Charlie Stone’s manor covered a lot more than a few mean streets now; it covered the world, and he was its absolute ruler. She was Mrs Charlie Stone, and Charlie was such a big noise that even his wife made people nervous. She didn’t actually belong anywhere, not any more. She was shunned in the country as a common and rather dodgy interloper – and she was feared in London, on what had once been her own patch. She wrote about it, in her journal. About her deep feelings of disconnection, about her unhappiness and about what had happened to Jill at the hands of that fucker Charlie, about being trapped out here, caged in. But what could you do?

The morning after the christening party, she was picking her way through the lower floor of the house, hung-over and stumbling over bodies, people still spark out on the floor. Jesus, what a night they’d had. She looked at the enormous pile of christening presents on the end table. Everyone had brought gifts for little Jake. Of course they had. Everyone wanted to get in good with Charlie Stone.

She walked over to the half-unwrapped goodies and rummaged among the stuff there. A coral teething ring. A tiny silver bracelet. A huge snow-white stuffed polar bear wearing a purple velvet saddle trimmed with gold. Jesus, so much stuff.

Then at a tiny sound she looked around. Harlan was standing right there. Silent as a wraith, he’d often do that: pitch up and startle the shit out of you. Every time he did it, Nula jumped. Despite her banging head, she forced a smile onto her lips. The kids must have had a pretty rough night, with all the noise going on, even if they did sleep up on the top floor.

‘All right then, Harlan?’ she asked.

‘Chrissy said to fetch you,’ he said flatly.

‘Why, what is it?’ she asked him.

‘There’s something wrong with Jake.’

46

Nula wasn’t aware of anything until she crashed through the door of the nursery and saw Chrissy standing there by the cot beneath the window. The girl was white-faced and staring.

‘What’s happened?’ said Nula, coming to the cot and reaching for her baby.

Chrissy stretched out a restraining hand. ‘You shouldn’t,’ she said.

‘What? Get out of the way, I’ll have a look at him, what’s the . . . ?’ Nula’s voice seemed to run out of air then. Her eyes were on the child in the cradle, and . . . oh Christ! . . . he looked blue. He didn’t seem to be breathing.

‘I fed him at three, put him back down, he was fine. And then when I came in at seven – he’s usually awake then – I found him like this . . .’ Chrissy’s voice tailed away.

Nula reached down a trembling hand to touch Jake’s tiny hand. It was cold.