‘I couldn’t see anybody,’ she says weakly, as if she is being blamed for this. ‘I ran out into the street after it happened but it was empty.’

He puts his arm around her shoulder and cuddles her tightly, her sharp bones pressing into his thick chest. ‘I’m glad you didn’t. Whoever did this could quite as easily have turned around and done something to you. If anything like this ever happens again, promise me you’ll call me, okay?’

She nods and sniffs. For all of her initial bravado, pretending that everything is fine, feigning bravery and telling him that she wasn’t alarmed or frightened, he can tell by her quiet demeanour that this has shaken her up. She’s fragile, easily startled and upset. She needs protecting.

‘Well, my thinking is that this was done by kids,’ he says with a sigh. It’s the only rational explanation. That’s what he tells himself. And it’s partly true. Sophia’s death evoked pity from neighbours and friends, not hatred. This definitely wasn’t done by somebody local, somebody who knows their circumstances. His face still prickles with fear and apprehension: emotions he tries to conceal from Lauren. Did somebody see him that night? The night he trailed behind Sophia, dipping in and out of the bushes and shrubbery, anger and jealousy pushing him on, forcing him to do their bidding. Does somebody know that he was there, right behind her and this is their way of letting him know that they saw him? A sharp reminder that the past is never far behind him. Always ready and waiting to throw everything back in his face, the things he thought could be kept hidden, nicely secreted away. If he is being honest with himself, Peter knows that there is no such place as away. Everything is visible. Known. Nowhere to hide.

‘You reckon?’ Lauren is looking up at him, a glimmer of hope in her eyes.

‘I do reckon. There’s no other explanation for it.’ He swallows down his fears, tells himself this is a coincidence. He won’t think about the other possibilities. He can’t. It’s over and done with. No going back.

He makes a call to a glazier and after cleaning up the mess, they sit and eat, talking about their day, avoiding the subject entirely. Easier. Less troublesome than raking up the past, delving into the trauma of the past year, the guilt and regret, thick like tar, coating his insides.

‘I was thinking about going to university. I’m definitely going to do it.’ Lauren is watching him, waiting for his reaction. Her plans for further education were put on the back burner after Sophia died, all discussions about it grinding to a halt.

It’s about time, he thinks, that she put it back in her sights. Having a goal to work towards will help her focus. Keep her grounded. Not that she isn’t already. His daughter is a marvel. One of the best. The sensible parts of him and Sophia combined minus the bitterness and spite. The best of both worlds.

‘Sweetheart, I think that’s a great idea.’ He reaches across her and scoops up lumps of fluffy, white mash with a large spoon, piling it on his plate before smothering it in gravy. Lunch was a prawn sandwich and his stomach feels hollow, as if it has been deprived of food for an age.

‘Really? You’re not upset about it?’

‘Why would I be upset? You’ve always wanted to go. I think it’s a fantastic opportunity. You’ll broaden your horizons, meet new friends. Drink lots of alcohol and party like a demon.’ He narrows his eyes and winks at her.

She laughs, a deep, throaty chuckle that helps soothe his nerves and warm his heart. ‘Dad, I am never drinking again after that party.’

‘Oh, we’ve all said that,’ he replies, chewing on his food. ‘I still do after too many glasses of whisky.’

‘No, really. I honestly thought my head was going to fall off the next morning. No more vodka for me.’

‘Whatever you say,’ he murmurs, eyeing her carefully. ‘Until next time, that is, eh?’

They chat like a family that doesn’t have a care in the world as they eat their evening meal. Maybe we don’t, he thinks. Maybe at long last, all our troubles and worries are behind us.

Maybe the rock was a horrible coincidence, thrown by the little shits that regularly parade around the street with nothing else to do; young lads with nowhere to go and nobody to monitor them. He daren’t be too optimistic and he daren’t pin his hopes on this relationship with Alice working out and Lauren getting a place at university and all the things that many people take for granted happening to them. He just daren’t hope.

Before Sophia died, before their marriage crumbled and she turned to another man for comfort and solace, he didn’t give such things a second thought. Life rolled along in a linear fashion and not once did he think that things could go so badly awry. But they did. And they can again. He needs to be vigilant at all times, never letting his guard down. Be mindful of everything he says and does, sticking to the story he told the police about that night, that he was ill in bed. A phone call he had made to the doctors earlier in the day gave his story a little more credence.

Lauren was out with friends. He had no alibi but then neither did Phillip Kennedy. Apparently, his wife was unable to vouch for his whereabouts that night. He too, was out walking the streets, clearing his head, no doubt trying to push all thoughts of Sophia out of his mind. At least that’s something they have in common.

He stops, takes a shaky breath, recalibrates his thought patterns. Phillip Kennedy is in prison. Sophia is dead. He and Lauren are here. That’s what he needs to concentrate on, not the negative images that penetrate his waking moments, the black and charred thoughts that jostle for space in his head, day after day after day.

