After Alice died and the Molyneuxs moved away, Catherine talked about finding them so many times. She’d never really forgiven me for messing up the first time. Because if things had gone according to plan, Lizzie Molyneux would never have been born and Alice might still be alive. It was a fantasy of hers—an obsession—and I went along with it because it kept her happy.

And because I was obsessed, too. With Catherine. I never thought for one moment that it would actually happen. As the years passed and we got on with our lives, the less we spoke of them. It seemed unlikely that we’d ever see or hear of the Molyneuxs again. I can’t tell you what a relief that was.

Sometimes, late at night when I couldn’t sleep, I remembered the words Catherine had written on that card, how we watched as the flame consumed each and every stroke of the pen. In my mind’s eye, I see her slender fingers close over the pile of gray ash in the palm of her left hand and I’m following her out of her bedroom and down the stairs all over again, across the yellowing lawn to the rough piece of dirt at the very end of the garden. Behind the swing chair.

Since I qualified as a doctor, Catherine and I had been drifting apart, and I didn’t know how I felt about that. Part of me was relieved. I knew deep down that it wasn’t a healthy relationship, never had been. She represented the side of me I wanted to forget. But I couldn’t help feeling abandoned, too. She had this knack of making me feel like the little boy I once was. A sad, lost, angry little boy, craving love and attention. So when she phoned up out of the blue and wanted to catch up, I felt excited at the prospect of seeing her again.

She’d got her nursing qualification now, and she seemed different. More settled. I won’t lie—I couldn’t wait to hold her. To fuck her. She was the drug I couldn’t kick. I’d had other girlfriends over the years, but no one quite like Catherine. There’d never been anyone like Catherine.

I’d been making plans to visit a university pal at his parents’ bungalow on the east coast. They’d recently passed away within a couple of months of each other, and I said I’d go up and spend a few days with him, help him sort out their stuff. I wasn’t particularly looking forward to it, to be honest, but he was a friend and I didn’t like to say no. When I told Catherine where I was going, she invited herself along, too. The trip suddenly held more appeal. Catherine’s presence would, I thought, make the whole thing so much more bearable.