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A blackbird is chirping earnestly. Then she loses the sound as it becomes as faint as the sunlight. He pulls her away, heading towards the kitchen table, pulling down the top of her dress, exposing the pink bra, breasts urging to come out. He is fumbling for one when they crash onto the table. Smiling, keen on the game, she lifts her left leg and twists, transforming the fall. It is a move they have done before. He holds her buttocks before it is too late, her cunt gripping him firmly, guiding her round, her leg whisking past his face. Both legs now resting on his shoulders, she falls back fully onto the table. They are both grinning as triumphant masters of the dance, the rhythm scarcely broken, and they continue. There is no time to lose. He pulls her away from the table. Her legs dropping to around his waist, she rises up, dangling her arms over his shoulders. He nibbles on her neck, her hair swaying wildly whilst they charge through to the sitting room, knocking over a chair in their haste. He presses her against the back of the flowery settee as they continue to fuck. She bends backwards over the settee. Her bra is still on. He reaches forward with one hand to remedy that. They lose their balance, though not each other. Maintaining the rhythm, they fall onto the softly yielding cushions . 193

Rolling over, entwined, they collapse onto the carpet and she is gone. “Oh god oh god fuck!” He empties into her, shivering. She kisses him, all over his hairy face, so much that it is wet with her saliva. Pushing him off, she rushes into the bathroom in order to clean the milky deposit off her thighs. She returns while he is zipping up, looking very pleased with himself. “Put some incense on!” she yells, smiling against her better judgement. “For a business meeting?” “Just do it. They’ll be here in a minute.” “They’re Italian, and this is Devon. I don’t think anyone is in a hurry.” “You were,” she teases, rushing into the kitchen, righting the chair, retrieving her underwear and pulling it back on. She resumes doing the dishes, then suddenly wonders if she should put some shoes on if they’re receiving visitors. The rose and honeysuckle-scented water laps the edge of the black-tiled bath set deep into the floor. The lights are on low, two church candles burning in a corner, adagio strings playing in the next room. This is very nice, she murmured at the start, we should get one one day if we’re ever wealthy. They have been there an hour, topping up the hot water as needed. He has remained inside her the whole time, she nestling into his neck. They drift on the edges of sleep. If he starts to go unconscious, she tightens her vagina till he 194

rouses; if she is slipping into darkness, he squeezes her buttock over which one hand is clamped, the other over her wet shoulder glistening in the candlelight, the arm supporting her back. With their parting slightly, then coming together again, each time, her breasts rise and fall with the water, his penis softening then hardening. Here, she murmurs almost unheard, her lips brushing his ear, a warm current of breath flowing into the canal. They turn, shifting so she and the water hold more of his weight. He nestles into her now, the scent of wet hair in his face, his penis deep inside her stiffening slowly. He is a child, he is a lover, he is adrift. An eternity later she reaches for the tap, rising, having sensed the cooling of the magic. The movement nudges him alert just when she was losing him. Her inner muscles massage his rod in accompaniment. He lifts from her slightly. Water Cascades off her breasts. The bath re-heated, she relaxes. Blossom-scented steam swirls around, permeating their skin, entering their nostrils and their brains. Their eyes meet in the misty glow. They kiss as if for the first time, circumnavigating each other’s lips, before penetrating with tongues. She is thrusting too eagerly with her hips, he is getting too excited. They slow down. Their eyes remain engaged. Once her brown luminous eyes seemed pregnant of mystery, once his blue eyes saw into her soul. Now the mystery is theirs together, and souls indistinguishable. There is no one person there, as if there is no-one. 195

Allurement begins the game, hyacinth and lilac to rose, amber, frankincense and sandalwood, quivering nostrils to a tingling throat, a vestal brain. There are candles placed strategically around the room. Their light bathes her as she sits on the edge of the four-poster, her bare legs together, gold stilettos pressing into the turquoise thick-pile carpet. She is wearing a white tunic-dress with silver sleeves and low collar, necklace as thin as thread and as golden as her shoes, traipsing across her breasts as the nipples thrust against the fabric darkly. Her hair is in loose wavelets, straggling upon her shoulders, lips a dark red. Yesterday she was in black stockings and a scarlet silk corset dress which was short, and just tight enough to accentuate her curves, a dark stiletto heel poised upon the velvet foot-stool; the day before in a low-cut azure evening gown, hair in a bouffant. She liked to dress up. She is all states, with the wigs, the make-up, the changes of all her lives, their lives: a mini-skirted swinger from the sixties, blonde bob and knee-high silver boots; a raven-haired ex-stripper with clanging jewellery and a studded navel; a demure good girl in a grey smock, listening carefully to what others say, venturing an opinion on occasion; an expectant mother, glowing with pride and newness; an astute businesswoman, compassionate but fair; so on to old age, only the affection constant in its waning and waxing. He varies less ostentatiously, like the tide changing slowly, almost imperceptibly, always there. “No shoes in the bedroom,” he manages to say, sensing his spark rising. 196