‘When are you seeing Alice next?’ Lauren’s voice is light, breezy and full of optimism, back to the girl that he once knew. Back to the girl who waltzed through life without a care in the world. It’s good to see her emerge once again, tentatively peeking out from the shadows, eyes gleaming, features lit up with something resembling happiness.

Peter closes his eyes and sighs the briefest of sighs before snapping them open again. He can do this. He can live the rest of his life with his daughter and perhaps Alice by his side. No more Sophia. No more arguments. No more worrying, his anxiety levels sky-high, wondering if somebody was close behind him the night Sophia died.

‘Tomorrow evening. I was going to speak to you about it, actually. I’ve asked her round for a meal. You don’t mind, do you? I was thinking it would be a good chance for us all to sit down together and eat and chat, you know, get to know each other?’

‘All?’ Lauren has put down her fork and is staring at him as if he has just announced that he is going to strip naked and run down the high street with his underwear on his head.

‘Well, yeah, if that’s okay with you?’ He wonders what is coming next, what pearl of wisdom she is about to come out with, what nugget of information she has stored away that he wasn’t aware she possessed. ‘Better than trawling through Tinder, don’t you think? More age appropriate and a damn sight more dignified.’

Lauren manages a smile, shakes her head despondently. ‘Dad! You’ve got to have some time with her on your own. You don’t want me hanging around.’ Her mouth is gaping, her perfectly straight, white teeth just visible as she stares at him, incredulity tattooed into her features.

‘Why not? It’s not as if we’re a pair of lovestruck teenagers.’ He relaxes again and holds up his hand, taking a deep sigh, aware of Lauren’s tender age and inexperience. ‘I mean, no insult intended, but we’re both grown-ups and don’t feel the need to spend the evening staring into one another’s eyes.’ I’m not you, he wants to say. Young and tender and free of the troubles that love can throw your way, unaware of just how painful it can all be, this falling head-over-heels in love business.

It worries him, how easily lives can diverge and change, souring beyond recognition. It concerns him that his daughter may have to experience it all, be subject to somebody else’s moods and wants and needs and eventually discarded and cast aside like a piece of rubbish if she doesn’t quite measure up.

She clicks her tongue at him and continues eating, unaware of his thoughts, his deepest fears for her future. For both of their futures. ‘Well, whatever, but I’m going out anyway. We’re going to have a study night round Jessie’s house. You can save me some cake, though. The pudding is the best bit of any meal.’

Part of him is grateful that she is going out and another part feels nervous anticipation at spending the entire evening alone with Alice. He is attracted to her for sure and yet there is a small part of that woman that puts him on edge, questioning her sudden appearance in his life. She’s too good to be true. Maybe that’s it, he thinks. Maybe he’s become so accustomed to being shat upon from a great height that an easy life feels out of his reach, as if he doesn’t deserve it. Or maybe his previous encounters with females who like him, were looking for nothing more than physical comfort and pleasure, have coloured his judgement, skewing his expectations of what a proper relationship should look like. He can hardly use his marriage as a benchmark for happiness. Now he has to rely on instinct and his own gut feeling. But what if he’s wrong? What if he throws himself into this thing with Alice and it all goes tits up, leaving him bereft once again?

‘Make sure you keep your mouth shut when you eat and no burping or farting until after Alice has left.’ Lauren stands up and clears away the plates, her laughter dragging him out of his thoughts and lifting his spirits. It’s good to have his girl back, the light-hearted, witty Lauren that injects levity into his life. He needs her humour and smiles to keep him going. He thought that life without all the acrimony between him and Sophia would be at least easier if not easy, full of lightness. So why at times like this does it still feel so fucking difficult?

18ALICE

It’s been a full twenty-four hours and neither Elizabeth nor Jack have made any mention of the missing packet of powder. I am both irritated and disappointed in equal measure. There was no point in taking it if its absence isn’t going to provoke an adverse reaction. Perhaps it’s a weekend thing, something they take to wind down at the end of their hectic working week.

I grimace and pick up a cleaning cloth, dabbing it across already gleaming surfaces, resentment seeping out of every pore. Neither of them knows what it’s like to sweat and toil, to have to get their hands dirty to earn a meagre crust. They don’t even do their own cleaning, let alone anybody else’s. They are both unbelievably privileged and have no reason to need any sort of recreational drug to relax and ease their stress levels. Perhaps they won’t miss it. I hope they do. I hope one of them approaches me and asks the question while I attempt to suppress a smile as they blush and flounder and dance around the subject, throwing out twee euphemisms, trying to pretend that it is a harmless substance and not a class-A drug that they have mislaid the way other people lose their phones or car keys.

