Back soon, Bea texted, as she left the driveway, and then turned off her phone. She hadn’t slept enough. Her dreams had bled into the light of day, she couldn’t rid herself of them. She needed space to think. It wasn’t enough to turn the phone off, she’d be tempted. She looked around for somewhere to hide it, to collect on the way back. There was a log, behind the flip-top bins in the lay-by. She propped the phone against it and paused, to mark the place in her mind. She and Alex had stood exactly there, the night he went. In a few warm days, the bushes had grown thicker and higher along the small path that led back to the hotel. She remembered the light rain falling, and them walking together, and the small burning taste of brandy from the bottle he handed to her. She went back across the entrance to the drive, and along the roadside, as the hot sun dried the last of the dew, then left the road and went into the woods.

How angry Dan must be, to fight with her, after what had happened to Alex. He must have lain there, watching her, getting so angry he had to wake her. He had watched her sleeping, and thought about her money, while she hadn’t known. It made her ashamed. Leaving Griff’s money, she hadn’t sacrificed anything, it had only been a release. Every day had been a day of celebration. Not for Dan. How smug of her, not to know, like a princess leaving the palace without her jewels and robes to do good among the villagers. Love me as I am. I’m virtuous. Her father was right. She wasn’t perfect. She wasn’t even good enough. She was boring. Puritanical. Ugly. Vain. She reached the towpath and the river’s edge, but the calmness of the view felt far away. The water wasn’t clear, but silty and slow moving. She had hardly any reflection. She didn’t need one. Round face, round eyes, fair hair, nothing. Her father had said it, and her mother had, too. It wasn’t a new thought, she’d been fighting it for years. She wasn’t stupid. She knew about the influence of childhood experiences on a person, she’d had the therapy and done the work. She’d read the books. She did not self-harm. She was not anorexic. She was not an addict. She’d taught herself. She was right to be proud. She had built herself from scratch, piece by piece, and it had taken years. In her mind’s eye, she saw Alex’s handwriting, circling and underlining words. The only way into truth is through one’s own annihilation. His broken car hung like a corpse from a noose. Annihilation was not in her armoury. She felt for another weapon.