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  She twitches a smile, hoping he’ll think it girlish and sweet. Points at him, her finger and thumb a pistol. ‘You’re wearing a cardigan, Walter.’

  He laughs at that: an unpleasant, snorting sort of a noise. ‘You’ve got some cheek, love. Some cheek to be waiting for me dressed like that. You know what I want. How this works …’

  Annabeth takes a breath. Tries to calm herself. Makes her features soften. ‘I wanted to talk to you, that’s all. Wanted us to maybe chat about a few things.’

  Walter’s eyebrows shoot up. He shakes his head, neck and chins wobbling. ‘Talk is it? And what do we have to talk about, girl? I give you a roof over your head. I feed you. I slip you a few quid as and when I can. And you keep your mouth shut apart from when I tell you to open it. Seems pretty straightforward to me, love. I mean, you can show me your workings-out, if you like.’

  ‘I’ll go, Walt,’ mumbles Mike. ‘She doesn’t seem like she’s keen.’

  Walter shakes his head, pissed off. ‘No, lad, you’ve been promised a place to dip your wick and by God I deliver what I promise.’ He swivels to Annabeth. ‘I was going to be sweet about this, love. Even brought you a box of chocolates and a magazine. But you’re taking some liberties here. I’ve done myself a mischief, as it happens, so I won’t be troubling you for a jump, but I hate seeing good meat go to waste so I told Mike here he’s allowed a turn at the table. Got a few problems, has Mike. His marriage is suffering. Stuff he wants to do and the wife isn’t in to it. Nor should she be, not really. But if he gets it out of his system, he’ll go home a better husband. We’re doing a kindness here, love. So, Mike, how do you want her …?’

  Annabeth has already prepared the speech in her head. She’s spent the day perfecting the delivery. She has imagined the scenario a dozen different ways. But here, in this moment, it just comes out. Erupts, like blood from a puncture wound.

  ‘I’m having a baby, Walter. I’m pregnant.’

  He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just stares at her, dark little eyes drilling holes into her forehead. Then he twitches his nostrils. Shakes his head.

  ‘You said you can’t,’ he says, quietly. ‘All messed up, you said.’

  Annabeth feels tears pricking her eyes. She’d believed it when she said it. Had thought herself too damaged to ever conceive.

  ‘I thought I was …’

  ‘How do you know? My wife misses her periods all the fucking time …’

  ‘I stole a test,’ says Annabeth, her voice catching. ‘Snuck out. I was weeks late. Feeling sick. I had to know. Don’t worry, nobody saw …’

  He barks a laugh. ‘Not my prime concern, right now, lass. Not important, as it happens. Not when I’ve got some fucking slag telling me she’s carrying my baby.’

  Annabeth feels the tears spill. ‘I’ll be a good mum,’ she says, softly. ‘I’ll try so hard.’

  Through the mist she sees Mike turn his back on them both. Sees him pull the door open and stoop his way into the hallway. Hears hurried footsteps.

  And then it’s just Walter.

  Just Walter, standing there.

  Looking at her like she’s rotten. Looking at her like she’s filth and puke in a skin suit.

  ‘You think you’re going to keep it? You think I would allow that? No, love, we’re drowning the little bastard.’ He raises his hand to his forehead, dripping sweat, talking half to himself. ‘I know somebody. Old doctor. Did some treatments in Ireland before they threw him out. I’ll call him. Get him over. Pull the fucker out before they can take root …’

  Later, Annabeth will remember little about what comes next. The pictures will be jerky and blurred, as if the reel of film in her mind has been exposed to sunlight. As if it has been shredded and stuck back together.

  But she will recall fear. Anger. Will recollect the absolute and certain knowledge that she must protect her unborn child until the last breath.

  Here, now, she tells him so. Tells him that whatever happens, this child will live.

  She sees the cold rage take hold of his features. Sees him make the calculations. Sees him decide to do the only thing that can be done.

  Later, she will remember fat, sweaty hands at her throat. Remember the rubber bed against her cheek. His spittle on her face. The word ‘bitch, bitch, bitch’ as he drags her to the floor and pounds her head off the wood.

