She screws up her face and shakes her head. ‘I’d rather have one of your beers. Wine gives me a headache.’

He sighs, cocks his head to one side. Relents. ‘Go on then. Go and grab yourself one out of the fridge.’

She jumps up, thanking him profusely and dashes away, coming back seconds later with a beer in her hand. No glass because she’s seventeen and it’s way cooler to neck it straight from the bottle.

‘So, Lauren,’ Alice says as she sips at her Chardonnay. ‘How’s college?’

‘It’s fine,’ Lauren replies. ‘No, actually, it’s better than fine. I really enjoy it. The teachers are great. Really approachable and they want us all to do well.’

‘What are you studying?’ Alice angles her chair closer to Lauren, her smile and happiness tangible, her charisma mesmerising.

‘English and History. I want to do a degree in English Literature and go on to become a teacher.’

‘That sounds amazing. It’s good to have goals to work towards.’ Alice is nodding, her face flushed with the wine.

Peter stands, raises his glass in a toast, acutely aware that his actions are both ridiculous and heart-warming. ‘To the future,’ he says loudly.

Lauren and Alice roll their eyes and giggle, Alice lifting her glass and chinking it against Lauren’s bottle then reaching across and touching his goblet of wine, a marginally seductive act that sets his pulse racing.

‘To us,’ Lauren murmurs as she sips at her beer, a contented glaze in her eyes. He’s relieved she has moved on from her thoughts about Alice. It could have formed a barrier between them. It hasn’t and for that he is thankful.

‘I’ve done enough food for three, Lauren if you would like to join us?’ He winks at his daughter, hoping she accepts. They need to bond, the three of them. He needs her to see that Alice isn’t capable of ruining anything. She is everything Sophia wasn’t. They need her. He needs her. Deserves her, even. Maybe they deserve each other. Two grieving people, happy at last.

‘Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to intrude.’

‘You’re not intruding!’ Alice half laughs, placing her hand over Lauren’s. ‘Please stay and eat with us.’

‘I’d love to.’ Lauren gives her father a sideways glance and smiles, running her finger around the neck of her beer bottle, the moisture against her skin making a dull squeaking sound. ‘As long as Dad doesn’t try to see me off, that is.’

Peter and Lauren smile, Peter letting out a dry, embarrassed cackle. He stops and grimaces, the memory of that evening coming back to him in a painful, embarrassing rush.

He observes Alice’s bemusement, notes her perplexity. Decides to enlighten her. ‘Lauren has a severe nut allergy. I once cooked us both a meal that, unbeknownst to me, had nut oil in it and we ended up having to call an ambulance.’ He rolls his eyes, self-deprecation stamped into his expression, the way he shifts in his seat, and the perspiration settling in an arc around his hairline. ‘It was all fine in the end,’ he says a little too rapidly. ‘I gave her a jab of her EpiPen and the medics gave her something to make her vomit but it was rather scary at the time.’

‘So we now scrutinise every bit of food that comes into this house, don’t we, Dad?’ Lauren wags her finger and watches him, seemingly enjoying his discomfiture. ‘Dad sometimes has takeaways but I steer clear of them just in case.’

‘Yes, we do indeed scrutinise the food.’ He gulps down the wine, his glass making a loud smacking sound as he places it on the table. ‘And on that subject, I’ll just go and get the first course.’

Peter strides out of the room, leaving Alice and Lauren together, their voices ringing in his ears as he checks the food and carves up slices of salmon.

He takes his time, arriving back and handing out plates a good ten minutes later. They eat and chat easily about everything and anything, the conversation and alcohol flowing freely. Peter keeps a close eye on how much Lauren is drinking. He counts four beers but thinks perhaps it may have been only three, his own consumption diminishing his capacity to keep an accurate count.

By the time they finish dessert, the world has been smudged into near obscurity by a cloud of food and alcohol. They retire to the living room, bellies full, limbs and hearts soft with wine. Lauren takes herself off into the kitchen, insisting she clear the kitchen and load the dishwasher, batting away all offers of help.

Snuggling up on the sofa next to a warm body is something he never thought he would ever do again, but here he is and here Alice is, next to him, her head resting against his chest as if it is the most natural thing in the world. They sit, comfortable in their companionable silence, their breathing the only sound to be heard in the room; the thud of their two hearts, the proximity of Alice turning him into a lustful teenager.

Later, they climb the stairs to bed. It feels natural, he thinks, as if Alice has lived here all her life. Their lovemaking is a quiet, sombre affair, both of them acutely aware that Lauren is in the room next door. It doesn’t matter to him. It is good to have her warm skin next to his, to feel her breath on his neck, her fingers resting against his flesh as she drapes her arm over his chest.

‘I have to go soon,’ she says, her words cutting through his fantasy that she will stay the night and he will wake with her still there in the morning.

‘Stay,’ is all he is able to utter, alcohol and exhaustion and a post-coital mist clogging up his brain.

But within five minutes, she is up and dressed and calling for a cab.

‘Always so eager to get away.’ His voice is thick with sadness. Near despair. ‘You’re always too eager to leave.’

‘Shh.’ She leans down and kisses his head, his eyelashes, his mouth. ‘We’ll see each other again soon enough. Call me tomorrow when you can.’

And with that, she is gone, vanished like a thief in the night. Despite his uneasy state and despite missing her so much, it is like a physical body blow, sleep comes quickly, dragging him off into a world of darkness where nothing and nobody matters. Not even Sophia. Not even his possible arrest for her murder.

