37LAUREN

It’s good to hear Grandma’s voice, her gentle and reassuring lilt bringing a lump to my throat.

‘Hello, love. Everything okay?’

I nod, blinking back tears as I stop and sit on a bench at the side of the road, my phone practically glued to my ear. ‘It’s fine, Grandma. I’m fine. Just thought I’d give you a ring to see how you’re doing.’

‘Oh, you know,’ she says lightly, her voice reminding me of gentle rain on a soft, spring day. ‘All’s good here. I’ve been going through some old photographs and there’s one of you as a toddler in the garden running across the lawn with your chubby little legs and that wild tuft of hair that you had at the back of your head.’ She laughs and sighs, her voice full of contentment and hazy memories. ‘It looked like a piece of candyfloss attached to your head. You were such a cute little thing. Always happy. Always smiling.’ She stops and I can tell that she’s thinking of Mum, thinking of how our happiness ended a year ago after Mum’s death. Little does she know it ended long before that with Mum’s affair and her secretive, furtive ways. ‘Anyway, enough of me rambling. I’m going soft in my old age.’

‘Still got the candyfloss hair and I’m still happy, Grandma. Life goes on.’ Above me, a bird flaps its wings furiously, fighting for its share of a branch as another bird settles beside it and nudges its way in.

‘It does indeed, love. How’s your dad? I’ve not heard from him for quite a while.’

I think about how Dad is so wrapped up in thoughts of Alice that he has forgotten to keep in touch with his own mother, and shiver. ‘He’s okay, Grandma, busy working and even busier falling in love, I think.’ There is a brief silence as I realise that I’ve let the cat out of the bag. ‘He didn’t tell you he’s seeing somebody?’ I’ve done this deliberately. I knew she didn’t know and right now, I need an ally, somebody who can see things from my point of view.

She brightens, a cautious attempt to cover the awkwardness in our conversation. ‘No, but he’s a grown man and it’s time now to move on, isn’t it?’

I want to say yes, to agree with her and tell her that things are great, never better. But I don’t. My mouth runs away with me and before I know it, I’m being ruthless, spilling everything out to her, heaping my problems onto my poor, ageing grandmother and burdening her with my issues, telling her about my suspicions, how Alice is untraceable. How she spoke to me that day on the moors.

‘I don’t like her.’ I’m breathless and now I’m late for college but I don’t really care. ‘I used to like her but then things have happened, weird, unexplainable things and I just know she’s behind them, although Dad thinks not.’ My vision blurs and my head swims as I tell Grandma all about the books and the even the stone getting thrown through the door. I know that I should stop, that I’m causing Grandma unnecessary worry but I can’t seem to help myself. It’s cathartic, opening up, speaking to somebody about my concerns. I can’t talk to my friends; they wouldn’t understand and besides, I don’t want our family business known to others, not even Jessie, my friend of many, many years. This is a private affair, something that should be kept between us. All it would take is for a drunken Jessie to unintentionally say something, blabbing her mouth off without realising it, and then word would be all around town about how we’ve got a psycho in the family.

‘I’m not sure what to say, love, except that she sounds like a nasty piece of work. What sort of person would swear at you like that?’ I visualise Grandma’s distress, her eyes wide with shock, her mouth puckered into a tight, thin line at the thought of somebody being mean to me. Poor Grandma. Poor, lovely Grandma. She deserves better.

‘Please don’t mention it to Dad. He thinks she’s wonderful and I don’t want to spoil that but I’m trying to tell him to be aware. He just isn’t listening.’

We talk some more and I tell Grandma that we’re fine and not to worry, even though I’ve just told her something that will cause her to lose sleep at night. She promises to say nothing to Dad and I promise to keep in touch on a regular basis to let her know how we’re doing.

‘I’ll pop round this week, love. Leave your washing for me. I enjoy it. It gives me something to do. Going out shopping with Ruth and Bella gets boring and there’s only so many places a person can go for coffee and cake before it starts to get a bit mundane.’

I laugh and she blows me a kiss down the phone before we finish the call. I hope I’ve done the right thing, telling her. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision and I’m slightly concerned that I’ve now made her worry about us. I just need her to know, that’s all. I need somebody who’s on my side.

Deciding that college can wait, I head back home, determined to do some more rooting around into Alice’s background. My gut instinct about people is rarely wrong. I’m going to go with that instinct and use my time wisely and try to find out more about this Alice lady, work out who she really is and what her motives are.

It’s me against Alice now. Just the two of us. A pair of devious souls pitted against one another.

