Mr Hardy took a sip of his drink. When he put the cup back onto the saucer, some of the foam had stuck on his upper lip.

'You have a moustache on your moustache,' I told him.

He grinned, a bit embarrassed, and wiped it away with a serviette. 'Thank you. What makes you so sure that this is hurting your mother?'

And it all came out. I told him how I sat in a circle of memories in my room and called her up with the power of my imagination. I described how I felt something stroke my cheek, and how I felt darkness. Mum's darkness. I told him about how she'd phoned me in a dream.

'She was trying to communicate,' I explained. 'She had something extremely important to say, but I couldn't hear her. I said . . .'

I couldn't get the words out. I really wanted to tell the story but by now I was crying so much that my voice wouldn't work. I held my hand over my face because I knew it looked red and ugly. Mr Hardy passed me a tissue. He seemed to have a never-ending supply. I suppose he needed them in his job.

'Sorry,' I gulped.

'Don't be.'

'Well, anyway . . . I couldn't hear Mum, but I hoped she could hear me. So I said . . . um, this sounds really mushy.'

'I can do mushy.'

'Okay, well . . . I said, "I love you. I love you." I told her again and again but the line went dead and I don't think she heard. I never got to tell her that I love her, you see, when she died. She died not knowing.'

For the first time since I'd met him, Mr Hardy looked upset.

'She knows you love her, Scarlet. She will always have known that.'

'What if she doesn't, though? What if she thinks I could have saved her? Maybe if I'd said something, their argument wouldn't have got out of hand. I didn't manage to stop Dad from hitting her, did I? I didn't have the strength. I didn't shout loud enough. I was so frigging useless.'

'You were ten years old. You called the ambulance, and you relayed CPR instructions to your father. That was what you did. That was the best thing you could have done.'

'Too late.'

He thought for a long moment, crumpling a serviette in his big hand. 'Scarlet, do you know what actually killed your mum?'

'Yes. Dad hit her and it made her brain bleed.'

'Hm.' He hesitated for another moment and then seemed to come to a decision. 'Actually as she fell, she knocked her head on the fire surround. It was tragic, because if she'd fallen the other way she might not have been very badly hurt. It was the marble fire surround that caused the bleed.'

I stared at him in suspicion. 'How d'you know all this stuff?'

'I've read the medical evidence from the trial.'

'She wouldn't have been badly . . .?' I mouthed the words, letting them sink in. 'Are you saying . . . Oh my God. I think you're trying to tell me it was an accident.' And then it came back to me: something Vienna's bitch of an aunt had said. 'Was she drunk?' I asked. I saw Mr Hardy blink, and he pulled back his head as though I'd tried to bite him. I had to know. 'Was she totally rat-arsed, like I've heard?'

'Who's said this, Scarlet?'

'I hear things. People tell me things. I'm not deaf, and I'm not stupid. I also know that she'd been in a loony bin before.'

'You mean a mental health unit.'

'Whatever. So is it true, about her being drunk?'

'I think it's more appropriate if you ask your grandparents those sorts of questions.'

I was going to get to the bottom of this once and for all. I'd had enough of being kept in the dark. 'Yeah, right, like that's going to happen! If you won't tell me, I'll have no choice but to listen to the gossip.'

Poor Mr Hardy drummed his fingers on the table. 'All right. I don't believe she was very drunk, though it seems she wasn't quite sober either. But whether she had or hadn't been drinking isn't really the point.'

'I think it's pretty important.'

'No, no. The point is that she was your mother. She was a gorgeous mum, a gorgeous person. You loved her. Gramps and Hannah loved her. Your dad loved her too, and he didn't mean to kill her. That's why they didn't try him for murder.'

