The forty-seventh comment is a video with just the words #localhero. It plays automatically as Kat hovers over it, and she realises that it’s mobile phone footage of Beth. It’s dark, and she’s crouching down in front of Delphine’s with her back to the camera. The deceased man is in shot too, but Kat can see only his legs, splayed out in front of him, as Beth’s frame is obscuring his upper body. Even the grainy footage projects something warm about the scene, a well-heeled lady bending down for the lowest in society. Kat wonders if Beth was scared at all.

The post calls her a local mum, so there must be at least one child, maybe more, and she’s bound to be married. Did she consider them before approaching the man? Kat feels sure that the teenager she remembers would have stopped, but she knows motherhood can change people. Not Beth though, it seems, and that makes Kat even more desperate to rekindle their friendship. Of course it’s important that Beth doesn’t find out who she is straight away, not after the way things ended, but there isn’t any chance of that. Everything is different about her; even her Berkshire accent diluted to nothing in Australia.

No, the danger is not in Beth recognising her; it’s whether Kat can keep her emotions in check this time.

February 2003

February 2003

Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Katherine

‘Happy birthday, dear Katherine. Happy birthday to you!’

Katherine wishes she were dead. A faulty plane plummeting to earth maybe, or a flying tree root from a freak storm. Even a crazed gunman barging in through the front door, taking them all out in a blaze of glory. Anything to end the misery of celebrating her sixteenth birthday like this.

‘Time to make a wish, love,’ her mum says, holding out a plate weighed down by birthday cake, the glimmer from sixteen candles casting creepy shadows over her face.

‘Kill me now,’ Katherine wishes silently, before taking a couple of steps forward. She wants to be excited about the three tiers of chocolate sponge oozing with buttercream and her taste glands are playing ball. But she knows her mum will ruin the moment. Her eyes will shine with hope that her daughter demurely refuses a slice. And when she doesn’t, they’ll turn more desperate, silently plead for Katherine to slide the plate away after a couple of mouthfuls. For the sake of her skin. Or figure. Or long-term health. Or some other fun-stifling bullshit.

Katherine blows hard, determined to at least snuff all the candles out in one breath. But of course she can’t even do that. Two stubborn bastards continue to taunt her. She flicks her two middle fingers at them and they drop, smoking with defeat.