He has come from another meeting, another world, and is wearing black trousers, a loosened maroon tie, a white shirt with the top button undone, and he is in bare feet. “Oh these aren’t shoes.” He is caught already, he has no chance of escape, the spark aflame. Nonetheless she gets up elegantly, moving towards him, her hips swaying. His trousers are bulging yet it is his tie she grasps, leading him to the bed. He is mesmerised, held more by her undulating rear in its virginal wrapping. They reach the bed, she whirls round in the dance coquettishly, no longer feigning the shepherd and he pushes her down hungrily. Her back arches across a verdant cushion, hair trailing down behind, eyes half-closed. She is wearing nothing under the tunic, and there is not much of a forest in which to hunt. “I like it you’ve shaved.” “I like it you haven’t,” she gasps as his whiskers tickle her rosy thighs and he plants rows of kisses up to the moist bower. His tongue explores her inner layers, moving through manifold tastes and flavours, narrowing in on the bud resting upon the upper slopes, the prize jewel. Her legs clamp pincer-like around him, heels digging into his back. But she cannot, she does not wish to, trap him for long. Pushing him away, she rises onto her haunches, pulling the dress over her head and tossing it aside. The golden thin chain-necklace rings gently upon her breasts as they bounce 197

free. He reflects her actions swiftly, accurately, and is unclothed in seconds, his posterity raised fully. “I want you in me. Now.” “Wait.” He prowls towards her, and leaps upon a nectareous breast, wolfing it hungrily, licking it, sucking the mauve nipple, the other breast knocking benignly against his cheek. She retreats backwards along the king-size bed, but he is on her again, pinning her down, one hand between her breasts, the other reaching for the massage oil on the night stand. “I wish to anoint thee,” he laughs. Always a sincere man, his laughter seems to come from even greater depths. He splashes the liquid generously onto his palms, then onto her flesh, over her breasts, kneading them, the nipples upright sentries. Then onto her belly, rubbing his hirsute face after. All over he goes with lashings of the warm oil glinting brightly in the candlelight. He wants to do her feet, take off the shoes, but she objects softly, earnestly. “Leave them on. I bought them specially.” He turns her over, rubbing her back, along the rippling spine down to the smooth buttocks round as peaches, and her long slender legs. She turns over willingly to face him. “And you?” “I will get it from you directly.” “I see. I am the moon to your sun, am I?” “I bathe in your light.” 198

Skin to skin, nerves aflame together. Their words are clumsy. She is his religion, she is his saviour. He has the luxury of single-pointedness as long as the one thing he ever desires is her. “Jules…” “What?” He looms over her, a serious look on his face. “I want you to know… I want all the seasons. Not just the good, the wonderful. We come together, then we part… Even in sex it’s like that. Yet we are still together, even when we’re not. People seem to need some kind of reward, a goal. I don’t necessarily. We’re like that pair of compasses…” “Jeez, Ren. For the quiet type you do choose your moments to wax lyrical. Just fuck me already.” He kisses her cherry dark lips. Their tongues writhe, entwine. She sucks gently on his awhile. She raises her gleaming buttocks as he slides one hand under, the other caressing her black locks. a finger slipping into her ear. Hot magma pulsates below the surface of his staff. She pulls him into her, the rosy pink cleft parting delightedly. Their lips and tongues continue to collide and writhe. They thrust, panting, sweat and chrism merging They arrive as one. He pulls out so that the mutual eruption is as without as within. The tantalisation, the tease, drives her wild as she thrashes on the sodden sheets, and his holy oil sprinkles from above. 199

Soon, in the stony ceremonial silence, they lie side by side, motionless in the flickering light, his white balm drying upon her quietening meadows. 200

