But he did not follow her. At the end of the street, she looked back. He was standing staring after her, an unfathomable expression on his face. She turned the corner, began to walk along the towpath in the direction of the semi-derelict buildings and sheds beside the lock-keeper’s cottage.

A woman was coming the other way with a terrier on a lead. It saw Lynsey and began to bark and somehow the barking restored her nerve.

She stopped and took out her phone but then hesitated. She wanted to get on. She had to see the buildings before anyone else, and besides, what would she say? He had done nothing. It was the second time and she felt threatened but, face it, he hadn’t made any threats. The police would probably laugh.

The old warehouses were in a bad way but by no means as bad as she had feared. They were exciting. Lynsey wandered around, taking quick pictures, her brain calculating as she explored. It was cool and dim inside the main, large building with dust motes dancing in slants of sunlight coming through gaps in the boarded-up windows and down through holes in the roof. This section could be converted to perhaps four apartments. The lock-keeper’s cottage ought to be turned back to its original state, as one house, but it was in a bad way. The sheds and outbuildings were easy. Small units for craftspeople could be quickly carved out of them at minimal cost.

The auction estimate was way lower than the lot would fetch. She would have to see the bank manager to find out if she could raise enough for the purchase and the work. In her head she knew it was unlikely but her head was also a business one and she had no doubt that, if she were to take the next big step up the ladder, the rung was here in front of her. Miss this and another such opportunity would be a long time coming.

The noise made her leap up from the old workbench she had sat down on to think. Someone was banging on the side of the building and she had no right to be here, she was trespassing and she could not use Mel’s name for authority. She slipped the camera into her pocket as the side door gave way.

He stood, blinking into the dark space, the sun behind him, haloing his hair. Lynsey’s skin prickled. He had neither touched nor threatened her but now she felt absolutely sure that he was about to do so and there would be no one driving or walking by down here. The chances of another dog owner coming along the towpath were probably minimal.

He came slowly inside and she realised that he had not actually seen her yet and that his eyes were still adjusting to the light.

“Lizzie? Where are you? I saw you come in here, I followed you. Why didn’t you come home? Why did you come down here? Lizzie.”

Lynsey remained frozen, working out what to do. She was fit and a fast runner, she had the advantage of being able to see him and to see her exit behind him. She could wait and hope that as he came further into the building, away from the open door, her exit route would be clearer, or she could go for it now and risk his grabbing her as she fled past him.

She thought he must be able to hear her heart thudding. It seemed to her to be echoing round the empty space of the entire building.

“Lizzie?”

She remembered that the first time he had followed her he had started to cry. Now, his voice came through sobs again, hysterical, desperate.

She waited. It took a long time, but eventually, he did move, though not away from her to the other side of the warehouse, but towards her. In a moment, he was bound to see her. She had on a white shirt. He couldn’t fail to see her.

“Lizzie,” he said very quietly now. “What is it like?”

Lynsey opened her mouth to answer, then bit her lip hard.

“Being dead,” he said. “Tell me. What’s it like? I need to know. I need to picture you. Being dead.”

Lynsey made a single move, away from the bench and across the warehouse towards the oblong of bright light. She moved fast and with the purpose of an arrow and as she reached the sunlight, she skidded on something loose lying on the floor and crashed down.

As she fell, she screamed, louder than she knew it was possible to scream.

Thirty-seven

When it was bad you had just your thoughts to help you. Thoughts could take you anywhere.

It was hot. Her clothes stuck to her back and her neck and her hair felt sweaty all the time. The heat made everyone boil up. She could hear the racket, the shouting, swearing, banging, screaming, on and on into the night. It was like a lid on a boiling pan. She didn’t see any of it. They kept her separate all the time, even on exercise, though when she did go out the others knew and started banging. It wasn’t nice. It frightened her.

She ate her food alone, read, watched her television, went out, came back, walked through the corridors to see the shrink, walked back, and the heat was thick everywhere, you smelled it and breathed it.

But if she thought hard enough she could get away, for a bit.

The sea. Driving down the motorway. Her garden. Kyra. Those were the best. And when it got bad, there was always the other. She didn’t tell herself that she went there sometimes. She kept away from that. But she did go. Usually it was at night when the banging started up and seemed to go right through her head, like someone driving nails. It was a secret, furtive journey, and it took her a long time. But then, it always had. Once she was there, she closed the doors behind her and locked them. She didn’t know she was there then.

But they were there, sometimes together, sometimes one at a time. She went through it all again, step by step, from the moment she first saw them. Then, there had been a rush; now, there was none. She had recorded everything, her mind was a camera. She saw everything. She heard everything. She had photographs of their faces, close-up photographs. She had recordings of their voices. Every word they had spoken. The boy in the blazer. The boy with the sports bag. The girl on the bicycle. The girl with the shopping bag. The boy on the scooter. The one with the ice cream. Every face. Every word. Every detail. Every mile on every journey, every stop. Every last thing. Sometimes she stayed only for a short time, paid a brief visit then came out quickly, locking the door again and she never knew she had been gone, let alone where. Other times, when she felt safe or when it was hardest, she stayed for a long time.

But the shrink never found out. Sometimes she asked, but Ed never told her.

The place was like an oven. The banging went on. When the food came and it was hot, she had to let it go cold before she could eat it. The same with the coffee, same with the tea. Ice cream came but it was a sickly yellow puddle. Salad came and the lettuce was wet and the tomatoes lukewarm.

Once, she threw her food at the wall. They took her television away.

But it scarcely bothered her. She could think. She always had her own thoughts and her own pictures. Better than theirs. Far, far better.

Thirty-eight

“Right.” Dougie Meelup stood up and pushed back his chair from the table. “I’m opening these doors. What’s a garden for?”

Eileen watched him.

“I’ll put the deckchair out there, you bring your book.”

“No, I’m better here.”

“Eileen, it is beautiful sunshine out there, I’ve put up the umbrella, you can be in the shade.”

“I can’t sit out.”

“No one will see you. Next door are away.”

“I can’t.”

“And no one knows anything else.”

“Of course they know. They know my other name and it’s not like Smith, they all see the television, read the papers. They know I’ve two girls.”

“And what if they do? Whoever ‘they’ may be? What if they do?”