Melly said the police interrogated Paul about Ash’s death six months ago now, and since. They were very sure it was an accident. She must ask Charley not to repeat Izzy’s words in front of Poppy or Sorrel, or Eve; they could be intensely upsetting. She waits till the sun disappears and the lights begin to prick the twilight all over south London. There is no one in the parking lot below. The landlady was right, the gang has gone. Five thousand miles away, it will be dark in Zimbabwe; night descends suddenly, there is no lingering English dusk, which she has grown to love. She goes inside to write, shutting the balcony doors.

Melissa

Paul leans forward over the prison table, his voice is croaky.

“How’s Sorrel?”

She stares at him in disbelief. His lawyer relayed that he had something urgent to communicate. The requests were repeated; eventually she agreed to go, one final time. Was it just another trick? A chance to ask questions about the little girl he left to die? She shakes her head in silence.

“Any memories yet?”

She doesn’t reply.

“Okay. How’s Izzy?”

She tightens her lips; he must be insane if he thinks she is going to give him a progress report on his daughter’s recovery from the damage he inflicted. Perhaps he is; incarceration causes madness in some prisoners. A deep line encircles his neck like a jagged crimson thread, damage coming full circle.

“One of the blokes stole some wire from the workshop,” he says, noticing her glance. “I thought I was going to die. So, about Izzy. I’m worried about her, really worried. Is she having therapy?”

Around them couples lean forward and touch. Two little boys dressed in matching outfits with gelled hair are fighting over a bag of chips while their parents hold hands and talk in whispers. Another couple is silent, the girl yawning, obviously bored; she is probably here for the last time, as she is herself. Paul’s hair is whitening; she’d thought it was a cliché, stress making your hair go white. His hands are rough-skinned, the nails are short and torn. There are bruises on his arms, old ones and more recent ones; they merge, like the bruises he gave her.

“Listen to me, Paul.” She meets his eyes in a way she’d never dared, not even at the beginning. “You have forfeited the right to ask about your daughter, now or ever. Please don’t get your lawyer to contact us again.”

He leans forward but she doesn’t move back. If this is a game, she’s not going to lose. His face tightens and his skin flushes a dark, blotchy red.

“You listen to me. Izzy was lying. I did nothing, none of it. I didn’t touch her, I swear. I did none of the things she said. Of course I didn’t.” He looks more like the old Paul, though this Paul sounds desperate rather than angry, the words are pouring out. “She made it all up, everything she said was a lie. I had nothing to do with Sorrel’s abduction either. Izzy’s ill, she must be. It’s the only explanation. You need to get her some sort of help.” His voice rises. “You must promise me you’ll find someone to help her. I’ll be cleared of course when the police dig deeper, though to be honest, I’m far more worried about her than me.”