It was all quite a lot to take in. Until that afternoon, I hadn't talked to anyone about what actually happened the day Mum died. Gramps and Hannah avoided the subject-it was absolutely taboo. Nanette gave me as much paper as I wanted and got me to paint pictures. I'm rubbish at art but I covered sheets of her paper: angry figures and a mouth with dark pink lipstick and blood coming out of it. I drew an ambulance. I drew a gravestone even though Mum didn't have a grave. I drew myself, in the dark, with tears shaped like balls on my cheeks and an enormous open mouth. Nanette never gave me any details about what happened, though.

'Your mum chose your father,' said Mr Hardy. 'I believe they loved one another very much indeed. Together, they had you three children. There were good times as well as sad ones.'

My drink was waiting with its sprinkling of cocoa powder on the top. They'd put it in a tall glass. Evening had floated into the world outside, and all the carbon-spewing cars had their headlights on. People scurried home from work with their hands in their pockets and scarves around their faces. I could tell it was freezing cold by the dull glint on the pavement.

I wondered whether Mum ever felt cold anymore. Perhaps she felt cold all the time. Perhaps being dead meant being cold.

'Where is she?' I asked.

'Where do you think she is?'

'I'm asking you, Mr Hardy.'

He smiled, shaking his head. 'You know her best.'

'She can't have just stopped being. It's not possible. Her soul is somewhere-in heaven, I suppose. But I don't know what a soul is, really. I don't know what heaven is, either.'

'Neither do I.'

'Nobody does,' I said. I had a theory about this. 'Bishops don't. Muslims and Buddhists and Jews and atheists don't. Even the Pope doesn't actually know. They all just hope for the best. That's all any of us can do.'

'How about Hannah? She believes in God, doesn't she? And she's very clever.'

'Hannah is the first to admit she doesn't know. She's much too smart to pretend she has the answers.' I dipped my head and drank half the hot chocolate at once. 'In a way,' I said, 'I want it to be Mum who I felt in my room. I want it to be her I heard in my dream . . . because that would mean she still exists-you know? But in another way I want it not to be, because she was miserable and angry. I want her to be happy. I want her to rest in peace. RIP, Mum.'

'Maybe it was you that was feeling miserable and angry, not her.'

I thought about this idea, and knew he was probably right. The mothers at the next table were standing up, unhooking their puffer jackets from the backs of their seats and fussing around the babies. One of them bumped into me and said sorry.

'That's all right,' I replied automatically. She smiled at Mr Hardy.

'Nice manners,' she said. 'Credit to you.'

I waited for him to tell her that he wasn't my dad. He didn't. He just thanked her and looked proud.

'Fraud,' I mouthed at him, and he giggled in a Mr Hardyish sort of way.

We both watched as the mothers pushed their buggies out into the street, letting in the chilly night.

'Have you got a mother?' I asked Mr Hardy.

'She died a little while ago.'

'Me and my big mouth.'

'You are a very kind, thoughtful person,' he said. 'Please don't worry. She was almost ninety, and she had been ill for a long time.'

'She was still your mum.'

'She was.'

We left soon after that, dodging between the revving cars before hurrying down Faith Lane. The sky was velvety orange, not black, because of the city lights. I looked up at the dark walls as they loomed above us.

'They're so old,' I said. 'They have been here for hundreds and hundreds of years.'

'True.'

'The people who built them are all dead now.'

'Yes, I think we can confidently make that assumption.'

'Funny to think of, isn't it? All dead. They must be wondering why the hell they bothered. And where are they now, I wonder? Is my mum sitting in a cafe in heaven, gossiping over a latte with a hunky Roman soldier in a metal skirt, Elvis Presley and a couple of dazzling angels? Is she having a giggle with Dick Turpin?'

'Dick Turpin got to heaven?'

We'd arrived back at our house. I unzipped my shoulder bag to fish out the front door key. 'Thank you for the hot chocolate, and thank you for listening to me.'

'Nice manners,' he said. His beard twitched. 'Credit to me.'

Twenty-three.

Joseph Just as the first snowdrops began to hint that spring was on its way, February sank sharp teeth into North Yorkshire. Each night Joseph crouched with Jessy by the heater as sleet and ice whipped against the caravan's windows. He read into the early hours, staving off the moment when Zoe would lie bleeding on the rug.