  And she will recall the cold smoothness of the snow globe in her hand. The impact of it against her skull. The sharp pain as the jagged glass cuts her palm. Then the hot blood as she thrusts the circle of lethal-looking stalactites into his fat neck and tears his flesh like the belly of a cod.

  She will not remember it often. But when the memories do stir, she will stroke her child.

  And though she will hate herself for it, she will permit herself to smile.

  PART ONE

  REWARD TO BE OFFERED TO HELP FIND MISSING LUCY

  By Swindon Courant Chief Reporter, Daryl Corcoran

  April 19, 2005

  THE FAMILY of missing Swindon teenager Lucy Brett have made an emotional appeal for information regarding the whereabouts of their ‘sweet, beautiful’ girl.

  15-year-old Lucy was last seen leaving the family home at around 8.15 a.m., for her morning walk to school. However, she did not arrive. A ‘mystery man’ made a call to the school shortly before 9.30 a.m. to say she would not be attending due to illness. Believing the man to be Lucy’s father, the alarm was not raised until that evening, when she failed to return home from school and her older sister, Cameron, began to worry. Police were called in shortly before 10 p.m.

  While police believe that Lucy may be with a friend or boyfriend, her family are urging witnesses to come forward and are trying to raise the money to offer a reward.

  Lucy’s father, Tim, 43, said: ‘People might read this and think she’s just another runaway, or that she’s a bad girl who’s gone off with her boyfriend. Certainly that seems to be the way the police reacted at first. But we know Lucy and she would never do this to us. She would do anything for anybody. She’s a kind, sweet, beautiful, God-fearing girl who’s never caused us any worry.

  ‘Of course, nobody knows the whole truth about everyone, including their nearest and dearest, but we’ve asked her friends, schoolmates; people she hangs out with at her after-school clubs and her Rainbows group at church. Nobody has told us anything that would suggest she’s been keeping secrets. There’s nothing missing from her room – we’ve been through every scrap of paper in the house looking for a note or a sign she was planning to run away. We’re putting up a reward with the help of some family friends. I am begging anybody who thinks they may have information to come forward at once.’

  Detective Inspector Callum Hansen of Wiltshire Police defended the Force’s handling of the inquiry. He said: ‘We are taking Lucy’s disappearance very seriously and are leaving no stone unturned. We’re putting together a timeline of her last movements.

  ‘As for this person who called the school, this is clearly a very compelling piece of information.’

  Friends from Lucy’s Rainbows group – a youth club set up for teens and run from a church hall in Gorse Hill – are still coming to terms with their friend’s disappearance.

  Colette Newbury, 14, told the Courant, ‘She’s always just been this big, bubbly ball of energy and happiness – always smiling, happy to help the younger members and listen to the older ones. People are saying all sorts of horrid things, like she had a secret boyfriend, or something, but that’s not Lucy at all. She’s just sweet, really. I don’t think she’s got any interest in boys. Honestly, she’d be giddy if you gave her a bar of chocolate so there’s no way she would keep something like this to herself. I’m thinking all sorts of horrible things. I just want her to come home.’

  HELP BRING ‘PERFECT SON’ HOME

  By Roger Lytollis

  June 12, 2006

  A 14-YEAR-old boy missing from his Carlisle home has been called ‘a perfect son’ by his frantic parents.

  Phillip Westoby was last seen leaving his home in Carlisle’s Morton Park at a little before 9 a.m. on Sunday morning.

  Five days on, his parents say they have ‘done everything in their power’ to try and contact him and now believe he may have been taken against his will.

  Phillip’s mother, Sue, a receptionist at a city centre dental surgery, is urging anybody with information to contact police.

  She said: ‘We know for an absolute fact that he left the house early on Sunday because a neighbour saw him closing the door and heading down the drive. We think he may have been heading to the newsagent’s to pick up some things. There was very little milk in the fridge and he likes to start the day with a good breakfast. That’s the kind of lad he is. Reliable. Decent. He’d see something missing from the cupboards and would just go off and get a replacement. He liked surprising us. Getting the papers – spending his pocket money on little treats for his dad and me and his big brother.