I sigh, run my fingers through my hair, tugging at loose strands, remembering when I would yank at it with furious fingers, gleaning some sort of pleasure from feeling it come loose from my scalp. No more of that. I’ve moved on. Still nothing on Alice though, which pisses me off. Not even a local address. I wish I’d asked Dad where she lived. He’s dropped her off and picked her up a few times but now that he knows I’m against her, it would look suspicious if I contacted him asking for a street name. There’s no way he would tell me anyway. He would clam up, pull a face and that would be that. And the weird thing is, she’s started to remind me of somebody but I can’t think who. The shape of her face, her eyes, I felt sure I’d seen them somewhere but know that I can’t have. I think maybe I’m just getting too agitated about her, seeing things that aren’t necessarily there.

Once again, I scroll through social media looking for anybody that matches Alice’s description and profile but find nothing. Not a damn thing. It just doesn’t make any sense.

On impulse, and mainly because I’ve run out of ideas on where to search for more information on Alice and also because I have wasted enough time on her, I decide to look into Phillip Kennedy’s background. He’s there, on the electoral register as living not too far from here. I make a note of the address and without thinking, I grab my coat and am out of the house and on my way to his property. I just want to see what sort of house he lived in, try to get a feel for the man. If I can’t discover anything out about Alice, the least I can do is find out how Phillip Kennedy lived his life before he went to prison. I’ve no idea why I’m doing it; it’s like scratching an itch, and I know that it’s just something that I need to do to clear my head of him.

According to the map app on my phone, it’ll take me twenty minutes to walk there. I keep my pace brisk, keen to see where he lived. Perhaps I should have done it before now but that letter has opened up a cavernous place inside me that needs to be filled with as much information as I can cram in. If I can do that, it stops that particular hollow from screaming out at me that I’m a bad person. It stops my own demons from creeping in and settling there.

It’s warm out, a lot warmer than I expected, and by the time I take the final turn before reaching the street where Phillip Kennedy lived, I’m sweating. My jacket is tied around my waist and I’m panting. I stop and pull at my hair, tying it up into a ponytail. The breeze hits my neck and I stop and shiver, enjoying its coolness. I twist my face to the wind to catch it again, and then set off, determined to see this house. To get a picture of the man before he was sent away and maybe see who he could become once again when he’s released. Which he will be at some point. He’s not in there for life. Someday, Dad or I could easily turn a corner and bump into him. The thought of it makes me shiver.

I look down at my phone, at the map grid on the screen and stop in front of an ordinary-looking, semi-detached property. This is it. This is his house. This is where Phillip Kennedy used to live. My heart pounds and despite initially cooling down, I am now sweating again. A tremble in my legs forces me to hold onto a wall for support.

It’s an average house in an average street. Nothing more, nothing less. It doesn’t make a statement; it simply blends in effortlessly with all the other surrounding houses. Disappointment doesn’t cover it. I’m not sure what I expected but whatever it was, this isn’t it. I wanted him to be a grubby little man who lived in a grubby little house.

I move away and walk over to the other side of the road, just to observe it from a distance for a short while. I spot a large shrub next to the street sign that’s perfect for hiding behind. I salt myself away and stand for a couple of seconds, watching the house, waiting to see if anybody else is living there. He had a wife, that much I do know. I’ve no idea what happened to her, whether or not she moved away or whether she’s hung around, has forgiven him and is doing the dutiful wife thing and patiently waiting for his release.

I scroll through my phone, studying the people who lived with him at this address and see that there is another female listed as residing here. Jade Kennedy, his wife. Her name rings a bell. She kept a low profile throughout the proceedings but then, so did we. The grisly, sordid details, it was too much for us so we kept our distance, attending only when necessary. We stepped back, kept a dignified silence and kept our heads low.

And now, I find myself wishing I had attended more, found out about Phillip Kennedy’s life. Put a full profile to the person. Dad hid as much as he could from me, sheltering me from the media frenzy, keeping our identities under wraps.

There’s no movement over at the house. His wife might not even live there any more. She might have sold up, moved on to somewhere new. My fingers itch to knock at the door, to stride over there and bang as hard as I can until somebody answers, if only to be able to see inside. It’s silly really, this venture. Silly and pointless, and yet here I am, fuelled by a need to know.

I wait some more, hopping from foot to foot, sighing, chewing at a loose nail, biting at the inside of my mouth. I look at my watch, thinking how mad this is. I really shouldn’t be here. It’s all a waste of time. There’s nothing happening in that house, nothing happening behind that door. His wife will be at work. She may not even live here any more. The place is empty. I really should turn around, head back home.

And then it happens. A flicker of a movement catches my eye, something in my peripheral vision as I stare down at my phone for inspiration. I glance up, suck in my breath, my skin burning with anticipation.

