‘Interesting.’ Inna made a note in her notebook. ‘And you said that your father strangled your mother? That’s how she died?’

Heather nodded.

‘What does Stephen have to say about this abuse?’

‘He’s horrified. He said that he would never lay a finger on me.’

‘And what do you think?’

‘I . . . I think I believe him,’ Heather said. ‘I think maybe I internalised some of the brutality I saw against my mother and imagined it was happening to me instead. Is that possible?’

Inna appeared to consider this for a moment. ‘It’s not my area of expertise, but I do know there is some overlap between the parts of the brain that perceive and the parts that imagine. I heard of a study done recently about how external stimuli can distort memories and even produce new, seemingly accurate memories. So in short, yes, it’s possible. My question to you is, is that what is happening here?’

Heather thought about that.

‘Don’t think about it,’ Inna said. ‘Answer me from your heart, because that is where the answer lies. You know the truth better than you think you do.’

Heather looked deep inside to her heart of hearts. It turned out Inna was right. The answer was right there.

THE WEDDING

After one guest’s suggestion that we adjourn to the pub to await news, some of the guests go home, but most join the foot traffic to the Half Moon. As I walk, theories surround me.

‘Apparently Pam had an episode in the chapel,’ a woman says. ‘You saw how agitated she was. Tony’s father was the same when he was alive. The dementia made him violent. Once, he pushed Tony into the wall. And he was such a sweet man before!’

I hear that Pam was both the perpetrator and the victim, that Stephen had had a heart attack and that Tully had had an anxiety attack. Someone swears they saw one of the little boys trip and hit his head. Yet another person says a fight broke out between the daughters. It’s funny how desperately the brain will seek an answer if it doesn’t have one. Not knowing is not a restful state. I know this. I have never felt less rested, more agitated, than I do right now.

At the Half Moon, we are ushered into a function room. I wonder who among us had the connections to organise this. Waiters have already set up tables and a couple of waitstaff are circling with wine. This is a wealthy group, I realise. Someone will probably quietly go and take care of the bill. Or several people will argue for the right to pay it. Strange beings, these upper-middle-class men.

I decline a drink and make my way to the bathroom. A bit of a queue has formed and I stand in line behind a woman holding another woman’s hat and talking to her friend while she’s in the stall.

‘I just hope Stephen’s okay,’ the woman holding the hat says. ‘He’s such a sweet man.’