When he asked me to go to the church I’d wanted to say yes because I was interested in it. I was sick of being told that it was this or that. I wanted to see for myself. I could see that the vicar was a decent man, a man I could trust, and I still feel that way now, even without going to church. The vicar wouldn’t lie to me like others have, he’s a good man.

Which is why I think Isobel is wrong to want to go against her father. She’s got a lot of things wrong and I’m hoping I can set her straight. Because the person who needs to be punished, the person who needs to be kept away from Isobel, isn’t her father, it’s Steve. He’s the one that needs to be dealt with. He thinks he can take Isobel away from me, but I won’t let him.

The snow is coming thicker now and it’s getting close to time. I have to get my doss bag packed up and put this book somewhere safe while I go carry out the mission. It’s a big one, this. It’s what I’ve been in training for my whole life yet that doesn’t stop me feeling sick with nerves.

Anyway, enough with this writing. I’ve said everything I need to say. It’s time to put away my stories and get ready. Know your enemy, that’s what he always used to tell me. Know your enemy and be prepared to go down fighting. Well, Sarge, that is exactly what I intend to do.

PART THREE

39

Grace

Rowan Isle House, 30 November 2004

I have to write it down. Have to write and then everything will make sense.

Surely it will make sense.

What have I done?

Write, Grace, write it down. Get it out of your head.

Easier said than done when your hands are shaking so hard you can barely hold the pen.

Okay, here goes.

This is the account of what happened in Harrowby Woods on the 28th November 2004.

The mission.

At five minutes to eleven I crossed the road from the woods and made my way towards the crag. As I approached I could see Isobel. Her blonde hair was tied back with a dark-red ribbon. It was the most lovely sight. She looked like a sprite, like the wisps he used to talk about, the ones in the woods that we had to greet as we passed.

But then as I got closer I saw him. Steve. He was sitting on an old tree stump, smoking a cigarette. From this angle I could see him clearly. He had long dark hair that fell into his eyes. Unkempt, as Sarge would have described it. He looked up when he heard me coming and jumped to his feet. That was when I got a good look at his face. He had dark eyes and a wide nose. His mouth was curled into a kind of sneer. He seemed to dislike me as much as I did him.