  ‘It sounds hard to believe but he’s always been a perfect son. His dad suffers with terrible back pains and Phil has very much stepped up as the man of the house. I just want him home.’

  Police claim they take every missing persons case seriously and have urged anybody with information to get in touch.

  HOPE FADING IN MISSING SCHOOLGIRL INVESTIGATION

  Durham Sentinel, April 2, 2005

  A SENIOR detective has warned that the chances of recovering missing schoolgirl Melanie Grazia are growing slimmer with every day that goes by. The 14-year-old went missing from boarding school in picturesque Barnard Castle, Weardale, on Friday afternoon.

  The ‘star pupil’ excused herself from lessons to return to the boarding house, suffering from stomach cramps and blurred vision. She was walked back by a fel
low classmate, who returned to lessons when Melanie was still on the doorstep of the small property in the grounds of the Victorian-built school.

  The Head of Pastoral received a telephone message around the time of the final school bell stating that Melanie’s parents had come to pick her up and that she would be away all weekend. As this is against school policy, the staff member called her parents to clarify. They claimed they had left no such telephone message. Police were called the following morning.

  A spokesman for the school said: ‘We are reviewing all of our safeguarding policies but for now all that matters is finding Melanie safe and well. She has been gone for over a week now and her friends are frantic with worry. She is a big part of this school, be it her integral part of the school’s drama group; the orchestra, the choir, the sports team. She’s an exceptional person and a true delight to have around. She’s a big help with the younger pupils who struggle to readjust to life away from home.’

  Inspector Simon Marsh, of Durham Constabulary Press Office, said: ‘We all have our fingers crossed that Melanie is with a friend and is safe and well and ready to come home. Certainly the information we have suggests that she had been struggling with some emotional problems in recent weeks and had complained to her family of being overwhelmed by her workload and in need of some space to clear her head. But the statistics make for grim reading and with each day that goes by without us finding a firm lead, the chances of a happy ending to all this grow slimmer.’

  Police are urging witnesses to come forward. Melanie is 5' 3", with olive skin, green eyes and black hair. She was wearing a blue jumper, pleated blue skirt and black shoes when she was last seen in the school grounds. Witnesses have reported seeing a girl matching her description sitting alone in the park near the town’s historic ruined castle, though police have been unable to verify the sightings.

  ONE

  ‘OM actual G! Have you seen yourself? It’s, like, super awks, seeing your dad all, y’know … cringe! Like, I can’t see where you stop and the armchair begins.’

  Rufus Orton opens one eye and immediately regrets it. Inside his skull, the movement makes a sound like a windscreen wiper screeching across icy glass. He manages a low groan, and angles the bloodshot eye down towards various parts of himself. He feels the same little flicker of surprise as he assesses the devastation of the vessel into which he has been poured. Not young any more. Not much to look at. Not the floppy-haired author whose books were going to change the world. He’s middle-aged, provided he dies aged 104. Baggy around the middle, loose at the neck. He can smell himself: all mildew and bad wine.

  ‘Are you awake? Have you, like, had a stroke? Because that’s the last straw, Dad. I’m serious, if you’ve had a stroke that will be totes unacceptable, yeah?’

  Rufus would like to offer Dorcas some words of reassurance, but his tongue won’t unstick itself from the roof of his mouth. Barnacle-like, it clings to his soft palate, sucking the moisture from his mouth and no doubt getting itself pissed as a consequence. He doesn’t think he’s had a stroke, though he understands his daughter’s concerns. He makes a somewhat pitiful spectacle. The shiny leather patches on the sleeves of his corduroy jacket are the same shade as the battered chair in which he sprawls, boneless and crumpled. His pyjama trousers are tangled around his knees, somewhere beneath the partition wall of his old laptop. He can’t remember the colour, and can’t be bothered to look.

  ‘This is so crashy! Like, scuzz-central. Grossville. Have you eaten today? I don’t see why you’re like still so flabby – you like live on wine and paracetamol. Oh, and FYI, there’s a dead mole on the mat. And a shrew’s head, which is mad cause the cat’s been dead since last Christmas. Anyway, whatever. I don’t suppose you’ve like bought any more credit for my phone, have you?’