Chapter 7 Return It is just a question of time. The past is imaginary and the future already happened. For Big Donna each return is a statement over infinite silence, nothing ultimately to do with her. There is nothing she can do. No matter how many bridges are crossed, she always sees the same stream, like fleeing oppression in Europe to create new oppression in America. Surely it was time for something to change. Ahh. That word again. The present is not the whole truth but contains the truth, and is liberating in its simplicity. She stands now beside her car on an autumnal late afternoon, at the bottom of the lane, looking up towards Maplecroft. There is no sign of activity, yet everything is precluded without awakening. What could she do? So, they wanted Aphrodite and they got Persephone. Many people did, and the Underworld had its own riches whereas romance always ended in smelly sheets. Perhaps neither goddess really knew the meaning of love. She breathes in the damp fresh air deeply one last time, gets in her car, closing the door terminally. Manoeuvring onto the main road, she heads back into Totnes to feed her boyfriend, herself and her daft cat. Sheila Tabram walks up the hill towards her parents’ farm. It is her last year at school. She has already been 201

assured a place at university. Her life is unfolding beautifully. She will miss the nature when she goes, though she’ll come back often. Even this walk from the bus after school has been pleasant and invigorating after a day spent at desks, in most weathers at least. On the wilder days, her dad would bring the tractor down, or order her a taxi. Today is the last she will have to do this, as they have a new car and winter is approaching. They said in Human Studies that being able to get a lift easily was a possible indication of high social capital. Well, in all this time, no-one had ever offered her one, and she didn’t feel in the least deprived. There was that man in the suit and glasses, and a few others, who had seemed about to, then changed their minds. She probably wouldn’t have accepted anyhow. You have to be careful. The breeze is light in her long fair hair, pushing it back with gentle invisible hands. There is a bit of drizzle too and she smiles gratefully at the refreshing sensation, as she continues her journey. The curse of beauty without space will never leave Marina. Prey to time, age could well provide the only respite. She lives bravely, courageously, in the midst of a seething turmoil, to many the sole source of compassion and solace. She is desperate to be loyal, to have someone loyal to her. By the time summer ends, her lover will have betrayed her. She will quickly fall for someone she meets in a club, 202

and bring him home. She is but a short-stop to him, though she doesn’t realise it at the time. Fortunately, as winter sets in, she meets someone else, at the same club. This one is fated to be the father of her two handsome children before leaving her too, once age and commitment make their first determined lines upon her face; and he wonders who he really is, who they really are. Long before that story unfolds, the faithless McCoy will be ousted by the matriarch and the rest of the clan; while Marina is embraced, pulled deeper in, one of the family. They have a wonderful Christmas with her future husband, the conflagration of autumn forgotten. One cold blustery New Year’s Day, René and Jules are at Blackpool Sands, laughing at the weather with their two-year old son, daring the waves to do their worst, then running back with each assault. Ten minutes on the singing shore, and they retreat for good, laughing at the madness of it all. Their friends have saved them a place in the café crowded with meteorological refugees. Seats are limited and René prefers to stand anyway, his son resting, nudged into his shoulder as the preferred environment. René scans the warm humid atmosphere and smiles as another father catches his eye in amused sympathy. The man is a wind- farm entrepreneur and activist, one with whom René and Jules have had some dealings. He is with his Serbian wife and two adopted Chinese children. Being considered too old to adopt in the UK, they had been forced to apply abroad. He looks content with his lot. 203

“Celebrate each bill payment!” Jules is explaining to her friends across the table, by the rain-smeared window. “That’s what we do. It prevents anything becoming a drudge. We might sing ‘We Are the Champions’ or ‘Another One Bites the Dust’! Whether it’s the water mafia, the power-abuse companies or the telecom hegemony. Sometimes we have a special dance and chant with our own complex lyrics: ‘We did it! We did it!’” She snaps her fingers in the air flamenco-style in accompaniment. To everyone’s laughter, she adds, “We watch these cheeky-eyed wise guys online sometimes, like the Dalai Lama, Osho, Malidoma Patrice…and we realised what they have in common: they’re always laughing. It’s like they’ve got this secret joke going on. So we thought, ‘That’s the secret to the universe, even with paying bills.’” She pauses, as the conversation moves around the table, and children are catered for, food and drink passed around. She is momentarily pensive as she reflects that one teacher spoke of the ideal regular life: Seeking for one’s right partner in their twenties, settling down in the thirties, maturing in the forties, and seeking the answers to what is beyond life and death in later years. She and René appear to be cramming it all in their first decade. Mind you, it took almost a year to persuade him to accept the social security benefits available, and not rely so much on sporadic hand- outs from his parents; that even if the world were governed beneath a grim sky of corporate fascism as he believed, there were other ways to rebel other than starving oneself in order 204

