‘Good riddance to bad rubbish, eh? Now, can we have a relaxing day with no more unpleasant memories to rake through?’ He smiles at her, relieved that that particular conversation is over with. Togetherness, he thinks fondly. That’s what they need more of in this house. A bond that draws the two of them together. No more talk of Sophia’s murder. No more reminders of his wife’s lover. Just him and his daughter. And Alice. He doesn’t want to forget about Alice.

‘Tell you what,’ Lauren says wistfully. ‘Why don’t we watch an old film, get some crisps and chocolate and just pig out like a pair of old slobs?’

He rests his head back on the sofa, surprisingly enamoured by the idea. He’s tired, every nerve, every muscle and sinew in his body crying out for respite. He’s ready to do nothing except lie back and be entertained by some mind-numbing movie that will glide over him and not force him to think too hard about Sophia and Phillip, about his own actions. About what he did. ‘You’re on. What you got?’ His voice echoes in his head, incorporeal and eerie, memories of that day still present, nagging at him, refusing to leave him be.

He had followed Sophia the night she was murdered, salting himself away behind trees and shrubbery as she headed along the path that ran parallel to the riverbank. She had told him she was going to meet up with some colleagues for a drink. He knew different. She was going to meet him – Kennedy. It was obvious in her body language, her tone, the way she put on another coat of lipstick and fluffed up her hair. This was no ordinary walk. It was a clandestine meeting.

Still dressed in her work clothes, she left the house, hands slung in the pockets of her coat, head dipped against the gathering breeze.

Knowing that Lauren was upstairs studying, her head buried in a book, Peter took the opportunity and slipped out into the night after his wife, his heart battering beneath his ribcage like a trapped bird, its wings fluttering wildly in a frantic bid for freedom.

‘How about this one, Dad?’ Lauren is standing in front of him holding up one of her firm favourites – Dirty Dancing.

He groans, shuts his eyes and listens to her laughter and she slips the disc into the machine and turns up the volume. Peter allows himself to be carried away by the noise, the music, the distant crackle of chattering voices. Anything is better than the continual whispering that storms through his head day after day after day, telling him that he is the guilty one, that he is the one who is responsible. That he is actually the one who killed his own wife.

15ALICE

‘Alice, I don’t suppose you’ve come across an old receipt, have you? I seem to have mislaid it.’ Jack is standing next to me, his face flushed, perspiration standing out on his top lip. He is wringing his hands, his knuckles making a sharp, cracking sound.

‘No, not that I recall,’ I say, keeping my expression neutral. ‘What sort of receipt?’

He hops from foot to foot, his usual cool demeanour absent. ‘Oh, nothing too important. It’s just for a meal I paid for recently for some clients at work. If you stumble across it, could you pass it onto me, please.’ He smiles at me and winks conspiratorially. ‘And it would be really helpful if we could keep this little mistake of mine between the two of us. Elizabeth gets rather riled at the amount of money I spend on some of my customers, so if you wouldn’t mind…?’

I give him a smile, indicating that I will keep our little secret between just the two of us, nodding and lowering my gaze away from his. Doing my best to look discreet, humble, unassuming. ‘Of course. No problem at all.’

He heads off in a different direction, his shoulders ever so slightly slumped. He’s definitely nervous and agitated. Jack is a cool customer, playing everything to perfection. Always the consummate professional, his behaviour is often difficult to decipher. But not today. Today, he is off balance, his usual reserved composure absent. It doesn’t trouble me too much. I have the receipt. I hold all the cards. I think about that small piece of paper that is laid out on my kitchen table at home, all the secrets it holds. And now it’s mine. For all the locked doors in this place and immaculately placed objects, I have finally managed to procure a piece of evidence that could damage their perfect little lives, perhaps irrevocably.

I spend the remainder of the afternoon vacuuming the children’s bedrooms, wondering who the woman is that he took out to that restaurant, what she looks like, where she lives. Not that it matters. I know about her and that’s enough. And I’m almost certain he knows that I know. I hum as I shake the rug and run the vacuum over it. It feels good to wield some power. For so long now, I have been scrambling around in the dirt, trying to make ends meet, wondering where the next nasty surprise is coming from and now, I have a way out of it. A way of making sure Jack Downey gives me what I want to keep his tawdry little secret away from his unsuspecting wife.