Standing at the living room window of the Kennedy house is a little boy. I can see his tuft of hair bobbing about above the windowsill and a pair of keen, roving eyes as he scans the street. I’m too far away to scrutinise any of his features properly but am transfixed, unable to look away, desperate to see more. Maybe he’s their grandson? I’m not even sure whether or not the Kennedys actually had any children. I know so little about them. I’ve managed to compartmentalise my life since it happened, focusing on my studies at college, keeping an eye on Dad, making sure he isn’t heading for some kind of breakdown. Making sure he doesn’t know about me…

I watch as a shadowy figure suddenly scoops him up, snatching him out of view. The curtains are quickly drawn even though it’s the middle of the day and I am left with nothing to go on, my mind buzzing with confusion.

I’m tempted now to knock at the door. Somebody is in there. If the Kennedy family did sell up, the stigma too much for them to take, then maybe this is another family who have since moved in. I could ask, couldn’t I? Pretend to be a long-lost relative asking after them. Maybe these people have a forwarding address.

Or maybe it’s Jade Kennedy in there with her grandson. What would I say to her if she opens the door and asks me what I want? If I tell her who I am, she could react badly, thinking I’m after revenge. I bite at my lip, tugging at a loose piece of skin. It’s definitely not revenge I’m after. That’s the thing – I don’t know what it is I need or why I’m here. Just idle curiosity, I guess. After sending the letter to Kennedy,

He’s locked up in a tiny cell with little access to daylight and all the other things we all take for granted day after day. So why am I here? Why would I take a chance and knock at that door? I’ve no need to pursue this, no need at all. I’m actually in danger of ruining everything. It’s all worked out perfectly so far. Maybe this is guilt biting at me. So far, I haven’t felt anything resembling remorse. Maybe this is it – a delayed reaction to everything that’s taken place. I’ve got to stop it before our lives unravel and fall apart. Because if that happens, that is when the real storm will begin.

38ALICE

‘Who is it we’re coming to see?’ Fionn skips along, his attention fixated on the many rows of headstones that surround us. ‘Is it a friend of yours? Is she buried here?’

I want to laugh but hold back, maternal love and happiness swelling within my chest. He is so perfectly innocent, so delightfully trusting that the rush of adrenaline that is coursing through me at the idea of keeping him with me forever makes me giddy. I am his now and he is mine. We’re together for the foreseeable future. I think of Peter and reality kicks in. Maybe it’s time to forget about him. But then, I’ve come so far, it would be churlish to ignore all the ground I’ve gained. I could do both – the Downey family and the Saunders family in one go. I could let them all know exactly who it is they’re dealing with, make sure they know my name and make certain they never forget it.

‘Not a friend no, but it will make you smile.’ I squeeze Fionn’s hand and ruffle his hair. He responds by stopping and throwing his arms around me. Such a tactile boy. So affectionate and well mannered. I think about his father and wonder how he is coping with the demands and messiness of caring for a sick child. He won’t be finding it easy. Paternal instincts don’t come naturally to him. Everything is forced and contrived. Then I think of Yasmin and wonder if in her muddled and bewildered state, she mentions our little conversations. Not that it matters. I’m done with that family, all ties well and truly severed.

‘I like smiling. You make me smile, Alice. When are we going to get an ice cream?’

‘Ah, here we are,’ I say, ignoring his question. ‘Take a look at the name on there and tell me what it says.’ My finger is outstretched towards one of the headstones, next to the ones I was tending the day Peter finally noticed me.

Fionn gets down on his haunches and peers at the inscription, his eyes narrowed in concentration as he mouths the words slowly and precisely, stumbling over them, murmuring the epitaph until he’s sure he has got it right. Then he turns to me, eyes bursting out of his sockets, his mouth gaping open, and lets out a long gasp. ‘Is that you? Are you a ghost?’

‘No, sweetheart. I’m not a ghost. Look, feel my hand. See how warm it is. It’s just that I don’t like my own name so I thought I would use this one instead. What do you think?’

He reads it out loud, his little voice a squeak in the emptiness of the graveyard. ‘Here lies Alice Godwin. Born 1871 Died 1910. What does it mean, Alice? Is she one of your relatives? Is Alice your mummy?’

I melt as he stares up at me, incomprehension at this aberration evident in his little face. ‘No, sweetheart. She isn’t one of my relatives and she definitely isn’t my mummy. I don’t know her or her family at all. I just liked her name, that’s all. I used to visit this church a lot so I could meet somebody and I didn’t want that certain somebody to know my real name so I used this one instead.’

‘Is that allowed? I mean, you’re not breaking the law or anything, are you?’ His chin wobbles as he speaks and my insides turn into to melted butter. Such a sweet boy. My sweet boy.

‘No, honey, I’m not breaking the law. People can be called any name they want.’

‘Like a nickname?’