I detest them both with a passion. I detest their aloof, detached manner. I detest the way they ignore their children, foisting them off on me at every available opportunity, but most of all, I detest them because of how easy their lives are. They squander money on pointless items such as the outrageously expensive and totally unnecessary antique rocking chair that sits idly in the corner of the dining room, and the hideously ostentatious new Jaguar that is parked outside the house. They don’t need these things. Nobody needs such vulgar items that serve only to show off their wealth to friends and neighbours. Except it would appear that they do. The Downeys thrive on them, talking about them endlessly, going out and buying more and more when this house is already crammed full of objects that collectively must be worth as much as the house itself. There are days when I feel as if they buy these things to get back at me, an aggressive display of their financial standing, a way of letting me know how deep their pockets are. But all of these things come at a price. Nobody can live their lives in such a fashion without something going terribly wrong. A crash and burn is just around the corner for this family. I can sense it. And now I have the power to bring it all about.

I yearn to ask them if they have lost anything, to confront Elizabeth with evidence of her husband’s philandering and then produce the small packet, telling them that I plan on going public with what I have unless they pay me a handsome sum of money. Even then, once I get the cash, I may still report them to the police and social services, just for fun. Just because I can. Or maybe it’s to let them get a glimpse into my life, let them know how things are on the darker side of the divide, to let them see how the poorer half live. But I won’t do any of those things. Not just yet. It’s all about the timing, getting it right, that delicate balance. Tip too hard one way and everything will slip and fall. I’ll keep my secrets secret for the time being. Cling onto them and savour them, like fine wine or a particularly expensive serving of caviar. I will bide my time and enjoy the build-up. That’s the best part, don’t you think? The waiting, the almost sexual release when everything becomes apparent and unspools in spectacular fashion.

Tonight, I’ve been invited to Peter’s house where we will eat and drink and get to know one another a little more. He may even have bought me some flowers, perhaps my favourite wine, the one we spoke about in the restaurant. God knows I dropped enough hints. I hope he was taking notice. In the next few weeks, he will have to pay very close attention to what I’m saying. Let’s see if he manages to put all the pieces together, the hints, the subtle narratives I throw his way. He’s obviously a bright man, albeit damaged and blinded by grief.

What he needs to realise is that losing somebody close to you isn’t solely reserved for him. We’ve all lost somebody at some stage, it’s just that some of us manage it better than others – the searing pain, the never-ending stab of separation and loss. We all suffer it at some point in our lives. Peter Saunders doesn’t have the monopoly on sorrow and suffering. He needs to know that. Besides, what does he have to feel aggrieved about? His wife was a thoughtless liar, a cheating, callous bitch of a woman. He’s better off without her. We all are.

Outside, the weather changes, a shifting mist swirling and swaying, obscuring the houses and cars. It suits my mood, the overwhelming darkness that grows within me exponentially, obliterating everything.

I’m lost in my thoughts, my mood down in the dirt when I hear something behind me. A shuffle of feet, a whisper of breath on my neck. I turn to see Jack standing close by, his expression dour, a restlessness about him as he moves closer to me, so close I can feel the heat of his body against my own skin, am able to smell his aftershave – a fresh, lemon scent with undertones of something musky. Something expensive. Always that, the money and the sense of distance that it brings between those who have it and those who don’t.

I take a step back, readying myself for what he is about to say, wondering whether it will be a calm and restrained approach or whether he will fly into a rage, making accusations about me stealing. I suspect it will be the former, but of course I don’t know this man. Not really. I wash and iron his clothes, clean up after him and care for his children day in, day out, but in reality, he is a stranger to me. I know nothing about him except that he is an immensely wealthy property developer who plays away from home and snorts cocaine in his spare time. That’s enough for me to be able to have a stranglehold over him. Enough to make me think that he’s wealthy enough to make sure I keep our little secret between us and not smear his good name. It’s a perfect match. He needs to keep his reputation intact and I need the money.

‘Alice?’ He cocks his head to one side, his fingers flexing madly by his sides.

I hear the cracking of bone and cartilage as he brings his hands together and bends his fingers back and forth.

‘Yes? Is there something wrong? I’ve finished ironing those shirts that Elizabeth asked me to do and I bleached the bathroom as requested.’ I stifle laughter, thinking that I may as well curtsey and be done with it, all this subservience and kowtowing caper. Were it not for the fact there is some remuneration at the end of this little game, I would be tempted to spit in his face, to tell him how rotten he and his wife are with their superior attitudes and the knack they have of making me feel as if I am not worthy of their time or attention. An irritant, that’s all I am: a fly to be swatted away. At least that is something the children and I have in common, all of us regularly cast aside for something or somebody better.

‘No, no. Everything in the house looks perfect. I don’t suppose you stumbled across that receipt, did you?’

I shake my head and narrow my eyes as if deep in thought. ‘Not seen it. I’m really sorry. I’m guessing it was important?’

‘No, honestly, it’s fine. I can manage without it. Also, I don’t suppose you’ve come across some of my medication? I think I left it in the library, which was really careless of me.’

I almost choke on my own saliva, a pulse throbbing in my neck as I blink rapidly and look into his eyes for some indication that he is being sardonic, but see only complete innocence. He is almost as good at this little game as I am. Almost. But not quite.

‘Oh gosh. No, I’ve not seen anything like that. What did it look like? I can empty everything out of there and have a good search if you like?’