforting. She could stay here all day. But she has to meet Miller in the lobby at 9 a.m. She glances now at the time on her phone. Eight forty-eight. She pulls herself off the bed and has a very quick shower.

It had been a long journey from London the night before and she’d learned a lot about Miller in the five hours they’d spent together.

He’d been in a car accident when he was twenty-two and spent a year in a wheelchair and being rehabilitated. He’d been very thin and sporty when he was younger but never regained his former lithe physique. He has two older sisters and a gay dad and was brought up in Leamington Spa. He studied politics at university where he met his ex-wife, whose name was Matilda, or Mati for short. He showed Libby a photo of her on his phone. She was extraordinarily pretty with dark red hair and full lips and a blocky, hipster haircut that would look dreadful on 99 per cent of other people.

‘Why did you split up?’ she’d said. Then added, ‘If you don’t mind me asking?’

‘Oh, my fault,’ he’d said, putting a hand to his heart. ‘My fault entirely. I prioritised everything over her. My friends, my hobbies. But mainly my job. And mainly’ – he pauses to smile wryly – ‘the Guardian article.’ He’d shrugged. ‘Lesson learned though. I will never put my work before my personal life again.

‘And what about you?’ he’d asked. ‘Is there a Mr Libby somewhere in the picture?’

‘No,’ she’d replied. ‘No. That is an ongoing project.’