The next time Daniel came at him, Paul hauled his torso up and head-butted him in the face. The agony of the movement brought bile into his mouth. He’d managed to unbalance Daniel, though, so he jerked his leg into his shin, making him stagger against the wall. Paul swayed to his feet. His ribs felt shattered. He lurched toward the door, but Daniel was back upright, blocking the way. Paul flailed toward the kitchen instead. Daniel followed, his face purple, brandishing the cricket bat streaked with Paul’s blood.

Paul felt as if he was moving through water as he strained for the back door. The bat thudded between his shoulder blades, doubling him over. He grasped a kitchen worktop, twisting around to find himself once again cornered, Daniel’s face blurrily close, further accusations forming beads of saliva at the corners of his mouth. Liar. Traitor. Failure. Killer.

Something inside Paul gave way. He couldn’t take one more blow, one more shouted declaration of his crimes versus Daniel’s self-proclaimed innocence. Old instincts had already caused him to do a lightning-quick check as he’d stumbled through to the kitchen. He knew where his exits were, but he’d also clocked the set of knives clinging to a magnetic holder on the wall. As Daniel swung the bat again, Paul reached sideways and his fingertips brushed metal.

37.

KATE

Twenty-five years earlier

The neighborhood fuzzes past as I trace the familiar route to the local shops to meet Mum. My instinct is to rush, but at the same time I want to slow things right down, return home only once the pills have worked. I imagine Nick bent over the toilet bowl, clutching his stomach and groaning that he’s not well enough to go on holiday.

Mum’s waiting for me outside Costcutter, the sea of carrier bags at her feet wrinkling in the slight breeze. I’m too nervous to make conversation as we wander back. Mum seems quiet, too, trudging along, tired from work, she says. The bag handles cut grooves into my palms and the evening feels humid and sticky.

“You’ll be okay this weekend, won’t you, love?”

“Yes,” I mumble. “We’ll be fine.”

Halfway home we bump into Linda, the Irish lady who lives below us, next door to Nick. I’ve sometimes thought about asking her: Do you ever hear anything? Noises that don’t seem right? But surely Nick’s too clever for that.

We chat to Linda for what feels like ages. She and Mum talk about Linda’s son, who’s nineteen—Becca flirts with him whenever she comes to visit. I can’t stop looking toward the tower block, wishing for telescopic vision, until finally the conversation ends.