‘Fergus.’ I grab his hand and press the envelope into it. ‘Will you do me a favour? It’s important. Post this for me. Don’t say anything to Nick, or anyone, and don’t read it. Just post it. Please?’

‘The police?’ He says it in a loud whisper, as if they’re a controversial secret society, unmentionable in polite company.

‘I can’t explain now. Please,’ I say, on my way out of the door.

‘Sally, I’m not sure. I…’

I run out on to the street, thinking that if I can only get to Nick’s work, everything will be all right. I need to speak to him. I need to tell him someone is leaving headless animals next to my car. I walk as quickly as I can to the taxi rank outside the health food shop, looking behind me every few seconds to check I’m not being followed, and pretending I can’t hear Fergus, who is standing outside Mario’s shouting, ‘Sally! Sally, come back!’

I stagger along the pavement. My legs feel as if they’re made of wool. No red Alfa Romeo that I can see. Other red cars, though-their brightness hurts my eyes. And one green VW Golf that’s driving behind me, just an inch or two behind. In the pedestrianised, access-only part of the street. I stop walking, turn back towards Mario’s. Fergus has gone.

The green VW stops and the driver door opens. ‘Sally.’ I hear relief. ‘Are you okay?’

It’s as if I’m looking at him through running water, but I’m still sure: it’s the man from Seddon Hall.

‘Mark,’ I say faintly. The street spins.

‘Sally, you look terrible. Get in.’

He hasn’t changed at all. His face is round and unlined, a mischievous schoolboy’s face. Like Tintin. Worried, though.

‘Sally, you’re… I’ve got to talk to you. You’re in danger.’

‘You’re not Mark Bretherick.’ I blink to straighten out my vision, but it doesn’t work. Everything’s wobbly.

‘Look, we can’t talk now, like this. What’s the matter? Are you ill?’

He gets out of the car. The scene in front of me is going grey around the edges; all the shops are shaking, distorted. I’m vaguely aware-as if it’s a dream I’m watching through a gauze veil, someone else’s dream-of looking up at Mark Bretherick, of his arms supporting me. Not the real Mark Bretherick. My Mark Bretherick. I’ve got to get away from him. I can’t move. It must be him-the cat, the bus, everything. It must be.

‘Sally?’ he says, stroking the side of my face. ‘Sally, can you hear me? Who was the man shouting your name outside the café? Who was he?’

I try to answer, but nobody’s there any more. Nobody’s anywhere apart from me, and I’m only in my head, which is getting smaller and smaller. I let the nothingness pull me down.

Police Exhibit Ref: VN8723

Case Ref: VN87

OIC: Sergeant Samuel Kombothekra

GERALDINE BRETHERICK’S DIARY, EXTRACT 4 OF 9 (taken from hard disk of Toshiba laptop computer at Corn Mill House, Castle Park, Spilling, RY29 0LE)

29 April 2006, 11 p.m.

On the news tonight there was an item about two little boys in Rwanda. Their parents had been murdered by an enemy tribe a few years ago. The boys were only seven or eight years old but had worked for years in a mine, doing heavy manual work in order to survive. Unlike us pampered Westerners, they had no days off. They were on the news because finally (perhaps thanks to some charitable initiative-I missed some of the report because Mum phoned) they are able to stop working and go to a new school that has opened nearby. The BBC reporter asked them how they felt about this new phase of their lives and they both said they were delighted; both are eager to learn and grateful for an opportunity they thought they’d never have.

While Mark mumbled next to me-all the predictable responses: how sad, how shocking, how moving-I thought to myself, Yes, but look how civilised and mature they are. We should pity them, of course, but we should also admire what they have become: two wise, polite, sensitive, substantial young men. You only had to look at them to see what a pleasure they would be to teach, that they would give nobody any trouble. It was hard not to marvel at the vast gulf between these two lovely, respectful boys and the two children with whom I’d spent the afternoon: my own daughter and Oonagh O’Hara. If ever two people would benefit from a few weeks’ forced labour in a Rwandan mine… well, I know it’s a terrible thing to think, but I do think it so I’m not going to pretend I don’t.

So, this afternoon, a Saturday. Cordy and I are at Cordy’s house, trying to persuade our children to eat. Sausages and chips, their favourite. Except Oonagh won’t eat hers because there is some ketchup on a chip, and Lucy won’t eat hers because the sausages are mixed in with the chips instead of on separate sides of the plate. By the time the complex negotiations have been concluded and all the necessary amendments have been made, the food is cold. Oonagh whines, ‘We can’t eat our food now, Mummy. Stupid! It’s cold.’

Cordy was evidently hurt, but she said nothing. Her idea of discipline is Sweetie-come-for-a-cuddle. If Oonagh called the Queen of England a scabby tart, Cordy would praise her democratic slant of mind and her confident colloquialism.

She threw away the sausages and chips and made more. I counted what, of the second batch, was eaten: four small cylinders of sausage, eight chips. Between two of them. If those two dignified Rwandan boys had been presented with the exact same spread, they would have cleared their plates and then offered to load the dishwasher-no question about it.

Later, while Cordy was upstairs trying to introduce the concept of sharing into a squabble over dressing-up clothes and Oonagh’s reluctance to let Lucy wear any of her pink frilly dresses, I decided a punishment was necessary. No child should get away with calling her mother stupid. I crept into the lounge and took Oonagh’s Annie DVD out of its case. Love of Annie has spread like a forest fire through the girls in Lucy’s class. It makes me sick they way they’ve all latched on to it, as if there’s cause for any of them to identify with children who have a genuinely hard time rotting in an orphanage. The craze started with Lucy, I’m ashamed to say. It’s Mum’s fault. She’s the one who bought Lucy the DVD. I thought it would be appropriate for me to confiscate Oonagh’s copy, then quickly decided that removing it wasn’t enough: I wanted to destroy it.

(In the end I brought it back home, locked myself in the bathroom and attacked it with the small knife I use to chop garlic. I suffered a mild pang of guilt when it occurred to me that I was destroying Miss Hannigan-the only character in the film that I like and admire-and I sang her song under my breath as a tribute, the one about how much she hates little girls. The lyrics are the work of a genius, especially the rhyme of “little” with “acquittal”. I’m sure I’m not typical or representative, but I would certainly acquit Miss Hannigan if she wrang those orphans’ necks. Every time I sit through the film with Lucy, I pray that this time the orphanage will catch fire and all those whiny-voiced brats will be burned to a crisp.

I nearly stole Cordy’s Seinfeld DVD collection and destroyed that too when she told me she was pregnant. ‘It was a total accident, but we’re really pleased,’ she said. She’s only had this new boyfriend for a few weeks. She and Dermot are still living in the same house, though in separate beds. Last I heard they were trying to work things out.

I smiled furiously. ‘We?’ I said. ‘You mean you and Dermot, or you and your new man? Or all three of you?’

Her face crumpled. ‘It was an accident,’ she said in a forlorn tone.

Accident! How was it an accident, exactly? I felt like asking. Did a member of a local archery society fire an arrow that travelled from a distance to pierce New Boyfriend’s condom? Did a bird of prey swoop down and use its sharp beak to extract Cordy’s diaphragm when she wasn’t looking? Of course not. If you choose to use no contraception and you get pregnant, that’s not an accident: it’s trying very hard to get pregnant in a way that you hope will ‘out-casual’ the enormity of pregnancy and the possibility of failure.