to stay under the radar. She suspects he has guilt issues towards what he is entitled, as with so many. Being in a family is like riding a horse, the dream of which is seen in the distance, very different from the experience. A cruel father can be the life of the party, an angelic child never clearing up after themselves, a clever mother backward in her emotions. René and Jules cannot know such dichotomy, surrounded by numerous faces who are as much family as they are friends; none of whom will ever hesitate in calling them on their shortcomings, though they make a good job of honesty themselves. As life and business partners, their demanding work in sacred landscaping (‘Where Mortals Walk with the Divine’) ensures the odd brevity of temper, the unconscious remark or two, and frequently inconsiderate behaviour. It is work in progress. She had always fancied herself alone with moments of intimacy in life, with different men; now it seems quite the opposite. It is still the same dance, she tells herself, just with a different emphasis: grace in the ordinary life. The adventure of meeting people, of new lands, does not need to stop, it simply takes another form. She looks over to René. He is clean-shaven, his hair tidy and short, his face fuller with the fresh responsibilities in his world. He is talking to a girl a few years younger than him, totally unaware how attractive he has become to the opposite sex. She might tell him one day, and he’ll be surprised. Their relationship retains fragments of small mysteries wrapped up in a greater. If she believes in 205

anything, it is that the greatest insult you can give someone is to think that you know them. She won’t make that mistake. Thus the mystery, the wonder, is preserved, and because nothing has been forbidden, including detachment, desire has taken another form. Another child is in the mix, she knows it, can sense it in the air, and this time it will be conceived deliberately; that is all the knowledge she needs, plus the ability to adapt, to shift according to what is being presented. Her new role, that of a mother, she accepts with the same totality afforded her previous guises, it being so much more satisfying. They never seem to go anywhere, they never really want to. Last year’s ferry trip to France is enough to sustain them for a while. Sometimes love is just having someone put sun cream on your back. She looks around at the scene. They are definitely more than content here. Desire buys into cyclical existence, one of the wise old birds had said, leading to parental patterns, the templates. The average person repeats a story indefinitely, when each moment is actually unique. It is nature’s game. They would have to be on the lookout, wishing as they did any children to be individuals: that would be the delight, in getting to watch them unfold through time. René looks over to her, smiling inevitably over the head of their son. They have all had a restless night because of the wind banging on the roof and windows. After three years he cannot take his eyes off the woman he loves for long, nor believe his luck, their luck, two strangers meeting in a storm. This is a woman whom men 206

once worshipped, and she chose him, when he had nothing. At a time when life-long monogamy is unfashionable, or unlikely, neither of them can perceive any attractive alternative. Dirty washing, idiosyncratic habits and baby vomit in the hair have done much to cement their bond. There is nothing certain in life, yet they are certain amidst the flux. Jules smiles contentedly looking around. No longer can she hear the noise of the masters, only the murmur of the crowd and the waves, the elements playing outside, and two very indignant voices close by. The older family with them has vivacious blonde girls, six and nine years old, who are pressing their faces to the rain-smeared window after clearing the condensation with their sleeves. “Mummy! Mummy!” cries the younger. “We can’t see the mermaids.” “Or the dolphins,” adds the elder, more realistically. “Or the dolphins.” Their mother is deep in conversation with René about the Eden Project. “Dog in Devon!” she exclaims wryly. All morning she has not had five minutes adult dialogue without interruption. Jules comes to the rescue, joining the girls as they look out at the dreary seascape. “There are no mermaids or dolphins,” she says, “because they only show themselves to people who are feeling a bit sad, or lonely, so they can cheer them up. If you 207

don’t see them, it means you are having a really good time. Are you having a good time?” “Yes!” both the girls insist, rising to the challenge and because it is true, despite the weather. “We can make our own sea-life,” says Jules, starting to draw shapes in the part of the window still misty. The girls join in and soon the window has become a complex tapestry of myth and magic, eliciting cries of appreciation from the audience behind them. A family a few seats along are inspired and begin their own tableaux, as does the next. After ten minutes there are so many children involved, Jules the elected overseer darting between them, that every window becomes a dynamic part of the whole, constantly altering with condensation and interventions from the children; and the story is drawing a sizeable crowd. “How shall we end it?” asks one child. “How about ‘They lived happily everafter’,” suggests his sister. “There isn’t enough room,” is the retort. Jules weighs the possible answers. “I don’t think there is an ending,” she says, “Or, perhaps, simply, ‘They lived.’ That should be sufficient for now,” she adds with a sly wink at René and other attentive parents. Once the divorce had been finalised, Cassandra spent much of her time in morbid hebetude. Her world was at peace, except it wasn’t. Obloquy was almost tangible. No- one had said anything to her amongst her female 208