‘Alice, if you wouldn’t mind giving the surfaces a dust down before you go, that would be marvellous.’ Elizabeth is striding along the wide landing, her attention already fixated on something else. Her long skirt swishes along the rug as she glides down the stairs and click-clacks her way across the parquet flooring of the large hallway. I wonder what she does with her time, how she manages to appear so busy whilst doing absolutely nothing at all. I cannot remember the last time I saw her do any household chores, if indeed I’ve ever seen her do any at all.

Perhaps she has a secret lover as well. Maybe this is how the Downeys live their lives, with clandestine flirtations and liaisons and my hanging on to that receipt is a pointless exercise. Except I don’t think that’s the case at all. I think Jack Downey appeared very nervous and is desperate to get it back.

I pick up a duster and bite at my lip to suppress my excitement. It might be worth my while to snoop a little more. Not too much. Things suddenly going missing would look suspicious. For now, I have a piece of incriminating evidence, something he is keen to retrieve. I wonder how much he will part with to keep me quiet? I need to make it worth my while, perhaps find something else to raise the price of my silence because afterwards, he will find a way to fire me. If he dares, that is. I’m not so stupid as to hand it over without taking a photograph of it first. A photograph I could pass on to his wife. This all rather outlandish, and so very delicious. Elizabeth often goes out shopping leaving her husband alone in the house while I clean and look after her children. I could approach him then, let him know I have the evidence of his infidelity.

A frisson of excitement runs through me, firing up my senses. This and Peter, all within my grasp. And not before time. My downward-plummeting life appears to be taking an upturn. Perhaps my visits to church have paid off and God is finally smiling down on me.

None of the surfaces need dusting. They gleam and shine like cut glass but I dust them anyway. Fionn and Yasmin are at school and I’m not due to collect them for another half hour. There is little else for me to do around here. I have scrubbed surfaces, ironed, washed windows and swept floors Cinderella-style until my back aches and my temper frays. This house couldn’t be any cleaner if I tried.

It’s as I’m moving a pile of books in the library to dust behind them that I see it – a small, clear packet, sealed and full of white powder.

My heart thumps, a slight sheen of sweat breaking out under my armpits. A thousand thoughts run through my head – if I pick this thing up, my prints will be on it. What evidence do I have that it belongs to either of these two people and not to me? If I were to produce it and show it to them, they could claim that I brought it in the house and planted it there. My palms are slick with sweat as I pull out my phone and take a photograph of it without even touching the packet. I push the books back in place and head into the kitchen where I snap on a pair of latex gloves then make my way back to the library, stopping first to check for any signs or sounds of movement. There is nothing. This is a dead house, no love in it, no vibrancy. A house full of emptiness. Aside from the pristine furniture and expensive-looking trinkets, there is nothing at all to indicate that anybody even lives here. It’s as if spirits and ghosts roam the place, sailing past in a cold, invisible haze. They have everything anybody could ever want, these people, except the one thing that matters – love.

I check over my shoulder before moving everything again, picking up the packet and slipping it into my pocket. It weighs next to nothing yet feels as heavy as a brick as I carefully put the books back in place. I need to put this somewhere safe while I pick up the children from school. The thought of having it on me while I am standing there outside the gates, waiting for them to come out sends a shiver down my spine. Too risky by far.

My leather handbag is filled with detritus – old tissues, discarded lipsticks, loose coins that have fallen out of my purse. I open a side pocket inside and place the packet in there, zipping it up. Then I put the bag in a locker in the utility room that the Downeys provided for my belongings. I lock everything away, satisfied that it will be secure while I’m out of the house for the next half hour. I could present the picture and the evidence to Jack right now but time is against me. This type of thing shouldn’t be hurried. It takes careful planning. Just like the receipt, I have already decided that I will wait until one of them approaches me and asks if I have seen it, and then I will strike. I will produce the photograph and ask them to name their price so that their secret stays with me and doesn’t make it to the police or the school or social services. The Downeys are proud people. Prestige and wealth mean a lot to them, as does how they are perceived by others. Such a scandal would break them.

