She fought against it again. Pushed her hands between her legs, clamped down hard with her thighs.

‘No . . . no . . . Don’t come back, it’s fine. It’s going to be fine . . .’

Rocking backwards and forwards in the bed while she did it.

It was no good. The memory, long suppressed, was already there. Once again she could feel the guilt lance through her, the hurt and humiliation. Crawling naked along the floor, blood and other bodily secretions oozing from her, those cruel, hateful words still ringing in her ears. And all that pain, working through her body, pounding in her head. More than one person could stand. Certainly more than the person she used to be could stand.

Once again she remembered how that hurt and humiliation had driven her to the kitchen. Told her to open the drawer. In her mind’s eye she could barely see what she was doing, tears had been streaming so hard down her face.

‘Stop it . . . stop it . . .’ Rocking in the bed, curled up in a foetal ball, hands still pushed firmly between her thighs. But sparked by the dead child lying next to her, those long-suppressed memories just kept coming. They wouldn’t stop.

‘Oh God . . . no . . .’

She was seeing her own hand once again open the drawer, reach for the knife . . .

‘No . . .’

She clamped down harder, screwed her eyes tight shut.

‘Make it stop . . . no . . . I don’t want to . . .’

Take the knife, place it against her skin . . . Feel how cold and sharp the blade was against the soft flesh of her lower stomach. Push - tentatively at first - to see what it felt like, to see if it was a pain she could stand . . .

No words now, just muffled, inarticulate sobs.

But what was one more kind of pain against the rest that were swirling around inside her? She pushed, harder again. Felt blood trickle down her skin from underneath the path of the blade. It tickled, felt like it was nothing at all. She couldn’t call it pain. Not really. Not compared to the rest of her.

She felt once again her hand grasping herself between the legs, pulling out the skin and gristle, stretching it out . . .

More sobs, more rocking, more shaking.

Pulling, stretching as far as it would go . . . willing this to be an end, hoping and praying that the pain would stop when she had done it . . .

Just get it over with . . .

And then, with the realisation that whatever she did couldn’t be worse than what she was at present, she took the knife in her other hand and brought the blade swiftly down.

It didn’t go as planned. It was harder than she had imagined, tougher to cut through. But she managed, sawing backwards and forwards. The pain was so much more intense than she had thought it would be. And the blood, so much blood . . .

She felt she might black out. But she didn’t, she couldn’t. Looking down, she saw the job half finished, that hateful piece of gristle hanging off her body, bloodied and mangled. With a surge of rage she plunged the blade in once again and, in a fresh bout of arterial spray, resumed cutting.

And then, eventually, it was off.

She held it in her hand, that offending piece of flesh now looking so small and harmless. Shrivelled and lifeless.

Hester had smiled then, out of relief or respite from the pain she couldn’t remember. But she knew she had smiled.

Before she collapsed.

32

When Hester opened her eyes, she was standing in front of the cot, looking at the baby. Her memories receding, waiting for her husband to arrive.

What the fuck’s the matter with you now, woman? What you standin’ there like that for?

He was there. She quickly wiped her eyes, willed the last smoky trails of her memory to be gone. She didn’t want him to know she was thinking of that again. Anything but that.

‘The . . . the baby . . .’

What about it?

‘It . . .’ She knew she had to deflect her attention away from her memories. She took her hands from between her legs and pointed at the cot. ‘It died . . .’

‘It’s dead,’ she said again when he didn’t respond.

I can see that.

‘What . . . what should we do?’

Bury it.

So she did. As soon as it was time to get up, she climbed out of bed and took the now cold and stiffening body from the cot. She carried it outside and picked up a shovel. It was difficult. The cold, hard earth proved unyielding to anything less than her pickaxe. So she swung it down, over and over, until she had loosened enough ground to dig a shallow grave.

And there she stood, looking down at the empty patch of earth, the weak early-morning light casting a deep, spidery shadow into it. Hester and her husband were the only people around along the bleak, deserted coastline. She put the pickaxe down and picked up the tiny body in one hand. The sky was grey and oppressive, like it was pressing down on her, trying to squash her into the ground too. She took the blanket from the baby, knelt down and placed the body in the hole.

She stood up, looked down at it. And felt something. Again there was that emptiness, that strange aching feeling inside her. It seemed to well up inside her, building in her chest. She opened her mouth, put her head back. And out came a wail, as surprising to her as it was plaintive and heartfelt. It sounded like a wounded, cornered animal that could fight no more and knew it was about to die. The sound had a pained inevitability to it. She kept howling and screaming, her head back, her eyes closed. Just howling and screaming.

She didn’t know how long she stood there. Time for Hester became elastic and stretched, then fluid and flowed away. Then finally solid once more as she opened her eyes. Her voice was silent, her throat raw. She felt empty, spent. She looked round. The baby’s body was still lying in the grave. She picked up the shovel, began to heap earth on to it. Each spadeful fell with a flat, spattering crash until eventually the body was covered. She tamped and smoothed down the earth, stood upright once more.

The emptiness she had thought she felt wasn’t there. The pain inside her that had caused her to wail was. It had returned when the baby had become obscured by dirt. In fact, it was growing stronger. Her earlier memories of shame and rage were now totally forgotten, or at least suppressed once more. This was a more immediate pain. This called for a direct resolution.

She was holding the dead, headless chicken.

Here, said her husband.You’ll know what to do with that.

She couldn’t take her eyes off the patch of smooth earth. ‘The baby’s gone . . .’ she said once more. The words, she knew, were unnecessary, but she felt she had to say something. Fill in the gap between the earth and the sky.

‘We were goin’ to be a family,’ she said.

Her husband was silent. She continued.

‘The baby was goin’ to make us a family.’

We’ll get another one.

Hester smiled, eyes shining. ‘Can we? Because that’s what couples do when things like this happen. It’s what makes them families.’

There’s more on the list.

Another smile played across Hester’s features. ‘Have you got one in mind? Have you been out hunting again?’

I’ve got one in mind.

Hester could have kissed him, she was so happy.

‘When can we get it?’

Soon. Now take that hen inside and get to work. I’m gettin’ hungry.

Hester went inside. She gave barely a backward glance to the flattened mound of earth. She didn’t need to now. That was in the past. Water under the bridge and all that. This was the present.

She had something to look forward to. She was going to have a baby. She was going to be a mother again.

She was going to be complete.

Part Two