  There’s a serrated edge to the way she asks, as if she already knows the answer but wants the reply to hurt. She’s seventeen now, his darling Dorcas, and stopped being his daughter the moment she started peppering her sentences with the word ‘like’. She’s his wife’s offspring now, and the very image of her mother, Shonagh. Startlingly attractive, but with a distinct nastiness around the eyes. Rufus had entertained hopes that by this age she would be a bohemian, a libertine: that they would attend rallies in Westminster and chain themselves to old oak trees together – maybe brew some potent scrumpy in one of the outbuildings and read one another selected passages by neglected poets. Had rather imagined she would become his assistant in some capacity: PA, researcher, a doting and dutiful companion and ever so slightly humbled to be the daughter of Rufus Orton, modern great.

  She went the other way. There’s a bit of a sneer about her now. Would swap him for an Amazon voucher if somebody put the offer on the table. She won’t leave the house without make-up, watches pointless people saying pointless things on social media, and gets excited when imbecilic YouTubers release a new range of must-have merchandise. He hasn’t seen her reading a book since she was twelve. Apparently she can’t concentrate for long enough to get into novels. She’ll watch the occasional movie on a streaming channel, but only if she’s already heard of one of the actors. Rufus has lost interest in her, if he’s honest. Loves her, out of habit, but doesn’t see very much to admire. She doesn’t suit the house anymore. It’s old and crumbling, tucked away down the end of a long green tunnel of overgrown trees and backing on to a popular tourist trail, a couple of miles from Masham, North Yorkshire. It looks OK from the outside but the interior, and the kitchen in particular, look like the setting for a particularly grimy period drama about a morose farmer witnessing the death of a way of life.

  ‘I’m back, anyways,’ she says, and though his eyes are closed he’s sure he can hear the scrape of her lacquered eyelashes unsticking as she rolls her eyes. ‘I’ll be leaving early. Millie wore my top for drama – I saw the post on Instagram – so if she pops in tell her she’s a thieving cow-bag and I’m taking her Converse for the open day, right? You don’t have to do anything else. Just sit there and look for people who think you’re amazing. It’ll keep you busy.’

  Rufus, in counsel with his uncooperative tongue, decides that silence is the best option. He can feel half a dozen smart-arse replies lining up like bullets, but he has just enough pride not to fire them. He can’t imagine feeling particularly good about himself if he made his eldest daughter cry by telling her that when her looks fade and she has to rely on her personality, she’ll be royally screwed.

  There are scrapes, bangs and the damp thud of an avalanche of papers sliding off the end of the long farmhouse table, then angry footsteps to the door. He gets a smell of her. Perfume, pizza, nail polish, sweat. He feels briefly better for it. The kitchen is all mould and spilled wine and damp paper. It’s as if somebody has let in a sea breeze.

  He stretches. Feels the headache in his shoulders. He rubs at the nape of his neck, trying to persuade the dull throb to push on to somewhere less important, like his legs. He has very little interest in his legs. They just sort of dangle there, occasionally propelling him to the car and from there to the village shop, where he and Dave, the long-suffering owner, have an ‘arrangement’. Rufus passes on signed copies of his books, and Dave pays him in bottles of red wine.

  There’s a vibration, somewhere beneath him. He shifts, awkwardly, then makes a desperate lunge as the laptop slides off his knee and plunges down his bare legs to clatter onto the flagstone floor.

  ‘Fiddlesticks,’ he mumbles, out of habit. Then he catches himself. He’s made a conscious decision to stop living by Shonagh’s rules. He can damn well swear properly if he wants to. ‘Bloody shit,’ he manages, then winces at the inadequacy of the curse.

  He retrieves his phone from under his left buttock, noting with some modicum of shame that he probably didn’t make for a particularly inspiring sight when his daughter came home and saw her father was largely naked from the waist down, save for a pair of leather deck shoes.

  He answers without looking at the number. ‘Rufus Orton,’ he says, in the voice he uses on the telephone. It’s very English. Very ‘Young Conservative’. Very Chipping Norton.