‘He’s been arrested,’ she blurts. ‘You don’t know, do you? Your father was arrested yesterday for the murder of Taylor Dent.’
I stare at her. It doesn’t have to come from me, like some malicious lie I’ve made up; some perverse thing I’ve imagined to cause her pain. I don’t have to be the one to break it and yet I wish he hadn’t been caught. I wish she didn’t know; that he had got away with it, that they could still be together, and that I could have paid the price instead.
‘Taylor Dent? Was that his name?’ I whisper. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘You saw,’ she says. ‘You saw it happen, at Deeping.’
I nod, both of us now in a quiet daze.
‘I still don’t understand,’ she says. ‘Why run? Why did you want us to think you were dead?’
‘I didn’t!’ It comes out hysterical, and I am losing myself again. I want to tell the truth but I don’t know if I can. ‘I didn’t, I didn’t, I didn’t!’ I am shouting and pacing. ‘I wanted to disappear. I wanted the ground to swallow me up. I couldn’t keep his secret and I couldn’t turn him in. I couldn’t go back to Will and I couldn’t face Helena either.’
‘Helena—’
‘I know,’ I wail, fists to my stomach. ‘Helena, oh Helena.’ It comes out of my belly like fire, my guilt, my sorrow. How much I am responsible for. ‘She’s dead and it’s my fault. You don’t have to tell me, Mum. You don’t have to show me what I’ve done, what a mess I’ve made. I know.’
‘Edie,’ she says gently. ‘Edie, calm down. Come sit.’
We light a fire. We gingerly hold cups of fennel tea, as if they might break. They warm our hands and we lean into one another, staring at the flames as they crackle and dance. She is sitting with her knees together, more formal than me. My legs are curled beside me. There has been a lot of silence, the two of us allowing ourselves to exhale.
She is wearing a shirt with a navy William Morris design, swirling leaves and seed pods. My head is leaning on her shoulder. I stare at the pattern on the fabric, the pendant which nestles in the soft wrinkles of her chest. I am moved by her fastidiousness; how smart she looks. Her rings gleam on her fingers, but the skin on her hands is reptilian and her face is dragged downwards with sorrow and exhaustion. My poor mum. My tears fall again, and she kisses the top of my head.
‘Can you tell me what happened?’ she asks.
‘I went to Deeping on a Sunday, early December, it was. In the afternoon. Got there about three – it was still light. I needed somewhere to think, away from Will. I was thinking about splitting up with him.’ I look up into her face. ‘You knew that, didn’t you, Mum? I think you had an inkling that I was going to end it with him. Things had started with Helena, confusing stuff, and I didn’t know if they were a symptom of wanting to leave Will, or whether it was the start of something real with her – you know? I was really confused about it all, needed some headspace, away from both of them.
‘I’d more or less decided to sleep there. I was lying on your bed – you know how I love it in your bed. It started to get dark and I fell asleep. I woke to clattering sounds downstairs. The house was pitch dark by now and I sleepily thought: “Ah, Mum and Dad are here.” But then I snapped awake. I’d spoken to you – remember? – and you told me you were staying home that weekend. Dad had too much work on so you weren’t coming to Deeping. I froze, thinking it must be an intruder moving around downstairs. We’re so lax about security at Deeping. I’d locked the front door on arrival – I’m always nervous being in the countryside by myself – but all the same, that key in the porch …
‘There were footsteps coming up the stairs. My heart was pounding; I was terrified. I slipped off the bed and climbed inside your wardrobe, pulling the door closed and your clothes in front of my face. The intruder came into the room, right up to the wardrobe. I thought I was dead, but he pulled the drawer at the bottom and shoved something into it. I stayed there, cowering, as the footsteps receded. I heard more clattering downstairs, then the front door closed. I crept out of the wardrobe and onto the window seat. The sensor light had come on with his movement and I saw Dad open the boot of his car. I saw a body in the boot – a boy—’
‘Taylor Dent,’ says Miriam sadly.
‘I didn’t know his name. I’ve tried to find out since then – I’ve Googled missing people and murders in East Anglia – but there’s been nothing about a black boy killed in or near March. His death seemed to go unreported.’
‘Unlike yours,’ said Miriam.
‘Yes,’ I say, sitting upright. ‘In the weeks that followed, I was everywhere, but there was no mention of him.’ I slouch back down, against her shoulder. It is easier to tell her my story if I don’t look into her face. ‘I watched from the upstairs window. I was shaking. I mean, you don’t put someone in a boot unless you’re doing wrong by them. The boot is where you put animals, not people.’