Eventually Kathryn came out into the road and put her hand on my arm. ‘Call the police,’ she said.

We didn’t go to bed until three. When I took off my clothes, I was surprised to see that my trousers were covered with mud and torn at the knees.

‘No point staying up, tiring ourselves.’ I spoke to Kathryn in the darkness of our bedroom. ‘We’ve done all we can. At least the police know, now. It’s that Luke, I expect. Some trick. He’ll be back in a bit, you’ll see.’ I kept saying these things. I held her frozen fingers, and I smelt the garlic. I knew her feet would be icy, but she kept them away from mine, pointing straight down the bed, her knees together, her head absolutely still on the pillow, looking up at the ceiling, saying nothing. There was just a slight twitch in her left eyebrow as I whispered my promises. He’ll be back in the morning. He’ll be back in the morning. He’ll be back in the morning. I said it again and again, until a crack of light slid under the curtains; and then I lay there, staring into the brightness of the day, not wanting to get up and face the cold floor and the silent telephone.

eighteen: Joanna, December, 1985, epilogue

eighteen

Joanna

December, 1985

Simon’s tutorial makes me late for turkey plucking, because I have to go home and change first. I choose my suede ankle boots and denim mini with black wool tights. I won’t do trousers and wellies for anyone.

I charge down the lane by the church like I’m an American cheerleader in a film with Matt Dillon. Frozen puddles splinter beneath my stamping feet, but I don’t care. I swing my arms, stick out my chin, smile.

Then a bramble catches my calf and scrapes off a long line of skin. My flesh smarts in the polar-temperature air. I reach down and feel the gap where my tights have snagged. The skin there is raised and hot.

There’s no time to go back and change again, so I walk further down the lane, by the pools. I can see the black water of the biggest pool is half frozen over. I want to go down there and test it with my foot, just to hear the crunch-crackle of ice breaking.

I’m nearly in the field by the farm when Shane steps out of the trees and grabs my wrist. I skate along the icy ground towards him, my joints suddenly turning to sponge. It’s easy for him to drag me closer. His warts dig into my fingers. His nose touches my cheek.

‘You didn’t wait last night,’ he says, his voice an edgy whisper. ‘I was looking for you.’

The power station whirrs.

‘I was looking. Waiting.’ Shane flicks a smile and tightens his grip.