That vile devil who had barged in on them jumped up. The death of a child. It reared up to its full height and started doing an appalling jig. Benjamin Tate stared at it, unable to tear away his eyes.

‘I’m waiting,’ Tim said. ‘Don’t make me keep imagining it. You say I owe you. Well, that’s what you owe me.’

Benjamin Tate was shaking his head. No, no, no. He could not, would not go back there.

‘But you must,’ Tim said. He lifted the second bottle above his head, shook out the last drops onto his tongue. ‘You must. It was such a lovely day. It was such a lovely fucking day. Explain to me how it could have possibly happened. You’re in the car. You’re driving…’

It was happening in front of him, right in front of him. He was watching it happen and he was powerless to prevent it. It wasn’t a memory or a vision or something imagined. It was the actual thing, happening now, again, as it happened then. He knew this, for what else is the devil if not our deepest fears revealed? He saw the pushchair. He saw the bonnet. He saw the kerb and the small rubber wheel slipping off it. He saw her. She was there. She was there and then she wasn’t there. It happened again, and again. It would go on, into perpetuity. He couldn’t stand to look anymore. He put his head down.

‘It has to end,’ he said. The finish line doesn’t come to meet you. His hand against his thigh pressed hard until the sharp edge began to cut into his skin.

‘But it can’t end. I can’t let it end. If it ends she’s gone forever. I’m her father. Have you forgotten that?’

‘So, act like it.’

There was a wail then, a howl rather, it was animal. It shook the walls and made the windows rattle in their frames. Benjamin Tate looked up. Tim was standing above him. His hands were raised. The second bottle was in one of them. He bowed his head and waited. He thought again of his recurring dream, of the dark shape that was here now. It was huge and heavy and right on top of him. It would blot him out.

The bottle smashed near to his feet and then there was silence. He waited. He looked up again. Tim was seated. His eyes were closed. He looked so still he might have suddenly died.

‘Tim?’ he said. It was the first time he’d used his name. It sounded awful in his mouth. ‘Hello?’

Tim opened his eyes finally and stared at him. ‘It’s over. Get out.’

But it couldn’t be over. This was the moment. He’d dreamed it. Benjamin Tate reached under the waistband of his trousers and withdrew the knife. It was long, serrated, deadly sharp. There was already blood on the blade. Tim looked at it with vague alarm and then closed his eyes again.

‘I’m not sure you can handle two of us on your conscience, but so be it.’

‘No,’ Benjamin Tate said, ‘it’s for you. I brought it for you. It’s my knife, so you can say I came here with intent. Take it.’

Tim didn’t move.

‘Please,’ Benjamin Tate said. ‘Please. It’s my penance. Only you can do it.’

Tim leaned forward and took the knife. He sunk back into his chair. He looked groggily at his empty glass on the table, at the empty bottle at his feet and the smashed one in front of him. He craned his neck to look at the cabinet, at all the bottles lined up there. Too far. Too lazy. He sighed heavily, stared blindly into space. For a long time, he didn’t speak.

‘She used to sit on my lap,’ he eventually said, ‘in the mornings, when I couldn’t sleep. Somehow, she always knew when I woke up. She used to come downstairs with her hair sticking up and snuggle up in my lap.’ He shook his head. His hand moved as if she were there again and he was stroking her. ‘She was so small. Her whole body could fit on my legs. The way she looked at me sometimes then. Like she was taking care of me, not the other way around. I’m sure she knew. I don’t know how she did. But I’ve always been sure she knew what was coming.’

Benjamin Tate had sunk right back in his chair. He was only half listening. He was back on the roadside. The dark shape was receding from him. It was nearly out of sight and he’d been left behind. The fog was closing in again. He would be lost in it forever.

‘How did you find me?’ Tim asked. He waved the knife around. ‘Here, I mean.’

Benjamin Tate lifted his eyes. ‘What?’ he managed.

‘How did you get my address?’

‘The surgery. I work there.’

Tim smiled ruefully. ‘As easy as that. I’ve been trying to find you myself. For years I’ve been looking. You’re right. I did have half a mind to kill you. For revenge, in her honour, all that rubbish. I didn’t really want to kill you. I’ve just realised that. I only wanted to want to.’ He threw the knife on the table. It slid across the glass and dropped onto the rug. ‘Where do you live, what road?’

‘Dean Street.’

Tim chuckled softly then, as if to himself. ‘I’ve been nowhere near.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Put the knife away. I don’t hate you. I hate what happened. There’s a difference.’

Tim picked up the phone and dialled. He waited. Eventually she answered and he heard her tone change when she realised it was him. Yes, he knew it was late, yes, he knew her children were asleep, yes, he’d promised after the last time to never call her again.

‘Please, Beth, I have to show you something. You can never see me again after this if you want.’

An hour later she arrived at the church. Soft yellow lights on the outside walls, great depths of blackness all around them, the gentle nattering of nature in the land. She thought, as she always did when she came here, how peaceful a place it was to spend eternity. Even in this eerie light the tranquillity soothed her. She saw him standing by the grave and approached with curiosity and, she realised, caution.

He’s killed him, that was the first thing she thought when he called her. He’d been searching for him for years. She’d never taken it seriously. But perhaps she had misjudged his intent. Perhaps he had finally tracked down the boy – but, no, he’d be a man now – and taken revenge. She had always believed that only death would finally end it. She had assumed she’d meant Tim’s death, but saw now that the boy’s death would have worked just as well.

‘Thank you for coming,’ he said.

‘What did you want to show me?’

‘My face,’ he said, stepping forward into the light. ‘Look. It’s different?’

‘What are you talking about, Tim? You look the same.’

‘No. No, you’re wrong. I’m not the same. Not at all. I’m something completely different now. I can’t believe it.’

He started laughing, manically laughing. Beth stepped back. He was deranged. He’d finally gone mad. She was convinced now he’d killed the boy.

‘I’m going,’ she said, edging back further. ‘Don’t ever call me again.’

‘No, wait.’ He lunged forward and grabbed her shoulder. ‘Don’t you see? It’s over. It’s over, Beth. After all this time.’

‘What is?’

‘All of it.’

‘You’re not making any sense, Tim.’

‘He came to see me. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Tonight. Out of the blue. He turned up on my doorstep. Can you believe it?’

‘I knew it,’ she said. ‘What happened? What did you do to him?’

‘Oh, Beth,’ he said, and suddenly he flung his arms around her and held her so tightly, so tightly that she struggled for breath. He was laughing again. No. He wasn’t laughing, he was crying. His face was buried in her hair and he was sobbing uncontrollably. She realised he’d not cried afterwards. How was that possible? Had he never cried? Had the poor man held onto this for so long? He was saying something now, but it was difficult to make out the words. She put her hands on his shoulders and held him in front of her.

‘Stop,’ she said. ‘Stop and tell me.’

‘He came to see me, Beth. And I forgave him. I forgave him.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE