Tilley’s hand flew to her mouth and she felt the blood drain from her head. She snatched instinctively at the letter, smelling the fine hair on her wrist scorch as the paper caught alight, crumpling to ash even as her fingers reached it.

‘No,’ she moaned. Shock made her heart pound as if it would break from the cage of her ribs. This time there could be no mistake. She might have doubted that she had seen Gerry in the flesh, but she would recognise his distinctive penmanship amid a thousand others. And that single brief glimpse had engraved his message into her brain.

What did it mean? she wondered wildly. The letter couldn’t have been posted two years ago and have reached her only now. Besides, how would he have known where she would be? There had been no redirection on the envelope. Shock and fury battled within her. If he still lived, how dare he do that? The words danced before her inner eye, browning into view even as the paper that held them crisped and burnt. Telling her nothing save that he was alive. I’m sorry, babe, the words coruscated blindly before her mind’s eye. There had been no salutation and no signature at the end, just the initial G.

Chapter Twelve

Hardly aware of having moved, Tilly found herself back inside. For a long moment she stood in the laundry, her head a whirl of fragmented thoughts, not allowing herself to hope. How and why scarcely mattered against the clamour of the overriding question: If Gerry still lived, could Francie also have survived? Was it possible? Tilly’s heart burnt again with a sick longing for her daughter. What exactly was Gerry sorry for? For having deceived her and the rest of the world by faking his death? For failing to save Francie? For whatever he was mixed up in that required his removal from the world and a communication that, but for the merest chance, she would never have read?

She found that she was panting and wanting badly to scream. That would achieve nothing. Taking a deep breath, she walked through the house to the kitchen, seeking the coolness of water and the balm of familiar surroundings.

She stood at the sink to fill a glass and drank it, then dabbed a wet hand over her face, taking deep, slow breaths. The clock ticked loudly in the silence and a peewee’s strident call pierced her ears. It called again and again, the noise like a drill in her head until she rushed to the door, flapping her hands, crying, ‘Shoo! Go away!’

Too late she realised that Connor still occupied the chair where earlier he had sat whittling. He still was, for a shower of shavings fell from his hands as he rose, startled, to face her. ‘Something wrong, Tilly?’