‘Sure,’ I lie.

70.

Then

Cathy

‘I may be mad, but I thought – I wondered if we could have a coffee,’ Tom says, even though it’s late. ‘And a chat.’ He’s standing in Cathy’s living room, still in his coat. Cathy’s entire body is light with relief. She knows this is not a goodbye coffee. She knows in the deep, wise part of herself that’s only recently woken up. The part attuned to the way his eyes linger on hers, the way he stands self-consciously on one foot, the other toe-down to the ground.

‘I can do coffee,’ Cathy says. She touches his arm as she walks past him to boil the kettle. He follows her, watching as she gets out mugs and milk. He reaches over her to pour in the milk, while Cathy’s inside sings with happiness. She hasn’t lost it. She hasn’t yet lost him.

Her mobile is ringing in the living room where she’s left it. She almost doesn’t pick up when she realizes it’s Joe. Tom raises his eyebrows, but says nothing, so she answers.

‘Help me, please help me,’ Joe says into the phone.

As her gaze meets Tom’s, his eyes darken just slightly. She closes her eyes and concentrates on her brother’s panicked and tinny voice.

‘What?’ she says to him. She turns away from Tom, just for a second. ‘What?’

‘Please help,’ Joe says. ‘Please come – I’m in the big field to the left.’

Cathy knows it. It’s where she and Tom walked on that funny third date of theirs. Completely secluded, with a single track weaving its way through the long grass. ‘Why?’ she says.

Tom comes in front of her, gesturing for the phone, but she nods, letting him know she’s okay. His hand comes to her waist, instead, and rests there, a warm, supportive palm against the fabric of her t-shirt. She stares at the floorboards, trying to make sense of Joe’s panic. For a second, as she looks at a particular whorl of wood that she’s never noticed before, she is certain that Joe has killed Frannie. An eerie calm descends around her. A silence, like the room has hushed. All she has now is Tom’s warm hand and that whorled floorboard.

‘What’ve you done?’ she says softly.

‘I’ve killed someone,’ Joe says hoarsely.

‘Who?’

The whorl. The hand. The question that hangs in the air.

‘Evan.’

Perversely, Cathy’s entire body sags in relief. Tom’s hand is all that is holding her together.

‘He wanted more money.’ She hears Joe gulp down the phone. ‘I didn’t want to do it.’

A thousand childhood memories walk into the living room with her. When he got a B in A-level biology and had to wait to hear if he had been allowed to take a degree in veterinary medicine. The way he carried Rosie’s coffin. He carries it all, the eldest sibling.

‘What?’ she whispers in part sympathy and part horror; the potent familial mix they find themselves faced with.