‘I’d better leave you to it,’ I say, as we all pretend it’s not weird that the dark-haired woman hasn’t looked up or introduced herself. Fran and Saoirse say goodbye, and I take a seat at an empty table.

47

June 2018

ON THURSDAY AFTERNOON, I’M buttering crackers for Sophie when she bursts in from the garden, shouting. At first, I can’t make out the words.

‘Slow down! What is it?’

Sophie takes a breath and starts again.

‘There’s a ghost in our garden! Or a monster maybe.’ Eyes wide, she climbs up on a kitchen chair. ‘I’ll stay here and you check, OK?’

I hand her a cracker. ‘OK, I’ll go hunt the ghost.’

As I approach the trampoline, shielding my eyes against the sunlight, I hear what Sophie heard. Yowling and scratching coming from the coal bunker. Something is trapped in there. That slows me down. I’m not entirely sure how I feel about unleashing whatever creature is inside. Sure enough, the hatch is down; something got in and can’t get out. A fox maybe? I move closer. Listening. Foxes don’t yowl. At least, not as far as I know. It’s a cat. Has to be. I step closer, reach forward to slide up the hatch, and jump back. A ball of black fur springs out and sprints across the garden, up on to the dividing wall. Fran’s cat, blacker than ever now that he’s covered in soot. Poor thing, we really should do something with the coal bunker. But as I’m about to slide the hatch back into place, something catches my eye.

It’s covered in soot and barely visible. Hidden in the coal, a shape that’s at odds with everything else. It’s square. A box. An old, metal box. It slides awkwardly through the hatch and I rub it in the grass to clean off some of the soot. It’s an old tobacco tin, I realize, as the words ‘Navy Cut’ appear. I give it a small shake and something moves inside. It could be anything. It could be nothing more than dead insects and bits of old coal. I shake it again. The contents move but don’t rattle. It’s something soft, not hard or metal or sharp. But what? There’s only one way to find out. I dig my nails under the metal rim of the lid and work to get it open. It doesn’t budge. I need a knife.

Inside the kitchen, I set the tin on a tea towel and use a butter knife to prise the lid. This time, it opens and now I can see the contents. A single envelope. Thick and yellowed and covered in fine coal dust. It’s not sealed and inside is a small stack of Polaroid photographs, held together with an elastic band. The first picture shows a little girl outdoors, facing away from the camera, looking towards tall trees at the end of a garden. They look just like the trees at the end of our garden. Is it Lily, before she went missing? It’s hard to tell, but the child has blonde curly hair, just like Lily’s. She’s wearing a navy duffle coat and dark tights and red wellington boots.