She pushed her daughter away from her and left her crying bitter tears. It amazed Sharon how dispassionate she could feel at her daughter’s obvious distress. But, then, was it really surprising after what she had heard this night? Her daughter’s predicament was nothing to her right now. Maybe tomorrow, if it all worked out, she would have the time and energy to try and help her out of the corner Kathy had finally painted herself into. But now she had other things on her mind.

Downstairs, Sharon looked around her beautiful home – the house she had furnished and decorated with such love and care. It was as if the place was mocking her, making her see that material objects meant fuck-all in the grand scheme. Oh, hindsight was a fucking wonderful thing. She’d had only two men in her life: one had been murdered and the other . . . Well, that remained to be seen. As her old mum used to say, where women were concerned, they never got mad if they were clever – they went one better and they got even.

When the call finally came she felt such relief that she could have wept. After all these years, she was finally in control of her own life. She only hoped it wasn’t too late. One thing she did know for sure was that she was going to see this through to the bitter end. It was all she could do for herself and her children. She wanted payback for what had been done to her and hers.

She felt a calmness wash over her. This was what she had been waiting for. She would do what needed to be done – no matter the consequences.

Book One

Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells,

Lonely and lost to light for evermore,

Save when to thine my heart responsive swells,

Then trembles into silence as before.

‘The Corsair’, Lord Byron (1788–1824)

Chapter One

1984

‘You stupid little mare! I knew it!’

Sharon Conway rolled her eyes with the irritation typical of her youth, which did not calm her mother’s fury in the least. In fact, it was like a red rag to a bull.

‘Roll your eyes at me, would you? You idiot – tied to that fucking thug for the rest of your days. Honestly, Sharon, I wonder if you have even one iota of fucking intelligence in that made-up, backcombed head of yours. If you had actual brains you would be up that clinic getting the thing out of you faster than Billy Whizz. But not you! Oh no, Clever Bollocks, you think you can change him, you think he will become Mr Perfect. Well, I will let you in on a little secret: he won’t fucking change. You will, you daft fucking mare! You will be tied down for the rest of your life with that ponce, and you will never get shot of him once you produce his offspring.’