Each gravestone that was clear enough to make out had various symbols on it. Some had arches, some doves, arrows, birds, others had spooky-looking animals, the symbolism of which I had no understanding of but wished to know. I planned to ask Sister Ignatius whenever I felt I could face her. I scanned the headstones again, not feeling as scared as I had been the first time I’d passed by. Maybe I’d grown up a little bit at least. A large cross climbed high up to the sky, with various names added as families joined one another, their names and inscriptions more legible as the years went by. The newest and freshest inscription was at the bottom and as soon as my eye rested upon it, I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed it earlier. On the bottom of the cross was a large block of stone with the most recent names upon it. On the ground before it was a bunch of flowers-fresh flowers-tied together with long grass. I climbed up on the fence to see the engraving. ‘Laurence Kilsaney 1967-1992 RIP’.

Only seventeen years ago. He must have died in the fire in the castle. Which made him only twenty-five. How sad. Even though I didn’t know Laurence, or any of his family, I started to cry. I picked a few wild flowers, tied them together with my hair bobbin and, against my better judgement, jumped over the fence. I laid the flowers on the grave and reached out to touch the gravestone, but just as my fingers touched the cold stone, I heard a noise behind me: a click. The hairs rose on the back of my neck. I spun round, expecting to come face to face with a stranger, so close I felt their breath on the back of my neck. I looked in every direction, almost dizzy with the effort of trying to focus. Just trees, trees and more trees as far as my eye could see. I tried to tell myself I was spooked because I was standing in an ancient graveyard surrounded by generations of a family who’d been lost to plague, war, suffering, fire and, more humanely, to old age. I tried to tell myself that, but somebody was there all right, I was sure of it. I heard a twig snap and my head darted around to follow the sound.

‘Sister Ignatius, is that you?’ I called. The response was merely my trembling voice echoing back to me. Then I saw the trees move, heard the rustle moving further away, as somebody pushed their way through the trees in the opposite direction.

‘Weseley?’ I called, the tremble in my voice echoing back.

Whoever it was had left in a hurry. I swallowed hard and rushed from the grave, climbed over the fence and moved quickly away, shaking myself out as though I’d walked through a giant spider web.

I hurried back to the gatehouse, turning around over and over again to make sure I wasn’t being followed. It was dusk by the time I got back to the house. Rosaleen was in the living room knitting, with the television on quietly in the background. Her face looked haggard, weary from fighting. Arthur was in the garage in the back garden, making an angry racket. My curiosity had been killed. I no longer cared what they had in there. I felt I was chasing a secret and now the secret was chasing me. I was afraid. I just wanted the time to pass so that Mum would stop her grieving, get better and we could move on from here and this place that felt so haunted by the ghosts of the past, a past that, despite my having nothing to do with it, was dragging me further and further into it.

I was grounded for the next two weeks, going up and down the stairs for breakfast, lunch and tea, and doing whichever chores Rosaleen decided would be appropriate punishment, such as vacuuming the living room, polishing the brass, removing all the books from the shelves and dusting, watching her tend to her vegetable and herb garden while explaining to me what she was doing. I think she enjoyed the entire thing, babbling away to me chirpily as though I was a toddler and everything she said was the first time I’d ever heard it. I think it gave her a lease of life to have so many drained souls living around her, like a vampire. The more exhausted we got, the stronger she grew. I couldn’t even bring myself to read the diary. It was as if I had given up on everything. Every day that went by I felt there was more life coming from Mum’s room than from mine. The more energy I lost, the more she gained. I would hear her pacing the room like a caged lioness.

I was rebelling against the diary. I held it responsible for getting me in this position in the first place. I felt that every decision I had made up until this point had been because of what the diary said and I didn’t want that life any more. I wanted control over my days. I wanted to lie in bed and let the world pass by under my nose, just like it had before.

Every day I waited for Marcus to call. He didn’t.

Every day Sister Ignatius called by. I was so mortified, I refused to see her. I’m sure she knew what had happened; I’m sure the whole town knew. So much for my new start. I didn’t want a lecture. I didn’t want a stern stare. I missed the honey extraction, which I’d promised to do with her, I missed going to the market. Yet every day she called round. I should have helped her, but instead I lay in my bedroom, hiding under my bedclothes, mortified at the very thought of what had happened. Arthur made a few attempts to see Mum. He’d wait until Rosaleen was out in the back garden and he’d knock lightly on her bedroom door. If he thought she was going to call out to him to enter, then it was clear he really didn’t get it. After a minute or two he’d just walk away.

One night, Rosaleen and Arthur had another fight. I heard Arthur say, ‘I can’t do this any more.’ Then he stormed up to Mum’s bedroom, where he stayed for fifteen minutes. Rosaleen listened outside the door the entire time. I couldn’t hear him talking.

On Sundays I stayed in bed all day. I heard the sisters honking the horn to get me out of bed, but I didn’t move. I didn’t even look out the window. I just want to hide away from them all. I wondered if maybe I should contact Marcus, maybe I should write to him. But I did know what on earth I should say. All I could think of was sorry and that wasn’t enough.

One day the removal van arrived with all of our stuff from Barbara’s husband’s warehouse. I watched them back the van down the trail that leads to the garage and didn’t feel an ounce of excitement. Those things didn’t belong to me any more. They belonged to that girl who used to live in that house. It was not who I was any more. I didn’t know who I was any more. I fell back asleep again. I woke up when I heard the doorbell ring. It was Sister Ignatius again. She was being very persistent. At first I just thought she was friendly, then concerned, but that day she was a little frantic. I listened to her from my bedroom. It was all mumbling, but then Sister Ignatius raised her voice.

‘Are you just going to muffle muffle lie up there and let her think she’s done something wrong, let that poor boy muffle muffle all that?’

Muffled words.

‘Tell her that she must come to see me.’

Muffle, muffle.

Then the door closed. I looked out the window, just peered above the windowsill, and I saw Sister Ignatius, wearing a floral shirt and skirt, head down and walking away. My heart broke for her but also, in a weird way, it lifted. She was telling Rosaleen to make sure I didn’t feel guilty. Maybe she’d forgiven me after all. Even thinking that that was possible lifted my spirits. It gave me hope, made me think I was overreacting and that I should just learn from everything and get over it.

That night I couldn’t settle, I couldn’t sleep at all. I took the diary from the floorboards and waited and waited for the words to appear, hoping that by ignoring it I hadn’t made it all disappear. When it finally arrived it made me sit up and take notice.