Dora allowed herself a little surge of satisfaction at that point. She’d outfoxed Donny Maguire. And now, as the train whipped through the countryside, she felt like she might somehow have a chance to start again. To leave the past behind her. To forget all that had happened back down there in the Smoke, to forget about Dickie, and Frank, and poor doomed William and his tragic mother.

Christ, she was so tired.

She closed her eyes, letting the rhythm of the train soothe her. There was no one else in this small carriage, just seating for six and all the other five seats were empty. It was blissful. Peace and quiet, at last. She felt the stress of it all drain out of her as exhaustion set in. She was nearly asleep, falling into a doze, when someone said: ‘Hello, Dora.’

Her eyes flew open.

Donny Maguire had found her.

48

Dora was on her feet before she even knew it. Scrabbling for her suitcase, which she’d put up in the rack. Her heart was in her mouth. She’d tried so hard, thought she’d got away – and now he’d caught her.

‘Don’t bother, Dora,’ said Donny, staying her shaking hand as it groped for the case’s handle.

Dora flinched away. ‘Or should I say “Mrs Steven Bradbury”? That was a nice touch, picking up the wedding ring in the pawnbroker’s. I’m guessing that old bitch at the B & B helped you dye your hair? It looks fucking awful – just like hers did.’

Dora sank back down into her seat. Donny stood there for a moment, looking down at her, then he slid the carriage door shut and sat down opposite. ‘The glasses too. Good thinking. But what you forget is this – I know you, Dora. I know how tricky you are.’

Dora decided to front it out. ‘All right, so you’ve found me. So what? I can’t imagine what you want to find me for, but—’

‘Can’t you?’

‘No. I can’t.’

Donny sat back and stared at her. It was unnerving, the way he did that. His face was all knife-like cheekbones and dark, dark eyes. That thin, judgemental slit of a mouth. He was a good-looking man, always immaculately turned-out, clean and neat. But looking into those eyes, you’d swear he had no soul.

‘Let me fill you in then, Dora.’ He leaned back against the headrest, closed his eyes briefly, and then said: ‘My brother. William. He’s dead, because of you.’

‘I didn’t—’

‘He was done over because of you. And after that? He was finished.’

‘Look!’ Dora straightened, her eyes desperate. ‘For God’s sake! I never intended William any harm, you can’t pin that on me.’

‘If he hadn’t been sweet on you, he’d never have come to grief.’

‘But that’s not my fault!’

‘Yeah, it is. You and your taste for lowlife killed him. And my mother too. She’s gone. She couldn’t live with it, William dying like that. We’re Catholic, you see. And suicide? That’s a mortal sin, which means William’s gone straight to hell, and I suppose Mum figured, if he was going there then she was going with him; he wasn’t going alone.’