'My mother never recovered from it. She kept her cot up, bought clothes for her. She even opened a bank account for her. Estela de Marenas. It still exists, for what it's worth now.' His voice was bitter.

Tears welled in Suzanna's eyes. She tried to blink them away.

'They never said it was me. Not to my face. But the fact is that she haunts my house, my family. We are all suffocated by her absence.' His voice quietened: 'I don't know . . . Maybe if my mother had been able to have another child . . . perhaps . . .'

He rubbed at his eyes, and anger crept back into his voice: 'I just wanted some peace, you know? I thought, for a while, I had found it. I thought by creating life, by giving life, I could make it make her go away. And instead I have this thing, this fantasma following me around . . . I must have been a fool.' He looked at her. 'In Argentina, Suzanna, the dead live among us.' His voice was slow now, with the controlled patience of the teacher, as if explaining to her things she could hardly be expected to comprehend. 'Their ghosts walk among us. Estela lives with me always. I feel her, a presence, always reminding me, always blaming me . . .'

'But it wasn't your fault. You, of all people, should know that.' She took his arm now, wanting to make him see.

But he kept shaking his head, as if she couldn't understand what he was saying, lifted his hand to push her away. 'I don't even want to get close to you, don't you understand?'

'It's just superstition-'

'Why won't you listen?' he said despairingly.

'You were a baby.'

There was a long silence.

'You were-just-a baby,' she insisted, her voice choking. Then, slowly, she put her coffee on the table. She leant forward and tentatively placed her arms round him, feeling his body rigid against her, desperate to lessen some of what he felt, as if by sheer proximity she could shoulder part of it herself. She heard his voice from somewhere by her hair.

Then he pulled back and she felt her own resolve stagger under the visible weight of his grief, the pain and guilt in his eyes. 'Sometimes, Suzanna,' he said, 'you can do harm just by existing.'

Suzanna thought of her mother. Of white horses and sparkling slippers in the moonlight. Briefly, infected by the night and the madness, she wondered whether she contained her mother's soul, whether it was this that so disturbed her father. She tilted her head, her voice cracked with new grief. 'Then . . . I'm as guilty as you.'

He took her face between his hands then, as if he were only just seeing her, lifted his bandaged hand and wiped her cheek, once, twice, with his thumb, unable to stem the flow of tears. Frowning, he brought his face to hers, his eyes so close that she could see in them the flecks of gold, could hear the uneven tenor of his breath. He paused, and then slowly placed his lips on her skin where the tears had been, closed his eyes and kissed the other side, making their salty path his own, winding his hands into her hair as he tried to kiss them away.

And Suzanna, her eyes tightly shut, lifted her own hands to his head as she wept, feeling his soft dark crop, the bones underneath. She felt his mouth upon her, breathed in the antiseptic echo of the police station and his old leather jacket, and then her lips were on him, searching for his with a kind of urgency, a desperation to obliterate what had gone before. Listening to her own words, as they echoed in the silence around her, the furious, misplaced spirits circling around them as they embraced.

I'm as guilty as you.

Twenty.

It took the building company two days to make safe the front of the shop, for the surveying team to make their official assessment of damage, and another three for the work to begin on rebuilding. (The insurance company hadn't quibbled: apparently in cases of severe structural damage it was accepted that repairs should be made as swiftly as possible.) Although the door frame had been severly damaged, the brickwork surrounding it and the windows partially knocked away, the initial more dour assessment involving RSJs and several months' closure had proven overly pessimistic. It was two more days before Suzanna was allowed in to begin the laborious process of cleaning up.

During this time, a halting, irregular procession of people had come bearing flowers, small posies, bouquets, Cellophane-wrapped, which they placed outside the police tape. Many found it easier to mark Jessie's sudden end with a floral tribute than the trickier business of words. At first there were just two, tied forlornly to the lamp-post on the day after the accident, their messages making those who stopped to read them exchange glances and mutter sadly about the unfairness of it all. Then, as the news spread through the town, the flowers came in greater numbers. The local florist struggled to keep up, and they formed a cluster, then a floral carpet outside the shop.

