Just as she’s about to turn and leave, something bright catches her eye. A flicker of light between the trees in the woods. She presses her nose to the glass and cups her hands around her face. Her heart picks up speed. It looks like torchlight. Is someone there, watching the house? She blinks, not taking her eyes off the dot of light, the surrounding halo-like beam moving between the darkness of the trees. And then just as quickly it vanishes. She stands there for a further ten minutes, straining to see, but there is nothing.

The next morning, Lorna doesn’t mention it to her daughter. She knows she’ll only worry and that’s the last thing she wants. Instead, after she’s dressed and had breakfast – one of Tom’s fry-ups that she notices Saffy pushes around her plate – she says she’d like to walk in the garden.

‘I’ll come with you,’ says Saffy, making to get up from the table. Tom already has his old decorating clothes on, saying he wants to make a start on painting the banister in the hallway.

‘No, it’s okay. You finish your breakfast. I’ll see if anything jogs my memory.’

‘Oh . . . okay. Good idea.’

The sun is bright this morning although there is a chill in the air and dew on the grass as Lorna steps onto the lawn, the dampness seeping into the sides of her sandals. She takes a deep breath of the unpolluted country air. It smells more refreshing this morning, like washing after it’s been on the line. She ignores the hole in the ground and carries on until she reaches the end of the garden, with the beautiful purple tree. She wonders what it’s called. She makes a mental note to ask Saffy. She turns back towards the cottage to make sure her daughter isn’t watching and steps onto one of the low thick branches, just enough to give her a leg up so she can hop over the wall. The action is so natural she must have done it before. She holds on to the trunk for support as she jumps down on the other side.

The ground there is higher, with little pathways ahead snaking through the trees, dotted with bluebells. Lorna surveys the spot where she saw the light last night. She’s not sure what she’s expecting to find. Footprints, perhaps? Although the ground is too dry. And then she notices something. A patch of bluebells has been flattened, as if someone recently stood on them. She moves closer, her eyes scanning the ground and then she glimpses something else among the trampled flowers. Three cigarette butts.

She hadn’t been imagining it last night. Someone had crept through the darkness and into the woods. Someone had been watching the house. Watching them.

Part Two

11

Rose

Christmas Eve, 1979