‘I’m going to pick the children up from school!’ Neither of them responds. They rarely do. They will have heard me for sure but in this house, my words carry no weight, sailing over their heads, unwanted and unacknowledged. But soon, they will take notice of what I have to say. They will be very interested when I speak, jumping to attention, desperate to quieten me down and supress any possible shame that may come their way.

I leave the house with a spring in my step, my body lighter than air. It was only a matter of time. The Downeys of the world are too complacent, too damn arrogant to think they are incapable of ever making mistakes. I smile as the sun hits my face, its rays beating down on my cold flesh. If this is what they leave lying around the rooms that I am allowed to enter, what the hell are they hiding in those locked rooms? That bedroom and study must be a minefield of secrets. The thought of getting in them makes my skin tingle with excitement. But of course, I don’t need to get inside them. I have enough to be going on with. A small packet of cocaine and a rogue receipt from a tryst with a lover is more than enough to get me what I want.

The sky is a little bit bluer, the clouds whiter, the sun that little bit brighter as I turn the corner and make my way towards the school, slipping among the crowds of parents standing outside the high, wrought-iron gates where I wait in silence.

16LAUREN

It’s been a long year and I was tired of feeling miserable, tired of seeing Dad so miserable. With Alice coming on the scene, maybe I can now look forward instead of continually looking backwards over my shoulder, analysing, questioning everything. I can think about university and there will be no guilt about leaving Dad on his own. I can see now that he’ll manage just fine without me.

The beep of my phone cuts into my thoughts, dragging me back to the here and now. A message flashes up from Josh. My face grows hot and my stomach goes into a spasm. Twice he has contacted me now. Twice since we got talking at the party he has asked if he can see me again. I thought it was the alcohol talking, his beer goggles skewing his judgement, but it appears he does actually like me and wants us to meet up.

A pulse throbs in my neck as I read his message, asking if I want to go for a drink in The Grapes next week. I would love to go to The Grapes but decide to play it cool and leave it for another hour before I reply, finishing an essay and tidying my room first to pass the time. If he’s as keen as he appears then he won’t mind waiting, will he? My heart thuds as I type up my reply, my fingers clammy with anticipation.

That sounds really cool. What time?

I click send and refrain from putting a kiss at the end of my message. Too familiar. Too soon. Don’t want to scare him off, make him think I’m a bunny boiler. There’s a fine line between keeping somebody interested and making them think you’re some sort of unhinged individual. The type of person who puts kisses at the end of a text for fuck’s sake or stalks people.

Somebody like Phillip Kennedy.

I sigh and close my eyes: despair, anxiety, that man never far from the fringes of my mind. He’s always there – waiting, ready to jump into my head even though every fibre of my being doesn’t want him in my thoughts. I don’t want to think about him and Mum together. I’m almost certain they both thought they had kept it from me – Dad and Mum – but I’m not an idiot. I could see what was going on. As much as they tried to mask their troubles, there was no way to stop the truth from leaking out. And then of course, I saw that text. There was no escaping from the reality of the situation once I saw those words. The intensity of them. The intent.

It’s as I’m sitting waiting for a reply from Josh that it happens. The sound almost sends me into a meltdown. I’m already on edge. Jittery. Dad is at work and I’m in the house on my own. I have no idea what’s happened and am too scared to go downstairs and look. It was a loud bang, something smashing or breaking. My head is pounding, my heart pummelling against my ribcage, making me woozy and slightly sick. The thought that somebody could be down there, somebody who knows, and is wandering about, is enough to make me crumple, my body folding and becoming floppy with fear, my innards turning to liquid.

I sit for a few seconds, arms wrapped around my body, legs tucked under me on the bed, listening, waiting. Waiting for what? I should get up and investigate. I know this but am unable to move, my limbs solid as rocks, my entire body frozen.

