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on. There was nothing to look at out of the window and Matt found himself hypnotized by the white lines and the crash barrier endlessly flashing past. Almost without knowing it he found himself drifting away, neither awake nor asleep but somewhere in between.
    He was back in the terraced house in Dulwich, a leafy, friendly suburb of London. This was where he had lived with his mother and father. It had been six years since he had seen them but, staring out of the window, he saw them now.
    There was his mother, rushing around the kitchen that was always in a mess, even when it had just been cleaned. She was wearing the clothes she had worn that last day: a pink dress with a white linen jacket. Whenever he remembered her, this was how he saw her. It was a brand new dress that she had bought especially for the wedding. And there was his father, looking uncomfortable in a suit and tie. Mark Freeman was a doctor and he normally went to work in whatever he could find – jeans, a sweater… He didn’t like dressing up. But one of the other doctors at his surgery was getting married and it was going to be a smart affair. First the service, then an expensive hotel. His father was sitting at the table, eating his breakfast, and he turned round, tossing his dark hair in the way he always did, and asked,
“Where’s Matthew?”
    And then Matthew came in. Of course, he was still Matthew then. Now, six years later, sitting on a coach heading towards a place he had never heard of, Matt saw himself as he had been at that time: a short, slightly plump, dark-haired boy coming into the bright, yellow kitchen. His father at the table. His mother holding a teapot shaped like a teddy bear. And he heard it all again.
    “Come on, Matthew. We’re going to be late.”
    “I don’t want to go.”
    “What? What are you talking about?”
    “Matthew…?”
    “I don’t feel well. I don’t want to go.”
    Now, on the coach, Matt put a hand over his eyes. He didn’t want to remember any more. Remembering only hurt him … every time.
    “What do you mean, you don’t want to go?”
    “Please, Dad. Please don’t make me…”
    They had argued, but not very much. His parents had only one child and they spoiled him. They had thought he would enjoy the wedding because they had been told there would be other children there and a special marquee with a magician and balloons. And now this! His father made a quick phone call. It wasn’t really a big problem. Rosemary Green – their friendly, always helpful neighbour – agreed to take him for the rest of the day. His parents left without him.
    And that was why he hadn’t been in the car when they had their accident. That was why they had died and he had lived.
    Matt lowered his hand and looked out again. The coach had slowed down. He wasn’t feeling very well. He was hot and cold, and there was a dull pounding in his head.
    “We’re here,” Mrs Deverill said.
    They had arrived at another coach station, this one more modern and smaller than Victoria. The coach stopped and they jostled forward with the other passengers. It was colder outside than it had been in London but at least it had stopped raining. Matt collected his case, then followed Mrs Deverill across the concourse.
    A man was waiting for them, standing next to a beaten-up old Land Rover that only seemed to be held together by the mud that covered it. The man was short and very fat with yellow, greasy hair, watery eyes and a face that seemed to be slowly slipping off his head. He was wearing dirty jeans and a shirt that was too small for him. Matt could see the buttons straining. The man was about forty. He had flabby lips that parted in a wet, unpleasant smile.
    “Good afternoon, Mrs Deverill,” he said.
    Mrs Deverill ignored him. She turned to Matt. “This is Noah.”
    Matt said nothing. Noah was examining him in a way that made him feel uneasy. “Welcome to Yorkshire,” Noah said. “I’m very pleased to meet you.” He held out