Dora opened her mouth. The verses swirled in her head. She knew the words off by heart, even now, after all those years. She walked along the landing, up and into the attics. Her fingers were shaky as she turned the door handle. She was all alone. What if the door slammed behind her and she couldn’t get out? No one knew she was here and her cries would not be heard. But something was drawing her in, churning flashbacks into compulsions. Come closer.

Chapter One: Dora

CHAPTER ONE

DORA

London: a few months earlier, March 1985

Please forgive this letter out of the blue, but I am trying to trace a Dora Simons, or Simmons, last heard of in 1943 in Jersey. I believe she worked as a midwife…

It was dated 24 March 1985, written on headed notepaper, the Huntingdon Bed & Breakfast, Bloomsbury. Dora knew the kind of place well. Swirling carpets, nylon sheets, full English breakfast. Cheap.

Mr Joseph O’Cleary, of La Ferme de l’Anse, St Martin, Jersey, gave me this address…

Dora folded the letter in two and sat down hard on the kitchen chair. Her chest tightened, making her breathless. She had no idea who Joseph O’Cleary was. It stood to reason that someone else would be living in the farm after all these years, but how he had come to have her address was anyone’s guess. She’d given no one her details when she left. Nor had she met any Irishmen, or if she had, she’d forgotten. Whoever O’Cleary was, he’d got her name wrong. She was Simon. Not Simons. Or Simmons. An easy mistake, if you didn’t know her.

This could be a hoax. She’d reply and then be lumbered with a subscription to Reader’s Digest or some cookery club that she had no interest in. She received those letters all the time. Congratulations! You have won first prize in our million-pound draw. To claim your prize, take out a year’s subscription to…

Dora screwed up the letter. Walked over to the sink and filled the kettle. A cup of tea. Just the thing. How very English she’d become over the years, drinking tea through every crisis. She’d grown to tolerate it with milk. She turned on the radio. Something sharp and discordant was being sung. She reached for her cigarettes, eyeing the balled-up paper on the table. Whatever they were playing wasn’t music in her book. No melody, only episodes that jarred, upside down, back to front.

She opened the letter again and spread it flat, ironing out the creases with her fingers.

…although, as he indicated, it may not be current. If you are not Dora Simons (or Simmons), I wonder whether you would be so kind as to reply and let me know, so I can eliminate you from my searches.

She stood up, holding onto the back of the chair for support.

Yours sincerely, Barbara Hummel.