Each morning his alarm clock clattered through the nightmare. In each indigo pre-dawn, he felt despair. He would never escape from Zoe's death. He would never be whole. Sometimes, as he forced his steps towards the farmyard, he had an impulse to turn the other way; to cross the stream and trudge onto the open moors. If he lay down up there, exposure would kill him long before anyone noticed he was gone.

Jessy refused to get up for these earliest sorties. She woke long enough to watch sleepily as he pulled on layers of clothes-most of them borrowed from Abigail-then gave a smug grunt before resting her nose back onto her paws.

'All right for some, you dozy tart,' sniped Joseph, one morning. He stepped out, teeth gritted against the blasts. As he climbed the slope, he felt oddly cheered by the flicker of a candle in Rosie's kombi. She was an early bird, that woman.

Struggling to start the tractor, his mind was on the children. Theo and Ben seemed to like him. He didn't imagine that they had forgiven him, but he felt more of a father with each outing. Scarlet worried him, though; she seemed terribly troubled. Sometimes she'd forget herself and smile at something he had said, but each thaw was followed by a freeze. Lester insisted that she was 'conflicted'. Good old touchy-feely speak, that. Conflicted.

As he handled the final bale, crimson light unfurled like a glowing flag on the horizon. He cut the engine, fascinated by this dawn spectacle.

Abigail plodded across, carrying the pig bucket. She followed Joseph's gaze. 'Red sky in the morning, shepherd's warning.'

'There is something a bit sinister about it. Looks feverish, don't you think?'

'I expect you wish you were in a nice warm classroom, teaching a load of pimply teenagers.'

'Believe it or not, I don't.' Joseph hopped off the tractor, blowing on his gloved hands. Abigail was wearing the usual khaki trousers, held up with nylon baling twine. She blinked at him through her glasses. 'Message for you on the phone.'

'Who is it?'

'Some bloke. Must have called when I was out yesterday.'

Joseph trotted inside, peeling off outer layers in the narrow hall. Heat and comfort enveloped him as he stepped into the kitchen. The cat lay curled on a cushion by the range.

'Morning, you great lummox.' Joseph stooped to tickle him. 'Why aren't you out there catching rats?'

Digby stretched and stuck out his claws, shivering with delicious comfort. Joseph strode to the phone and pressed play on the answering machine. He smiled as he recognised Lester's rumbling tones.

Ah, hello. It's Lester Hardy here, calling for Joseph Scott. Um, Joseph, could you please phone me? I'd like to talk about the way forward. In case you've lost my number it's . . .

Joseph glanced up at the clock. Dammit, far too early to call back.

Behind him, the kettle hit the range with a clatter. He spun around to see Rosie composedly making tea. All her movements were unhurried. She wasn't ethereal or elfin; nor was she plump. She was . . . well, opulent.

'Christ!' he gasped, though he was pleased. 'You crept up on me.'

'I certainly did not. I walked in, like any normal person.' She was wearing jeans underneath a russet skirt, her figure obscured by a baggy sweater. She looked like a rag doll, with bright cheeks and gypsy hair. There were ice crystals on her lashes.

'I saw your candle,' said Joseph, moving close to her. 'Still dark, it was. Why d'you always get up at the crack of dawn?'

'Habit,' she replied, smiling placidly.

'Habit?'

Her smile widened, made more mischievous by the crooked teeth, and he realised with a jolt that he'd come to delight in it.

'Yes, actually. Habit. That is the perfect word for it. Are you going to break the rules and ask more questions? Because if you are, I warn you: I have plenty for you, and they won't be pretty.'

He grinned back at her. 'I'll take that risk. What do you do at that time of the morning? Why don't you come and help me feed those bloody animals?'

'I sit.'

'Sit and what?'

'I just sit. That's the truthful answer.'