‘Grace,’ I say, more firmly than intended, ‘did you know her?’

‘Grace,’ repeats Isobel, her smile fading. ‘Which Grace?’

‘The girl who lived at the house,’ I say, remembering what Jimmy said about the whole village being shocked by what happened. ‘Rowan Isle. You must have been about the same age as her. I just wondered whether you knew her.’

‘I knew of her,’ says Isobel, draining her mug. ‘Though I didn’t know her particularly well. It was such a sad case. The whole village was rocked by it, but Grace and her dad were strange. She was known for being wild and prone to angry outbursts, so I guess it was only a matter of time before something terrible happened.’

She shakes her head.

‘Tired now. We go home.’

I look down and see Joe standing at my feet. He’s holding a plastic Spider-Man figure in his hand and has jam smeared across his mouth.

‘Hello, beautiful boy,’ I say, stooping down and heaving him on to my waist. ‘Yes, let’s go back now and have a little rest. Have you had a good time?’

He nods his head then nuzzles into the crook of my neck, sleepily.

‘You’ve exhausted yourself,’ laughs Isobel. ‘That’s always a sign of a good party. Listen, I just need to check on something then I’ll drive you home. Wait here and I’ll be straight back.’

She walks out of the hall leaving Joe and me standing in the middle of the floor. A young mum standing by the buffet table smiles over at us. We’re too conspicuous in here. I need to get away.

‘Come on, Joe,’ I say gently as we head for the exit. ‘We’ll wait for Isobel out here.’

I open the door and step back out into the churchyard. It’s dark now and a great yellow moon looms above the trees. I see a shadow in the corner by the church and a familiar voice speaking, though distorted by anger.

‘Where are you?’ she hisses into the phone. ‘I thought you said you’d text when you’d arrived.’

She turns then and sees me, the light of the phone screen illuminating her face.

Isobel.

‘Oh, Lisa, Joe,’ she says, coming towards us, her voice softening. ‘There you are. Now, give me two seconds and I’ll bring the car round. What a day it’s been, eh? What a bloomin’ day.’

34

Grace

28 November 2004

The sun has just come up and I’m sitting under the oak tree watching the wood awaken. Another night of sleeping out here. It was cold and damp and uncomfortable and, I’m not going to lie, I would have preferred to have been back at the house, in my warm room, but I can’t go back there. I can’t see him. Not after what I’ve discovered.

It’s a beautiful sight, the wood at this hour. Each blade of grass glistens with the morning dew, like someone’s gone through it with a bucket of soapsuds and given it a good old clean. The trees and bracken are shrouded in a light mist, like something from a fairy tale, one where the monster has been beaten and a new day is beginning. Looking at these old trees, I feel safe and protected. After all, they have stood unmoved for hundreds of years and they’ll carry on long after I’ve gone. What harm can possibly come to me if I’m sheltered here amongst them? So I focus on the trees and the bracken and the soft sounds of the wood pigeons and I try my very best to stay calm, but my heart is jumping around my chest like a mouse caught in a cage.