‘God almighty. Should’ve hired a crane.’

‘A whopper, ain’t he?’

‘It’ll take a load of bricks to weight him down. Dear me.’

‘Stop moaning.’

Top and tail, they carried him and folded him into the boot of their saloon. They fetched the bag. The hare-lipped fella took the cash and gave it to her. ‘For your troubles,’ he said. When she shook her head, he dropped the money through the Vanguard’s window. The other fella threw the keys to him. ‘You’re free to go. We’ll let the boss know how it happened. She’ll be pleased.’ He held them out until she snatched them. ‘Have a pleasant evening,’ he said, doffing his cap’s peak and backing off into the dark. They doused the lantern, got into their black saloon and left her.

She didn’t want to stay a moment longer. A swig of brandy would’ve done her good. A cigarette or two. But she had neither. With the shudders in her arms, it took her a few tries to get the key in the ignition. She drove home, to Leventree, because it was the only place that she could go. It was nearly midnight and her brother would be in his bed or washing at the basin in his shorts and vest. The thought of him allowed a peace to settle in her. There were fifty pounds now on the seat beside her, give or take. She’d put it in the hidey-hole below her bed when she got back. Start saving for their future. They could go on holiday. Or she could buy a car – legitimate – and they could take it out on daytrips every weekend.

All the way to Ockham, she was driving in a state of dreaming. Imagining the happiness that lay ahead. She’d get the knack for architecture, given time. She’d put the effort in. She’d work on furniture with Mr Mayhood, till he recognized the skill she had. She’d build that greenhouse Florence wanted, labour on the farm week after week, cut back those dying trees as planned, install that irrigation system in the east field, all of it. Eventually, she’d not remember anything she’d done tonight. The judder of the hammer’s handle when it struck. Mal Duggan’s soft collapsing skull. The spatter of the blood. His yelp and whimper and his snuffed-out eyes. She’d done that to him. She and no one else. But she could live with it. She could. She could. She could.

*

Along the rutted track she walked, beyond the neighbour’s fence where all the bracken grew. She followed the bare dirtlines curving up to Leventree: they were as good as rails. Ahead, the squat black outline of the house revealed itself behind the elms. An ordinary place, when taken from a distance. Just a simple box of timber, bricks and slate. But home was not a building any more than music was a noise – the Mayhoods taught her that, and now she truly understood their meaning. She felt the shudders easing, a new pain beneath her jaw. The winter rye was moving darkly in the field. A good few inches tall now. Healthy green. It seemed an age ago that she’d gone out to seed it with the old man and her brother. Lamps were shining in the parlour window and the draughting room. Another light was on upstairs. The Mayhoods were awake, and maybe Charlie too.