size of a large trunk. Many centuries ago the graveyard had been a wood. It was another of Clarissa’s special places. She liked to think it was a source of magic for her, and that someday that magic would take effect, though it hadn’t happened yet.
A woman had been buried there with her two babies in the middle of the nineteenth century. Three deaths in two years. Clarissa couldn’t see the inscriptions in the dark and the engraved letters were losing their definition, but she knew them by heart.
Matilda Bourn, Died 21st August 1850, Aged 4 Months
Louisa Bourn, Died 16th September 1851, Aged 6 Weeks
Jane Bourn, Mother of the Above Children
Died 22nd December 1852, Aged 43 Years & 6 Months
Clarissa always imagined the two babies cradled in their mother’s arms, beneath that damp earth, and the mother happy at last to be able to hold them to her. Had they been her only babies? Probably there’d been many others; that was more likely. Probably her health had been ruined by too many pregnancies too close together – that might have been what killed her. Clarissa could have researched it, but she didn’t really want to know. She preferred the story she told herself, in which the woman waited and yearned, childless, for a long time. Then, miraculously, she had her babies after she turned forty, the age Clarissa would be in a year and a half. Only to lose them.
No husband was mentioned. No father. As if the only relationship that mattered was the one between the dead mother and her dead babies. But somebody had valued them enough to put up that stone.
Clarissa’s surname was a variant of theirs, but she knew that that wasn’t why she felt such a powerful connection to the dead mother and her dead babies. She had an almost superstitious ritual of praying for them – and to them – whenever she passed the grave. Sometimes she climbed over the iron gate at the far end to clear away crumpled cans or greasy fast-food wrappings.
Tonight, it was pitch-black there. The people who’d seemed to share her walk home from the train station had somehow melted away without her noticing; she’d loitered too long with the woman on the bridge. Regretting her decision to give up on the taxi-queue, she considered doubling back. But she quickly calculated that wouldn’t help matters – she’d be as alone and isolated retracing her steps as she’d be pressing on.
She tried to reason with herself that Rafe knew nothing about her daily trips to Bristol; he had no reason to suspect she’d be walking home from the station in the evenings. Nonetheless, she couldn’t help but imagine shadows moving along the walls, where they’d leaned all the old gravestones; those who’d wept over them were long dead; they’d probably never imagined that the carefully wrought markers would be ripped from their places.
She plunged ahead, only just holding herself back from running in case she slipped on the icy footpath. She was certain he would suddenly step into her line of sight, materialising out of the starless night.
She only began to breathe freely when she reached her street. She wouldn’t walk any more on her own after daylight. Not anywhere. No matter how long she had to wait for a taxi. And when she did walk, she would only go to places that were dependably teeming with people.
Friday, 6 February, 6.15 p.m.
A small padded envelope waits for me on the shelf in the communal entrance hall. In it is a tiny box. You’ve wrapped it in gold embossed paper and decorated it carefully with curled silver ribbons. You’ve enclosed a heavy, cream-coloured card, imprinted with a rose. I notice what you love. Wear this for me.
My hands tremble as I climb the stairs to my flat, tearing open the box as I move, tripping on the landing at the sight of the ring I was caught by that night back in November, as if under a spell. You would never have bought it if you’d known I was thinking of Henry while I looked at it. I wasn’t thinking of you. Not you. Never you. My visions of you are only dark.
Madly, I think that the tips of my fingers will bleed as they brush over the small circle of cold platinum and the tiny diamonds that encrust it. The ring has flown to me like an evil boomerang.
As soon as I’m in my flat, I shove it all back into the padded envelope, including the card, slapping on parcel tape and fresh stamps, scribbling your name and the university address on it, crossing out my own. Above all else, I can’t let you think I’ve accepted something so costly from you. I’ll post it back to you first thing tomorrow morning.
But as soon as I begin to stuff the parcel into my bag in readiness, one of the leaflet’s commands freezes my hand.
Retain all letters, packages and items, even if they are alarming or distressing.
I have to hold onto the ring, however much money you spent on it. The ring is a gift, after all. Just not in the way you intended. I will add it to my growing collection of evidence. A grim assortment, but not yet irrefutable as proof.
Clarissa was watching Robert. He was leafing through the jury file. He stopped at a photo of the van’s interior, studied it, and scribbled a note for the usher to take to the judge.
Mr Belford was peering dubiously at Miss Lockyer. ‘A story,’ he was saying, ‘of systematic beatings and torture, and violent acts of rape and forcible restraint. But hardly a mark on the victim.’
The judge interrupted with his usual formal courtesy, asking them to look at Robert’s photo. Behind the driver’s seat, nestled on top of a greasy and crumpled fast-food wrapping, was a green disposable lighter.
Mr Morden was beaming at Robert. Nobody had noticed that lighter before. It exactly fit with Miss Lockyer’s account of Godfrey burning her earring in the van.
It was another of the many breaks occasioned by Mr Morden and Mr Belford’s whispered arguments. Clarissa sat in her usual chair. Robert had taken to sitting opposite her, in the corner of the unnaturally bright, glaringly white little annex.
‘Poor girl,’ Robert said, not in the least afraid to state his sympathy directly.
Clarissa wondered how many men would speak up like that, in front of the others. ‘Yes,’ she said, nodding a little, her expression slightly sad. ‘Poor thing.’ And then, ‘I can’t believe you found that lighter. Are you a detective in your day job?’
‘I’m a fireman.’ He shrugged it off, modestly. ‘Most people don’t look around for potential causes of fires. It’s what I’ve been doing since I was twenty. Half my life.’
The usher was back already, calling them to return.
Clarissa
