I stop at months.
Standing beneath the two great trees, I pull and I pull at rogue tendrils snaking around each other, up the trees, over the old brick wall until I’m panting with exertion, until I can taste the salt on my lip, until I stumble and overbalance, smashing my knee on something in the undergrowth…
Bending, I see it’s a headstone, some kind of grave; covered in moss, but properly engraved.
I step closer, and the toe of my boot meets something else with a bang.
A whole group of small graves – at least four or five. More, maybe, under the spreading ivy.
Heart thudding, I crouch down and scratch off the moss on the first headstone. The sun’s gone in, and it suddenly feels very dark and gloomy out here.
The headstone reads:
Millie, much loved, barking in heaven
Relief makes me laugh out loud. Animal graves! They must all be. But there are so many – too many really for a house that no longer has pets. Only two pets, I distinctly remember Matthew saying.
I think of poor little Justin, the Pomeranian puppy.
I stand again, and as I move to have a look at the next one, to see if a dog called Daisy is buried here, I knock against something else. Something that wobbles before toppling heavily.
I’m too slow. I don’t move fast enough, and it falls straight onto my left foot.
‘Ouch! Oh God…’
Behind me a twig cracks underfoot, and I try to kick the slab away, but I can’t. I’m wedged – and it really bloody hurts.
The hairs on my neck go up as I sense someone behind me. But this garden is walled, secure – how can someone have got in unless it’s through the house?
I crane round quickly, wrenching my neck painfully.
A dark-skinned man stands on the path, halfway between the house and me. He’s holding something in his hands – some kind of bag, I think.
‘Hello?’ My voice comes out as a creak. ‘What do you want?’
He doesn’t speak but walks a bit nearer.
It’s not the gardener, who, from my short-sighted peering out of windows, I think is fair haired.
‘Can I help you?’ I croak – and I’m praying, Please, stop, don’t come any nearer. I crane round a bit more, so I can at least see half of his face. His brow is knitted in thought as he stares at me. ‘Please…’
‘I thought you were a gardener.’ He grins. ‘But you must be the wicked stepmother instead.’
Again a sort of relief floods through me – but I’m still worried. ‘Who are you?’ I don’t want to show my fear. ‘How did you get in?’
‘I’m Yassine.’ He moves nearer. ‘Kaye’s other half. Worst half.’ He laughs at his own joke. ‘I came through the garage.’
Like a fool, I must have left it open.
‘I brought Luke’s football boots.’ He has a pleasant-enough face and a wiry physique – and I don’t recognise him from Adam.
‘But he’s not here.’ I’m confused. ‘They’re in Belgium.’
‘Yeah – I know. But he’s got a match tomorrow evening when they get back, so he’s gotta go straight to the club. Or so I’m told by madame anyway.’ He grins again. ‘I just do what I’m told.’
I desperately want to move, but my foot is well and truly wedged, and I can’t lift the stone from this angle.
I’m trapped.
‘You okay?’ he asks politely.
‘Yeah. No, actually. I’m… sort of stuck…’
‘Wait a sec.’ He walks to me, putting the bag down. ‘Lean on me, yeah?’ He crouches – and I realise I have no choice. I put my hand on his shoulder, and he levers the stone away, using the weight of his whole body – but as he pushes it, summoning some gargantuan effort, he slips. He can’t regain his footing, and he falls into the ivy – and the mud.
‘Shit!’ he swears loudly. When he stands again, he’s covered from head to foot in dark brown mud, all down his right side, his face, his dark curly hair – the other side still pristine.
I try not to laugh, but it is quite funny – and then we’re both laughing, despite my sore foot and my arms that are now aching from all the hacking earlier.
‘You’d better come and clean up,’ I say.
* * *
Inside, he takes his muddy shoes off by the French windows.
‘I can use the downstairs bathroom,’ he says, and I’m about to direct him when I realise he already knows where it is. He has a slight accent, freckles that stand out very clearly against his tawny skin; he looks like a decent man. A young man.
He must be much younger than Kaye.
I change quickly in the utility room off the kitchen, pulling on leggings and a hoodie of Matthew’s, still not entirely comfortable that we’re alone in the house together.