acquaintances, other than a predictable, token rallying, that they’d always thought something amiss with Hugo. She was well-aware of how gossip became gospel, and she could sense the harbingers of judgement alighting like crows upon the tidal line. Mixed up in the darkness of debilitating animadversion were her children. They only seemed to be behaving perfectly, tip-toeing around so as not to upset her. She was less finical about her ideal dinners that happened almost every night now, with no stains on the tablecloth and polite conversation only. Yet she knew she would always be facing the perfect, rebellious mockery of herself in her daughter, who won’t do what she says, or live what is unlived. The blindness of her love may have been little different from that of other mothers, though no less fierce: she saw what she wanted to see. She also attempted to behave as would be expected, only the collyrium of alcohol late at night allowing the obliteration of boundaries, of limits, albeit confined to her mind up unto this point. Thus she sat in her favourite corner of the dining room, one autumn evening after the children had gone to bed, and ostensible peace reigned in the face of the pending storm. Lit in warm yellow light by a standard lamp and candles on the dresser, her iPad was playing Vivaldi as she read the Totnes Times, took frequent sips from her glass of port, and smoked openly, no longer bothering to conceal it. The bottle, full at the start of the evening, was now half-empty. She was beyond being worried. She would simply order another one. Because of her hold on Hugo, she had managed 209

to get most of their meagre savings in the settlement, enough to sweeten the pot until she got back on her feet. She read an article on the front page blearily several times, wondering how she felt about it. It concerned the local MP’s wife objecting to a film of Cirque de Soleil being shown in her seven-year old’s class – was all that bodily contact in skin-tight costumes really necessary? The woman could have a point. Sex was really disgusting if you thought about it. Perhaps one day everyone could simply by-pass the activity and let laboratories do the work. You could also get the children you really wanted. She continued sitting in her stupor, eyeing warily the windows, dark reflections of the interior. She should draw the curtains, keep any invisible threats outside. The curtains with their blue, green and filigree gold medieval hunt scenes had been there for fifteen years. Maybe she could replace them. With what though? Her newfound fortune and freedom would be short-lived, that she knew with a gnawing certainty in her gut. There was always the ultimate stage of The Plan. It had been roiling beneath for quite some time, perhaps forever. Alcohol could entice it to the surface. It wouldn’t be difficult and was certainly justified. Another stray thought caught her attention. She laughed at the memory, spilling a bit of port onto her dress as her body heaved. Alex as a toddler running around the dining room, screaming in terror. 210

Their cat, little more than a kitten itself, is stalking him. It has made several swipes, missing each time. It is little Andie’s cackles that bring Cassie through, rubber gloves on her hands dripping with suds, the abrasive laughter a new sound to the mix. She laughs too: Alex as prey, the cat low, attempting to be cunning upon the table. She admonishes Andie before putting the cat outside. What had happened to the cat? Oh yes. Squashed by a car. One of the McCoys, they suspected. They’d never done well with pets. She could do it. It wouldn’t take long. Alex was easy, Andie a bit more of a challenge. She would have to do her first. Weight was her advantage. That, and surprise. She blinked at the empty room. It would be easy. She could even do it this night. It was very still outside, and inside. Much as she felt. Even Andie would be asleep by midnight, having to go to school in the morning. That would be the perfect time. She would lose the house. That was a sacrifice for which she was prepared. Insurance would more than make up for it. She could finally move to Totnes. An apartment for just herself would be easily affordable. Possibly she should have watched more forensic dramas, studied more. She couldn’t have done that though. Not enough romance. Maybe she could go to the Bahamas as well. Or Ibiza. Surely it would work. They couldn’t know the truth. She will doze a bit, watch some show. No point researching bespoke furniture any more, not until she knew what she needed for the new place. 211

She will go upstairs, take a pillow from her room. She will cross to Andie’s, then swiftly, mercilessly, throw herself on top of her whilst holding her head under the pillow. It would only take two minutes. Funny how her size, so often mocked by Andie, would prove her daughter’s unmaking. Thus, she will achieve what should have been accomplished fifteen years before. A mother’s instinct is always right. Alex will be a piece of cake after that. He is such a disappointment, no-one will miss him. It is not as if he had a great career ahead. The penultimate action will be to take his limp body upstairs, and place it on the spare mattress Andie uses for her friends to stay over. “He was very fond of his sister, Your Honour, and did not like to sleep alone ever since his father…” Here, she will break down in tears. Finally, the lighting of Andie’s black candles, placing the candelabra next to her duvet, when she will tip it over. Once the bedclothes catch fire she will retreat to her room, change into her nightclothes and wait till the door opposite is aflame. She was pleased there was no rain this night. It will be good to get a little singed, maybe scald herself on the door-knob, get some soot on her. “I tried…I tried so hard…but…” Then the ultimate deluge, too late to extinguish the flames. After that, freshly debrided, she will be free to do what she wants. She will have dominion over her world. 212