It was as if, Suzanna thought, her own grief had been mirrored in that of the town. The weather had reverted to blue skies and balmy temperatures, the fair had made its biannual visit to the common, and yet there was no joy in Dere Hampton's atmosphere, no gaiety in the bustle of the market square. A small town felt ripples, which might go unnoticed in the city, like a tidal wave. And Jessie, it seemed, had been known by too many people for the shock of her death to pass swiftly. The local newspaper made the story its front-page news, careful to say only that a twenty-eight-year-old local man was being questioned by police. But everyone knew: those who knew her and those who claimed to know her speculated on a relationship that had now become common property. Emma Carter's headmaster had twice appealed for local reporters to leave the premises. Suzanna had scanned the reports, and observed in a detached way that her father would be pleased they had only referred to her as Peacock.

In that first week she had come to the shop twice, once in the company of the detective sergeant, who wanted to talk to her about security arrangements, and once with Neil, who had remarked repeatedly that it was 'unbelievable. Just unbelievable.' He had tried at one point to talk to her about the financial implications for the shop and she had screamed obscenities at him until he left the room, his hand like a shield over his head. She knew her reaction had been about guilt. Which particular kind, she could not tell. Now she had been given the keys and permission to clear up, even to start trading again. But standing in the steel-framed doorway, flanked by her boarded-up windows and holding the sign that Neil had made for her, which declared her 'open for business', she wasn't sure where to begin. It was as if this were a job for Jessie, as if the only possible way to approach it was with her, giggling over trivialities as they wielded brooms and dustpans together.

Suzanna bent to pick up her damaged sign, which someone had propped neatly against the door. She held it for a moment. The Peacock Emporium was her shop. Hers alone. The sheer impossibility of the task ahead overwhelmed her and her face crumpled.

Behind her, someone coughed.

It was Arturro, his body blocking out the light. 'I thought you might want some help,' he said. He was holding a toolbox in one hand, and tucked under his arm was a basket, containing what looked like sandwiches and several bottles of cold drinks. She felt herself collapse a little, imagined briefly what it would be like to let herself be enveloped by his huge, warm arms, to sob against his apron, still infused with the cheese and coffee aromas of his shop. To have, just for a moment, the comfort of that solidity. 'I don't think I can do this,' she whispered.

'We have to,' he said. 'People are going to need somewhere to come.'

She had stepped in through the door then, not taking in what he had said. Within a couple of hours, she understood. Despite its unwelcoming exterior, despite the obstacles of floral arrangements and police cones outside, the shop was busier than it had ever been. In the absence of anywhere else, it had become a focal point for those who had known Jessie, those who wanted to share their feelings at her having gone. They came for coffee, to cry surreptitious tears at the remnants of the display she had made, to leave gifts for her family and, in a few less altruistic cases, simply to gawp.

Suzanna had no choice but to let them.

Arturro had positioned himself behind the counter, and took charge of making the coffee, apparently trying to avoid direct conversation. On the couple of occasions that people had spoken to him she had watched him become progressively more uncomfortable, blinking hard and busying himself with the coffee machine. Suzanna, with glazed eyes and the peculiar sensation of operating from the inside of a bubble, cleaned up, answered queries, commiserated, collected the pastel-shaded cards and stuffed animals destined for Emma, and allowed people who were seemingly blind to the chaotic nature of their surroundings to fulfil an unstoppable need to talk, with choked voices, about the general niceness, blamelessness of Jessie, and in fierce, accusatory whispers about Jason. They talked in speculative tones about Alejandro: they had heard how he had tried for twenty minutes to save her, about how he had been found, covered in her blood, wedged half under the van himself as he tried uselessly to revive her. Those who had lived nearby talked of how he had been pulled away, fists flailing and shouting incoherently in Spanish, from the half-stunned Jason, as he realised his efforts had been in vain. They sat, and wept, and talked in the way they once had to Jessie.

By the end of the day Suzanna was exhausted. She was slumped on a stool as Arturro moved around her, tidying chairs, nailing the last of the shelves into place. 'You should close now,' he said, slipping his hammer into his toolbox. 'You've done enough. You know there will be more tomorrow.'

