She changed tack. ‘I’ve never forgotten that poor girl. I’ve found myself wondering what happened to her over the years. This village holds such sad memories.’ She swiped at a pretend tear.

‘I know, same.’ He moved his hand towards her, but withdrew it again before touching her. ‘I’m sorry. It’s a difficult time for so many of us. It’s all people are talking to me about and to be honest, it’s getting me down now. I’m hearing the same things over and over from different people. It’s so draining.’

‘Gosh, yes – I hadn’t thought about that. It must be terrible for you, and now I’m adding to it. It’s not like you can get away from it,’ Lizzie said, offering a sympathetic smile. ‘I assume you live in the village?’

‘Yes. Still here, living with my mum. And I know, before you say it, it’s such a cliché. God, it’s actually sad, but I always felt I had to stay, after it all. Then, as she’s aged, she’s needed more help, so … you know.’

‘That sounds perfectly reasonable – not a cliché at all,’ Lizzie said, thinking the exact opposite. ‘Hey – is there still a pub here?’ Lizzie remembered seeing it as she’d walked up the main street yesterday.

‘Yes – not that it’s great, if I’m honest. Mainly old people.’ He said the last bit in a whisper from behind his hand. Lizzie laughed.

‘Well, do you fancy dropping the average age of its punters a bit by having a drink with me later?’

The man’s eyes brightened. ‘Sure, would love to. What time?’

‘Say … eight?’

‘Great. It’s a hundred yards or so to the right as you go down the hill. I’ll meet you outside if you like?’

That would be a good idea – she didn’t want to draw unwanted attention by going in alone. ‘Yes, lovely. See you later.’ Lizzie took her bag from the counter. ‘Sorry, I’m Lizzie, by the way.’

‘I’m Robert. Rob. Bob. Bobby. Any of those.’ He smiled warmly. ‘Nell’s son. We own this shop – in case you didn’t know that already.’

Lizzie returned his smile. Nell, as in Nell Andrews. Perfect.

Chapter Thirty

1989

Blackstone Close

Saturday 8th July – 11 days before

Billy lifted his head from the arm of the sofa, immediately regretting doing so: it felt heavy, clogged, painful. His tongue was dry too, sticking to the roof of his mouth – he had to free it with his forefinger, causing him to gag; it made a strange suction sound as it released. He rested his head back gently while dropping his arm and feeling around, exploring the floor beside the sofa with his fingertips until he located the can. He took a swig from the remaining content – the warm lager tasted foul, but he continued to gulp it down anyway – anything to relieve the dehydration.

A sinking feeling surged through his gut. The can was his last. How would he get through another night of loneliness, of guilt and regrets, if he didn’t have alcohol? He’d need to replenish his stock, but couldn’t face going to Brook Cottage Store to buy it. Couldn’t face the judgement, the accusations. And he dare not drive outside of Mapledon to acquire some – if he got stopped, he knew his blood alcohol level would put him over the limit. Though incarceration might actually be better than how he was living right now, he would never turn this around if he were in prison.