to find us.’
The Reynolds turned into the access road to the council estate, passing a line of garage doors daubed with swastikas and football slogans. Eddie scowled at their backs. A moment later, he let himself into number 29.
‘Where have you been?’ his mother called down from her room. ‘There’s tea in the pot, but don’t blame me if it’s stewed.’
The hall felt different from usual. There was more light. An unexpected draught brushed his face. Almost instantaneously Eddie realized that the door to the basement was standing wide open; Stanley’s death was so recent an event that this in itself was remarkable. Eddie paused and looked through the doorway, down the uncarpeted stairs.
The dolls’ house was still on the workbench. But it was no longer four storeys high. It had been reduced to a mound of splintered wood, torn fabric and flecks of paint. Beside it on the bench was the rusty hatchet which Alison had used to break through the fence between the Graces’ garden and Carver’s, and which Stanley had found lying under the trees at the end of the garden.
Eddie closed the basement door and went into the kitchen. When she came downstairs, his mother did not mention the dolls’ house and nor did he. That evening he piled what was left of it into a large cardboard box, carried it outside and left it beside the dustbin. He and his mother did not speak about it later because there was nothing they wanted to say.
‘We do but learn to-day what our better advanced judgments will unteach tomorrow …’
Religio Medici, II, 8
Oliver Rickford put down the phone. ‘It’s all right,’ he said again. ‘It’s not Lucy’s.’
Sally was sitting in the armchair. Her body was trembling. Yvonne hovered behind the chair, her eyes on Oliver. He knelt beside Sally, gripped her arm and shook it gently.
‘Not Lucy’s,’ he repeated. ‘Not Lucy’s hand. I promise.’
Sally lifted her head. On the third try, she succeeded in saying, ‘They can’t be sure. They can’t know it’s not Lucy’s.’
‘They can in this case. The skin is black. Probably from a child of about the same age.’
‘Thank God.’ Sally dabbed at her eyes with a paper handkerchief. ‘What am I saying? It’s someone else’s child.’ Still the shameful Te Deum repeated itself in her mind: Thank God it’s not Lucy, thank God, thank God. ‘Did they tell you anything else?’
Oliver hesitated. ‘They haven’t had time to look at the hand properly. But it looks as if it was cut off with something like an axe. It was very cold.’ He paused again. ‘In fact, they think it may have been kept in a freezer. It was still defrosting.’
Yvonne sucked in her breath. ‘Jesus.’ She glanced at Sally. ‘Sorry.’
Sally was still looking at Oliver. ‘No link with Lucy? You’re sure?’
‘Why should there be? The only possible connection was in the minds of those hacks downstairs.’
Sally clenched her hands, watching without interest as the knuckles turned white.
‘Would it be a good idea to try to rest for a while?’ Oliver suggested. ‘There’s nothing you can do at present.’
Sally was too tired to argue. Her strength had mysteriously evaporated. Clutching the box of paper handkerchiefs, she smiled mechanically at the two police officers and left the room. The door of the room she shared with Michael was closed. She did not want to disturb him, and if he woke up she would not know what to say. Instead she took a deep breath and went into Lucy’s bedroom.
It was like a cell – small, and with a window placed high in the wall. They had intended to decorate before Lucy was born but had failed to find the time. After Lucy’s birth there had been even less time. The wallpaper showed a trellis with a stylized clematis growing up it. In places the wallpaper was coming adrift from the wall, a process which Lucy had actively encouraged, revealing another wallpaper beneath, psychedelic swirls of orange and turquoise from the 1960s.
Sally had dreaded coming here. She had known that the room would smell of Lucy, that everywhere there would be reminders. But it had to be done, sooner or later; in the long run avoiding the room would be worse. She sat down heavily on the bed, which was covered with a duvet whose design showed teddy bears gorging themselves on honey and apparently oblivious of a squadron of enormous bees patrolling the air around their heads. The duvet had been Lucy’s choice, the bribe which had persuaded her to move from her cot to a proper bed.
Automatically, Sally began to tidy the books and toys which were scattered on and around the bedside table. Were all four-year-olds like this? Was chaos their natural environment? Or was Lucy exceptional in this as in so much else?
The book they had been reading on Thursday evening was lying between the bed and the wall. Sally rescued it and marked the place they had reached with a scrap of paper. She ran out of energy and let herself fall back on the bed. She buried her face in the pillow. Why did children smell sweet?
She supposed that she should pray for Lucy. It was then that she realized that she had not read the Morning Office today, or indeed the Evening Office last night. Discipline and regular exercise were as necessary in prayer as in athletics. She closed her eyes and tried to bring her mind into focus.
Nothing happened. No one was there. It was dark and cold and God was absent. It was not that he no longer existed, Sally discovered: it was simply that it no longer mattered to her whether he existed or not. He had become an irrelevancy, something pushed beyond the margins of her life. She tried to say the Lord’s Prayer, but the words dried up long before she had finished. Instead she thought of the severed hand. What sort of person would leave it on a gravestone? Was there a significance in the choice of grave? Perhaps it belonged to a relative of the owner of the hand.
She hoped the child had been dead when they cut off the hand. The idea that he or she had been chopped up, perhaps parcelled in clingfilm and deep-frozen, made it worse for two reasons: it added an illusion of domesticity to what had been done, and it suggested premeditation and a terrible patience. What could have been the motive for such an action? A desire to hurt the child’s mother? Punishment for a theft, a perversion of the Islamic penal code? Sally tried to imagine a need grown so egocentric and powerful that it would stop at nothing, even the carefully calculated destruction of children.
She dug her hand into the pocket of her jeans and wrapped her fingers round Lucy’s sock. She thought of herself and Michael, Lucy and the unknown child, the child’s parents, the old woman gobbling pills in the bedsitter in Belmont Road, the diseased and the abused, the tortured and the dying. The human race never learned by its mistakes: it merely plunged deeper and deeper into a mire of its own making.
At that moment, lying on Lucy’s bed, it became clear to Sally that a loving God would not permit such things. At theological college she had learned the arguments why he might allow suffering. She had even parroted them out for parishioners. Now the arguments were suddenly revealed as specious: at last God was unmasked and revealed as the shit he really was.
She heard voices in the sitting room, one of them a man’s but neither Oliver’s nor Michael’s. She sat up on the bed and wiped away her tears and blew her nose. There was a tap on the