Through the open doorway the Cellophane-wrapped flowers glinted in the afternoon sunlight, some sweating under the plastic. She wondered whether she should get them out to allow them to breathe. It felt somehow like an intrusion.

'You want me to come again?'

There was something in his voice . . . Suzanna's mind cleared briefly and she turned to him, her face agonised. 'Oh, God, Arturro, I've got something awful to tell you.'

He was wiping his hands on a dishcloth. What could be more awful? his expression said.

'Jess Jess and I,' she corrected herself, 'we were going to tell you . . . but . . .' She wished she could be anywhere but there. 'The chocolates, the ones that Liliane got so upset about. The ones you sacked the boys over. They were from us. Jessie and I sent them to Liliane so that she would think they were from you. We wanted to get you together, you see. Jess she thought she said you were meant for each other . . .'

It seemed almost ridiculous now, as if it had happened in another life, to other people, as if its frivolity were part of another existence. 'I'm so sorry,' she said. 'We meant well, honestly. I know it sort of backfired, but please don't think badly of her. She just thought you would be happy together. She was going to tell you the truth but but something happened and . . . well, now it's down to me. I know it was stupid, and badly thought out, but I encouraged it all. If you want to blame anyone, blame me.' She didn't dare look at him, wondered even as she spoke whether she should have told him at all. Yet he had been so good, so generous. She could not have made it through the day without him. The least he deserved was the truth.

She waited, fearful, for the legendary explosion that Mrs Creek had described, but Arturro continued to pack the last of his tools into his toolbox, and closed the lid. Then he placed a hand on Suzanna's shoulder. 'I will tell Liliane,' he said, swallowing. He patted her, then walked heavily towards the door and opened it. 'I'll see you tomorrow, Suzanna.'

She closed up at half past four, then walked home, lay on her bed fully clothed and slept until eight the next morning.

Alejandro hadn't come. She was glad. There was only so much she could cope with in one day.

The funeral was to be at St Bede's, the Catholic church on the west side of the square. Initially, Cath Carter had told Father Lenny that she wanted a private service, didn't want everyone gawping and speculating on her daughter's untimely end, not with the police investigation still ongoing and all. But Father Lenny, gently, over a period of days, had told her of the strength of feeling in the little town, of the numerous people who had asked him whether they could pay their respects. How it would help little Emma, in the circumstances, to see how much her mother was loved.

Suzanna sat in front of her dressing-table, pulling her dark hair back into a severe knot. Father Lenny had said the service would be a celebration of Jessie's life, and that he did not want it to be a sombre occasion. Suzanna did not feel like celebrating, and this was reflected in her appearance. Her mother, who had said she would be coming with her father, as much for Suzanna as Jessie, had lent Suzanna a black hat. 'I think it's important that you do what you feel is right,' she said, laying a hand against Suzanna's cheek, 'but formal is never inappropriate.'

'Did you say you'd bought me a black tie?' Neil ducked with well-practised ease as he entered the low doorway. 'I can't seem to find it.'

'My handbag,' said Suzanna, putting in her earrings, gazing at her reflection. She didn't usually wear earrings, wondered whether they would suggest inappropriate gaiety.

Neil stood in the middle of the room, as if in hope that the handbag might leap out at him.

'On the landing.' She heard rather than saw him leave the room, treading the squeaky floorboards to the top of the stairs.

'Lovely day for it. I mean, not a lovely day as such,' he corrected himself, 'but there's nothing worse than a funeral when it pelts down with rain. Wouldn't have seemed right for Jessie, somehow.'

Suzanna closed her eyes. Every time she thought of heavy rain now, she associated it with the images she carried in her head, of skidding vans and screeching brakes, of the crashing and splintering of glass. Alejandro had said he heard no scream, but in Suzanna's imagination, Jessie had stared at her approaching death and- 'Got it. Oh, Christ, look think it could do with a quick iron before I put it on.'

She forced away the image and opened her drawer to pull out her watch. She heard Neil humming to himself, muttering about the ironing-board, and then a brief silence.

'What's this?'

She hoped Jessie had known nothing. Alejandro had said he couldn't see how she would have felt anything, that in his opinion she had been dead even as he had scrambled over the timber and glass to get to her.