31ALICE

Scrub, rinse, repeat.

Scrub, rinse, repeat.

The shower is so hot, my skin is almost vermillion when I step out. Red and sizzling and scrubbed raw. My bed is the most welcoming thing I have seen all day. I slide into it, the coolness of the sheets a sharp contrast against my burning flesh, and sleep soundly until the morning, the birds waking me from the deepest of slumbers. The sleep of the just.

Despite it being the weekend, I ignore Peter’s text message. I am ready for a break from that man, ready for a break from the Downeys. I need some space from all of them. They take enough from me day after day, hollowing me out, each of them carving a deep void in my heart and brain. Soon there will be nothing left of me. I will have sacrificed my entire body, my values and integrity in the name of revenge. Will it be worth it? I hope so. Would I do it again if I had to? In a heartbeat.

I take a taxi into town, passing the local school along the way. My eyes are glued to it as we sail by. I’m tempted to rap on the glass of the cab, ask the driver to stop so I can get out and look at it, knowing I am finally free of its constraints and demands. But I don’t. My memories of that place are tinged with darkness. I turn away, my face hot, fear and resentment building inside me. A bubbling cauldron of hatred and anger and bitterness.

We pull up outside the city walls with a slight screech. I lean over, pay the driver and step out into the hustle and bustle of York. It feels good to be away from everybody and everything, to be my own person and not be beholden to anyone at all. Today, I am free.

My phone continues to ring in my pocket. Peter has already called me once this morning. If only he knew, then he wouldn’t be so keen to be associated with me. If he could climb inside my head and see the world through my eyes, he wouldn’t be trying to get hold of me, wooing me, luring me into his bed, trying to keep me in his life. He would turn and leave, walking in the opposite direction as quickly as he could. I’d do the same, if I knew me, could foretell what I was about to do.

I weave my way through the crowds until I find myself wandering down The Shambles, one of York’s tiny, iconic streets of timber-framed houses, some dating back to the fourteenth century. I have no idea why I am even here today. Something compelled me to come, to escape from the house and everything that has happened recently. I have money – Jack Downey’s silence money – but don’t particularly want to spend it. My time as a nanny in his employ is now limited. I need to start keeping a close eye on my finances and yet a small part of me is reckless. The money is as heavy as lead in my purse. It’s mine. Every single penny of it. I’ve earned it. Instinctively, I place my hand over my handbag, smoothing down the fabric, checking the clasp is fastened properly, the sheer bulk of it making me euphoric whilst also filling me with a small amount of fear.

My heart starts up. The streets appear even narrower than they already are, the pavements uneven and slippery with heat and years of use. A bout of dizziness catches me unawares. I stop, stepping aside to let the snaking line of people past, and then lean against a wall until the moment passes. This is a moment of clarity, a time to start thinking about my actions. What I have done. What I’m about to do.

I take a few long gasps, weak and winded. This is silly. I have to pull myself together. This money is mine. I earned it. I’ve done nothing wrong; I have nothing to be ashamed of. I’m not the one stashing drugs in the house. I’m not the one having extra-marital affairs. I’m the victim here, the wounded party.

I wait until my vision clears and the swaying dizziness leaves me, then move on. I stop every couple of minutes to stare into shop windows, but the compulsion to spend the money is diminishing. The goods now appear tacky and pointless, surplus to my life, my needs. I have no desire for any of it, yet something in my gut is forcing me to do it, to waste all my money just because I can.

My feet are hot and restless as I carry on walking, people behind me rushing past, people ahead of me moving too slowly. I keep on, turning onto Kings Square and then right onto Goodramgate where it is quieter. Cooler and less frenetic. I am fuelled by a need to hide from a sound that filters over to me, a noise carried along by the breeze, echoing somewhere behind me. It’s somebody calling a name. Not my name. I keep on walking, eager to be alone. It was a bad idea coming here. The lure of the city that seemed so appealing only an hour ago now leaves me cold. I want to be back at home, away from the crowds, away from the noise. Away from this person behind me that is shouting and calling my name. Except it’s not my name. Not any more.

The sound trails after me, louder and louder. Urgent, demanding. The distance between us closing. I hurry, driven by that need to be alone, to sit somewhere quiet and gather my thoughts. Driven by a deep desire to shake off that voice.

It continues, calling, asking me to turn around, to speak with them.

‘Jade!’

I don’t know anybody called Jade. I am Alice. Alice Godwin. Why is this person following me? Dread and anger shroud me as I slip down a narrow opening and into a churchyard where the only sounds to be heard are the rustle of the wind passing through the trees and the occasional chirrup of birdsong above me, the combination of gentle susurrations and trills doing little to still my pounding heart.

My breath comes out in ragged gasps as I swallow hard. Fear grips me. Sweat coats my back, my throat, running down my face and into my mouth. I grab at a tissue and dab at myself, craning my neck upwards to catch the cool breeze, settling myself on a bench behind a line of tangled shrubbery. Hidden. I want to be hidden from everything and everybody. From this person.

And then it comes again, that name, the echo of a shrill voice coming from somewhere behind me. A voice from another time, another life. A voice from a past that I am desperate to leave behind. A past I am doing my best to escape.

‘Jade! I’ve been following you for ages. Did you not hear me calling you?’ She sits down next to me, this persistent person who refuses to leave me be, a smile spreading over her reddened face.