I float for a moment as Bill calls from the front, acid reek of petrol, squeal of traffic, whip of cold air through the half-open window. That little girl – how she was in that picture – was known to almost no one. I understand that better than I understand what’s left of myself. And yet, every time I try to examine the realisation pulling at the edges of my consciousness it threatens to overwhelm me. The series of events that must have led to Dominic ending up with a copy takes on the ugliest of dimensions, warping and shimmering into something so unfathomable it can’t possibly be true. Except with every shallow breath, I know it must be.

There’s only one reason he could have it.

And it’s because I’ve only ever been lied to.

‘Where to?’ Bill’s voice chimes again as I ask myself. Deep down I know I already have the answer but I won’t believe it until I ask the question. I pull myself straight, summon everything that’s left.

‘Whitehall,’ I croak, clearing my throat as the car accelerates away. ‘Please, Bill. I just need to go straight to Whitehall.’

153

Carly ~ Warchester ~ 1997

I twirl around, fancy blue stud twinkling in my nose in the tiny mirror mounted on the jewellery stands near the back of the shop. Now the swelling’s gone down it looks properly cool. Not so big so it looks like a spot, not too small so you can’t see it at all. Just enough that it flashes in the light, like a real jewel. I smile at myself. In the right light, it even matches my eyes.

I run my hand down the pairs of earrings dangling from their black paper backing, hooked round the carousel in neat rows and columns. They’ll make a charm out of anything these days. Surfboards, footballs, lollies, even broomsticks. I linger on a silver pair of bunny rabbits, mounted as studs rather than hanging from loops. It’s either them or the teddy charms for Kayleigh’s first pair, I think. Not that I’m letting Rach near her with that nail gun, mind you. Not after the hash she made of my ear.

The earrings rattle as the doors clang shut up front. I can hear Rach moving from the top to the bottom, turning keys and closing bolts, before the hum of the outer screen closing throws us into pitch-dark.

‘Bollocks,’ Rach mutters as she flicks on the lights. I twist my head this way and that. The blue spark in my nose is brighter under the strip lights than in daylight.