Neil was at her shoulder. 'What's this?' he said again. His face didn't look like his own.

She turned on her stool, and gazed at the doctor's appointment card he held out in front of him, which bore the words: 'Family Planning Clinic'. She knew that her face looked resigned, guilty, but somehow she couldn't form it into an expression that would prove any more satisfactory. 'I was going to tell you.'

He said nothing, just kept holding it out.

'I booked an appointment.'

The card was pink suddenly an inappropriate colour.

'To . . .'

'To have a coil fitted. I'm really sorry.'

'A coil?'

She nodded awkwardly.

'A coil?'

'Look, I haven't even been yet. What with Jess and everything, I missed the appointment.'

'But you're going to go.' His voice was dead.

'Yes,' she said, and glanced up. Her eyes swerved as they met his. 'Yes, I am. Look, I'm not ready, Neil. I thought I was, but I'm not. There's too much going on. And I need to resolve things first.'

'You need to resolve things?'

'Yes. With my dad. My mum my real mum, I mean.'

'You need to resolve things with your real mum.'

'Yes.'

'And how long do you think this will take?'

'What?'

He was furious, she realised. He turned to face her with manic intent. 'How. Long. Do. You. Think. This. Will. Take?' His tone was sarcastic.

'How should I know? As long as it takes.'

'As long as it takes. God, I should have known.' He paced the room, a television detective explaining the genesis of some long-standing crime.

'What?'

'The one thing I wanted. The one thing I thought we had agreed on. And, oh, look, suddenly, after getting everything she wants, Suzanna has changed her mind.'

'I haven't changed my mind.'

'No? No? So what is this then, getting a bloody coil fitted? Because it sure isn't up there with oysters and champagne on the getting-pregnant front.'

'I haven't changed my mind.'

'Then what the hell is this about?'

'Don't shout at me. Look, I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry, Neil. I just can't do it right now. I can't do it now.'

'Of course you can't-'

'Don't do this, all right?'

'Do what? What the hell am I doing?'

'Bullying me. I'm just about to bury my best friend, okay? I don't know whether I'm coming or going-'

'Your best friend? You hadn't known her six months.'

'There's a time limit on friendship now?'

'You weren't even sure about her when she started. You thought she was taking advantage of you.'

Suzanna stood up and pushed past him to the door. 'I can't believe we're having this conversation.'

'No, Suzanna, I can't believe that just when I thought we were finally back on track, you've found a way to sabotage everything again. You know what? I think there's something else going on here. Something you're not being straight with me about.'

'Oh, don't be ridiculous.'

'Ridiculous? So what am I meant to say, Suzanna? "Oh, you don't want a baby after all. Don't worry, darling. I'll just put my own feelings on hold for a while . . . like I always do." '

'Don't do this, Neil. Not right now.' She reached past him for her coat, pulled it briskly round her, knowing that she would be too hot later.

He was standing in front of her, refused to move out of the way when she stepped forward. 'So, when is the right time, Suzanna? When does this stop being about you, huh? When do my feelings finally get a look in?'

'Please, Neil-'

'I'm not a saint, Suzanna. I've tried to be patient with you, tried to be understanding, but I'm lost. Really. I just can't see how we move on from here . . .'

She stared at the confusion in his face. She moved forward, placed her hand on his cheek, an unconscious echo of her mother's gesture. 'Look, we'll talk about it after the funeral, okay? I promise-'

He shook off her hand and went to open the door as the taxi arrived, hooting to signify its arrival. 'Whatever,' he said. He didn't look back.

It was, it was widely agreed, a dreadful funeral. Not that Father Lenny hadn't made an effort with his eulogy which was beautiful and apt and knowing and had enough humour to raise the odd brave smile among the mourners or that the church didn't look beautiful, what with the ladies of the supermarket having made such an effort to decorate it with flowers, so that the casual observer might have thought it was about to host a wedding. It was not that the sun didn't shine out of an infinite blue sky, as if to offer hope that the place to which Jessie had gone was indubitably wonderful, clear, bright and filled with birdsong all the things one might hope of a heaven.