Midnight was when to act. It was just a question of time. Alex could not sleep. The dampness of the walls was permeating his bones, and knowing his mother was filling the dining room with smoke disturbed him as much as the absence of his father. He had no balm. Mum again said he could read any comics he wanted, a belated assuagement, also a rather ineffectual one. His sister, now even more liberated in her bullishness, had plonked herself on his bed last Saturday afternoon, snatching up some of the literature strewn. He had been so happy, his mother having bought them in a grand spontaneous gesture, off the lower shelf of WH Smiths. Andie had been determined, however, to reign on his parade. “They’re crap. Sexist crap. All those big boobs and long naked legs…” She had left, victorious, disdain cutting deeper than any blow, a judgement more draconian than any outright ban. He had nothing he wanted to read anymore. There was nothing he had to give the world either. He had tried, as a little boy, giving his dad presents like toy cars bought with his pocket money. His father’s disinterest was what he still remembered. He couldn’t do, make or buy anything that would be appreciated by anyone. The darkness ate at him with the airless, silent viciousness of their evening meals together. His dad had hit him once. Living with the women, focused to distressing agony every meal together, was akin to being walloped in the belly over and over, forever. He couldn’t speak, he couldn’t escape, he couldn’t 213

act. What was left? It was time for his shadow to go its own way. Xela was left, albeit somewhat busy. He was facing a galactic take-over from the supreme patriarch Magus, part of whose strategy was to reincarnate clones built to his will into other worlds. This was an aspect of the same problem. The human women at Maplecroft, admittedly victims of Magus’s ambitions, thwarted, had ruined Alex’s life. They were at the centre of a dark fog, its immediate source. Far from embodying the pristine qualities of goddesses, they were messy, barbaric, and needed to be cleansed. Xela could defeat the darkness by cutting through it. It would be a small victory, taking a minimum of effort. That was one of his powers, that he could pay attention to the details in the midst of a galactic war. He was kind whilst being merciless. There was a katana under the mattress, given to Xela’s vessel at school. Sleepy-eyed, retreating to the darkness at the back of his brain, he reached under and pulled the weapon out, getting to his feet. The clock above the door said a quarter to twelve. Xela breathed deeply and continued to do so, swinging the shiny blade purposefully, in rhythm with the rising and falling of his diaphragm. So, he prepared, with accelerating, shallow inhalations. Midnight would be the perfect hour. It was just a question of time. Andie remained awake, lying in bed, her headphones on but nothing coming through. She had been thus for over an hour. The screen next to her had long since gone to sleep. 214

While it was still lit she had watched a spider with long thin legs and a small body, paralyse an ensnared fly to a sleepy death above the bed. It had struck her that there was no victim in death, only an ecstatic union. Then her mind turned to more practical matters. There was no light in the room now. Even the dining room below was silent, devoid of the tinny beats and drones from her mother’s device. The time to act was almost now. She had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. The poisonous loathing in her mother’s eyes towards Alex was too obvious. All it had needed was a little nudge here and there, Andie had thought: an innocuous conversation at dinner after Cassie had had a few drinks, about how someone had been killed through smothering; remarks how deeply she herself slept, unaware of anything else going on in the house; on how a parent had to put aside their life until a child left home; (“Another ten years, mum!” with a sly nod at Alex.); and acknowledgement of how small and fragile Alex was (“Unlike us, mum.”). Andie was sure she was in no danger herself, Cassie was far too scared of her. She was also too stupid to realise that the pathologist would be able to determine that Alex had not died of natural causes. All she watched was rom-coms and such. That had been the plan, yet so far nothing had materialised. Andie would actually have to do it herself. Fortunately, she did watch forensic dramas and knew how to cover her tracks. It would be easy. 215