The sound of my own breathing rattles around my head. I take a few gasps and tell myself to stop being so bloody ridiculous. The door is locked. Nobody can get in. I am the only one in this house. I know this for certain. So why do I feel so full of dread, as if something terrible is about to happen? I visualise a big hammer smashing down on me, fragmenting my skull, atonement for my sins.

Time ticks by as I sit, listening out, trying to regulate my breathing. I’m greeted by a long, drawn-out silence. Nothing to hear. Nothing to see. Nobody else around. I stand up and tiptoe across the landing, peeking into rooms as I pass, making sure they’re empty and there isn’t some skanky druggy waiting to smash my head in. Then I look down the stairs and let out an involuntary shriek.

Shards of coloured glass are spread over the mat, scattered over the tiled flooring and even sprinkled on the console table next to the front door. There is a hole in the top panel where the rock was thrown through it. It sits there, a large, jagged stone, incongruous and scary looking against the polished floor and recently vacuumed rug.

Adrenaline pulses through me, whistling through my veins as I thunder downstairs and pull at the handle with clammy fingers. I step outside, craning my neck to look up and down the road. It’s empty. Nobody around. Nothing to see. Whoever did this could have strolled up and announced their presence on a loudspeaker and they wouldn’t have been seen. Everyone’s at work or school or out shopping. Nobody home to witness this shitty little act.

The pulse in my neck is so strong and rhythmic, it makes me feel as if I’m going to vomit or pass out. I step back inside the house and lock the door, bending down to pick up the lump of rough, serrated rock, clutching it, inspecting it as if it holds the answer as to who did this.

It sits close to my chest, pressing against my sternum, the sheer heft of it causing me to catch my breath. So many awful thoughts buzz around my brain – worrying thoughts, sickening images. Who did this? Am I being watched? Maybe this was meant for Dad but part of me thinks not. I have a horrible feeling it was definitely directed at me.

I tell myself to get a grip, not be so stupid, so paranoid, my tendency to over-react a physical force within me. I have no idea what to do next, how to deal with this thing. I don’t want to ring Dad and worry him. He’s just started to climb out of a deep, dark hole. No way do I want to drag him back in there before he has seen real daylight. Fucking stupid, rock-throwing bastard. Whoever it was that did this needs to get a bloody life.

Glass crunches under my feet. I get a brush and dustpan and sweep it all up, picking up the larger shards with my fingers and placing them in the bin. This door panel has been in place for decades, small pieces of stained glass set in individual panes. It’s eye-catching, unique, expensive. I am immediately furious. How dare they? How fucking dare they try to scare us, whoever it was that did this. They have no right. My palms are hot, my skin flushes with anger and frustration. I thought it was over. It was all meant to be over and done with, our worries and unhappiness.

Grunting loudly, I finish cleaning up and go around checking all the windows and doors, making sure they’re locked. I carry the rock through to the kitchen and place it on the table in the centre, trying to work out how to tell Dad about this. How to explain that I sat tight, did nothing for as long as I did, too fearful to move. Too fearful to do anything at all. He’s been through enough. He doesn’t need any more shit throwing his way and I don’t want to have to show him this after he’s had a long day at work. Life with Mum was difficult. Things are getting easier now. We don’t need any more hatred or upset in this house. I hope that this is just a stupid, awful coincidence. I really hope so. I can’t think what else it could be.

I’m still mulling it over when I hear his key in the door. A chunk of air sticks in my throat like a jagged pebble. My heart starts up its uncomfortable, erratic beat once again. I stand and wait for him to come in, for him to ask what the hell has gone on. There is the familiar shuffle of his feet on the mat, the clink of his keys as he places them on the console table and then his voice as he calls my name.

17PETER

He stares at the gaping hole in the panel. What the hell has happened here? This door and the glass in it are as old as the house itself, each pane carefully set in individual pieces and held together by the leading. It’s irreplaceable. Sickening.

Lauren stands beside him, both of them staring up at the large hole as if it will magically repair itself if they wait and watch it for long enough.