Samantha is still talking. ‘Edward Thorn. You want to know something about him? His car was seen at the church the night Edie went missing. I chased and chased the police to get him to give a statement, and what do you know? Not a month later he’s dead. Drove right off the bridge. Then he’s dead and any evidence in that car got washed away. Huh. He told me it was my fault Edie ran away, and you know, some days I think he was right.’
‘You think he had something to do with her disappearance?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Samantha, I never met him.’
‘But you’re married to one of his boys. They must talk about him. What kind of man he was. A drinker, a shouter, a saint. You must know. They must have said something.’
I’m thinking. I’m thinking about the only things I know about Edward Thorn. About the well he filled in after retrieving the sheep skull from the bottom so his youngest son could display it on the shelf above his bed. About the sacks of bonemeal out in the greenhouse and Mimi whispering, ‘He boiled the bones in pots on the stove.’
‘I don’t – I can’t help you, Samantha.’
‘So why are you here? Why have you been having cosy little chats with Nancy Renard in the cafe and asking me about Edie as if you don’t already know all about her?’
‘I didn’t already know! I swear! First I ever heard about her was the day we arrived, when I found the photo. Honestly, Samantha!’
‘What photo?’
I pull my phone from my bag and flick through until I find the one of the Rattlesnakes and William and Alex in the bright sunshine. When I show it to her I see the wince of pain it causes. I imagine she’s never had the chance to see it before. It must hurt. I look down at the place where the knife has pricked me and try to imagine that small sharp pain over and over again, for eighteen years, slowly slicing into your heart.
‘I found this at Thorn House. I’ve never seen William at that age. That’s why I took it, because I thought he looked funny. I didn’t know about Edie or Peter Liverly or any of this until then.’
She looks at me suspiciously. I can see she wants a cigarette. Just moments ago my fear was huge and vivid – a technicolour cartoon explosion – but now it is ebbing away.
I reach towards her. ‘Put the knife away, Samantha. I meant it when I said I want to help you.’
‘Why? You don’t know me!’ Aggressive again. Stepping right up close to me so I can feel her breath on my face.
I lift my hands, try to keep my voice calm. ‘William’s having an affair.’
That magpie, the sound it makes is rough, like a dog barking. Not like a bird at all. We stare at each other, Samantha and I. I swallow carefully. ‘I found out just before his mum had a fall. He doesn’t know that I know.’
‘Why not?’
‘I haven’t had a chance to confront him with it. She’s nineteen.’
‘He’s sleeping with a nineteen-year-old?’
‘No, not – he’s not sleeping with her. Not yet, at least. He’s giving her money. For photos.’
A beat. Samantha nods. ‘How do you feel about that?’
‘She said he’s paying for her to go to university. He buys her presents. Expensive ones. We’re meant to be saving up for a baby.’
‘That doesn’t answer my question. How do you feel about that?’
‘I – I don’t know.’ How can I articulate the feeling of betrayal? I don’t have the language for it. It makes me want to scream. I feel the anger like a pressure on my chest, one I’ve been feeling since I found the memory stick in the box room.
‘You going to leave him?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘So you’re using this, my daughter, as some sort of distraction?’
‘No, no. It’s not like th—’
‘You know, I walked in on them once, eighteen years ago. William and Edie. He had his hands in her underwear.’
I don’t know how to respond to that. Samantha grabs fistfuls of her hair and ties it up with a band, knotting it on top of her head. Her anger is palpable, coming towards me in waves.
‘I asked him to show my daughter some respect. Looks like he still hasn’t learned. I’m sorry to hear about Mimi, though. When Edie went missing Mimi used to come and check up on me, even after her husband died. “Us women have got to look out for each other,” she said. Shame she couldn’t instil her values in those boys of hers.’
A noise then, making us both jump. Our heads switch round to the house. There’s a scraping sound, like a lock turning. Then, a soft thud. We exchange a glance.
‘Someone’s inside,’ I whisper.
Samantha nods. Suddenly I am glad she has that knife. I wonder if people are squatting in there. I did it myself for a few years in my late teens. Samantha pulls her phone from her pocket and, using it as a torch, shines it through the gap in the boarding. The edges of the metal are rusty and sharp. We peer inside. The room is blue-dark and murky, like sunlight on the seabed. We can see the shrouded shapes of furniture covered in dust sheets and a doorway that appears to lead out into a hall. We both strain to listen, hearts in our throats.
Finally Samantha says, ‘I’m going in.’
‘I thought you were afraid.’
‘I am. I’m terrified. But like you said, it’s exposure therapy, right?’
‘Not like this, Samantha. Jesus!’
She doesn’t wait for me. She leans against the boarding, which gives a long, metallic shriek as it tears away from the window frame. With one foot braced against the wall she hauls herself through the narrow gap, landing with a thud on the other side. I see her lit by the glow of her phone screen for just a moment, then it cuts off. The darkness swarms in. I lean through, reaching out my arm into the cold, still darkness. My hand gropes empty air.
‘Samantha?’
There’s no reply. No sound at all. I lean in further and the smell of the house hits me. Mould and rot, the sweetly cloying smell of rising damp. Beneath my weight the metal hoarding groans, my feet scrabbling for purchase on the brickwork. I’m thinking of Samantha’s dreams buried in the soft darkness, the maze, the bloodless voice calling her name, and I’m suddenly breathless with fear.
‘Samantha? Can you hear me? Samantha?’
It’s cold in there. It has that strange, deserted quality that houses left empty for some time possess: a vacancy, almost a grief. There’s a pattering sound in the hallway, like running water, or fast-moving feet. My blood chills.
‘Samantha, for fu—’
A hand, reaching out of the blackness, circling my wrist in a sharp, snapping motion. I scream.
‘Shut up, for God’s sake! I’m trying to listen!’ She tugs at me, hard. ‘If you’re not coming in, then piss off home, Frances.’
I almost do. I make it as far as the furthest corner of the house, where long arching fingers of buddleia brush against my face. What stops me is the graffiti I find written there, almost obscured by a clump of stinging nettles. The rust-coloured paint has run and faded, but the message is still legible: Where is Edie Hudson???
I catch the collar of my coat on the raw edge of the bent metal and hear a satisfying rrrrip sound as I drag myself through the gap and into the bungalow. Glass crunches as I land awkwardly, twisting my ankle beneath me. Dust settles in my throat and sinuses, making me want to sneeze. What are you doing? the sensible voice in my head shrieks. All this just to spite William? All this just to dig into his past? Go home, Frances.