The initial idea to use poison had been precluded by the number of variables: she wasn’t sure how to disguise the taste, how much – whatever chemical she used – would suffice, nor if tests could succeed in penetrating the veil of darkness she would create with the fire. Because there would be a fire. She had rummaged (uncharacteristically) in the shed for a while. The axe was missing its head. Not that she could have used it. Blunt force trauma would be too obvious on the skull. Other tools in the shed proved similarly too crude. The solution, naturally, was in the kitchen where lurked always a formidable arsenal. She chose an ordinary steak- knife at the back of the drawer, one rarely used, and not to be missed while she took time considering. Alex would be easy, a pillow would suffice. For her mother it would have to be the knife. The trick was to strike without hitting bone, in such a way she would have no time to retaliate. Andie could sit on her – as she would be too pissed to move her big fat arse – then carefully prise the blade between her ribs, into the heart. Or would the throat do? No, that would be too messy. The stomach would take too long. It had to be the heart. Alex would be after that, which wouldn’t take long. Then the knife will be cleaned and returned to the drawer. She will take a shower just to be sure in case of blood splatters. Not that anyone will be looking as she will be a victim too. The fires will have to begin simultaneously in Alex’s and the dining room. The coincidence will be awkward, but not impossible. She knew she couldn’t use 216

accelerant because they would detect that. (“Mum sometimes liked leaving one of her candles alight in his room so he wouldn’t be scared of monsters, and did smoke a lot.”) They might even start to believe Cassie had set the fires deliberately. (“Well, she was unhappy since the divorce, and liked to drink a bit…”) It was a good plan. After the fire has progressed she will escape out the front door. (“Something woke me up. I think it must have been the smell. I checked mum’s room first. She wasn’t there. I couldn’t get in to the dining room. There were too many flames. I ran round the back because of Alex, but to my surprise the annexe was on fire too. The door was locked. I couldn’t open it. I ran round to my brother’s window. It wasn’t double-glazed so I broke it easily with a stone. That’s how I cut myself. But it was too small to climb in and I couldn’t see anything for the flames and smoke. I shouted his name. He didn’t answer. I was panicking a lot. I ran round to the front but now I couldn’t get back in as the fire was at the entrance. All the other windows were double- glazed and I knew I couldn’t break them. I didn’t know where Mum was…”) She will have to run up to the McCoys’ in her bare feet. (“Miss Raymond, our nearest neighbour, doesn’t have a phone. I left mine in my room.” A necessary sacrifice, to buy more time. It was hardly a problem, she would just buy another one now she had money coming.) The McCoys will comfort her. Maybe Marina will lend her a pair of her nice shoes. They will escort her back to the house after calling 911. She will insist on going back. The fire brigade will 217

arrive too late. She will stand in her nightdress, Chuck’s jacket over her shoulders, the distraught heroine, wind and flames fanning her hair in diaphanous glory. The press will arrive and take pictures of her. People will be so envious, when they’re not pitying her, her friends even more devoted. She will emerge, newborn, triumphant over tragedy, capable of so much now she was rich and free, the sole inheritor and survivor of an aweful inferno. She lay in bed still as a rock, only her mind active till it too set in rigid determinism. The witching hour was supposed to be three. Midnight had more allure. She would go for it. There is always sacrifice, such as that of whales for another species’ warmth and light, a burgeoning civilisation denoted by the aroma of singed moths. It is time to make that disunity quilt, clean up the act. Illegitimate children can become orphans. Plymouth, Dartmouth, Tiverton, Barnstable, Taunton, Somerset, Bristol, are transported. The ground floor is now the first. It is a new land. Hugo had found himself delighting the past weeks in the simple freedom of being alone in bed, of being alone. Never mind the overriding inability to nurture himself, the heavily suppressed realisation that Cassandra had accomplished so much. A lost child, he had re-discovered the art of adventure. No matter much of his life was still the same – switch on the computer, await commands – he could use his free time as he wished. This was helped in no small way by his having diverted away certain incoming bonuses 218

from their joint account over many years. He had been very careful to not leave any online traces of his secret account at home. The subterfuge had paid off, fuelling this first of perhaps many excursions. He had to get to Fall River, to solve the mystery. Fortunately, as they hadn’t had a vacation in the summer – thank God – he was owed two weeks. Thus, he was en route to Fall River in the fall – he smiled at his wit – and was now sitting in the Economy class of an American Airline jet thousands of feet above the Atlantic; further irony, in that Cassie would never have approved. She didn’t know, a freedom in itself. Her fate he didn’t care about, nor that of Andie – who was beyond any influence or redemption – except insofar as it affected little Alex. He still felt a responsibility there, a concern that his son was to be the victim in whatever ghastly scenario unfolded in Maplecroft. He was going to Lizzie Borden’s house in the hope of enlightenment, he told himself, some insight that would grant him leverage. Possibly he could have just gone to Big Donna, the regression therapist, but where was the fun in that? It was too late now. He was on a mission. “I’ll save you, Alex,” he muttered. “I’m sorry. What did you say?” The only other person next to him, a hefty woman in her fifties, had been staring wistfully at the clouds as they gained in dazzling pink brightness from the dawn. The windows on the opposite, port side of the plane, being exposed directly to the rising sun, were shining with a fierce gold. Most of the plane’s 219

occupants were waking to this symphony of light. Hugo wasn’t sure if he himself had slept or not. “Ahh,” Hugo smiled. “I do apologise. We have been travelling all this way together and I never introduced myself. I’m Hugo Munby.” He held out his hand across the vacant seat, and she took it boldly with her sweaty palm, his lily-white fingers like a little child’s in hers. “Jessie Pomeroy,” she said. Her American accent was strong, assured. Her eyes smiled behind spectacles that, like Hugo’s, were metal-rimmed. “Do you live in Boston, Jessie?” “Not far. A place called Plymouth.” Hugo smiled. She smiled back, unsure. “Where are you headed?” she asked. “Ahh. A place called Fall River. Do you know it? She nodded. “It’s in Bristol County, right next to Plymouth County. What takes you there, pardon me for asking? Are you in sales?” It seemed an obvious enough assumption. He shook his head with an odd abruptness. “I have family there.” “We had a church outing there once, to the Marine Museum. We’re always doing things together. Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.” Hugo kept smiling. “Tell me about your church,” he said, genuinely curious. As she spoke on, she was not to know that his attention was already wandering as they sped through the sky at hundreds of miles an hour, and the cabin crew made their 220

sporadic way along the aisle offering coffee and tea. Perhaps because of lack of sleep, Hugo was eager for sustenance. He smacked his lips discreetly in anticipation. Humanity was so slow, hindered by the smog of emotions that clung to a primeval tar pit. He knew now there was a rabid beast somewhere inside everyone; but he wasn’t going to feed his. Thus, an uneasy truce could be achieved and, in theory at least, recognised and unflattered, the serpent could rise in him bejewelled. He might well survive, but would his family? He had tried phoning them from Departures, partly to rub his newfound freedom in their faces, but the phone line was dead. Maybe Cassie had changed the number, or neglected to pay the bill. It wasn’t his problem anymore. He just prayed he would at least manage to save his son; from what, specifically, he had no idea, only that this was his last chance of redemption. Unbidden, thoughts of Andie persisted. After all, she lay at the heart of the enigma he had to unravel, no matter how much he disliked her, the impudent hussy. He was convinced she would have benefitted from a strict boarding school. Afterwards, an early marriage, even if commenced with a fumbling and uncertain honeymoon, could have imparted more meaning than all she had learned from the media. Jessie, aware now that he wasn’t really listening, fell silent and looked away, at the radiant sky. His grey-toned flesh, his safety-belt worn tightly throughout the journey except for bathroom visits, his yellow tie and white shirt, top 221

button done up, implied a restraint that made even her uncomfortable. She ignored him after he turned to observe the approaching stewardess. He muttered indistinctly as they hurtled through the clouds, “I don’t think she actually did it.” No-one was paying attention. 222

Acknowledgements/Disclaimers I should make it clear that not only are all the contemporary characters fictitious, but the secondary school alluded to as well. No such school exists, to my knowledge, in Devon or elsewhere. Lizzie Borden, of course, was a real person and to her I feel I must offer something of an apology, as I have shamelessly used her story to tell one from my own imagination. Whatever the truth of that day in Fall River, and wherever her spirit is now, it is undoubtedly following a very different path from that suggested in these pages. This was a book I felt I should tackle largely alone, but I did get some help along the way. Because of the nature of the material, I sought feedback almost entirely from women. Sona helped considerably – at the height of American tax season no less – with golden insights into some of the world I was attempting to describe, had the forthrightness to inform me where I was wrong and the kindness to compliment me when I got it right. Bhagawati was the first to read the book in its entirety, and her response was invaluable and encouraging. Megan and Jan offered some understanding of New England mores as well as the surprising connection with Lizzie’s ring. Sadie helped me find the location for the new Maplecroft. Rebecca provided sporadic moral support throughout. Kei, as ever. The book was funded by a number of kind and courageous souls through crowdfunding at Kickstarter, despite my attempts to scare them off. 223

Thank you to all the above, and to those who helped in other ways whom I have neglected to mention. 224