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house for almost a year, and I still don’t know most of my neighbours.’
    â€˜What a lovely idea,’ said Carrie. If he thought that getting the Roses and the Foxtons in the same room was a good way to spread festive spirit she didn’t want to be the one to burst his bubble. Let him find out for himself that the two families were fighting a bitter, bloody battle that went back so long that nobody, least of all the participants, knew what had provoked it. If you asked Greta Rose, with her pinched mouth and singular lack of bloom, she would say that the fault lay with the Foxtons and a garden wall that had moved five inches to the right in the middle of the night. Ask Lydia Foxton – who had a competitive streak that made Paula Radcliffe look easy going – about the origins of the enmity and she would claim that the Roses deliberately blocked up their drain with balls of kitchen foil. Last year matters had reached a peak because it was discovered that Ben Rose who at fifteen was the eldest child of the family, had been shagging sixteen-year-old Emily Foxton, with much enthusiasm in the Roses’ granny annexe, built to accommodate the worst Rose of all who had fallen down dead the year before whilst surveying the Foxton abode through a powerful telescope. Lydia said that Ben had seduced her innocent daughter and Greta replied that anyone in their right mind could see that Emily in her crotch grazing skirts and tendency to hang around outside the Guildhall was a complete slapper.
    â€˜Next Friday night? Eightish?’ said Oliver.
    â€˜Thanks. I’ll be there,’ said Carrie, irritated by his confidence and the way he seemed to take up so much of the pavement. She resolved to develop an acute headache on Friday afternoon.
    They parted company outside her house and Carrie made her way down the dark side alleyway that led into her small garden.
    That night she dreamt about Charlie again. This time he was sitting at the end of her bed, his shoulders rounded in his pale blue striped pyjamas worn soft by countless washings. He was reading her a favourite book, about a dog called Crispian who invited a boy to come and live with him in his very tidy two-storey doghouse where everything had its own place. Charlie couldn’t read very well yet, but he knew this story by heart. Carrie sat up in bed but she couldn’t see his face in the dim light of her bedroom. For a moment she was overcome by a paralysing fear that she wouldn’t be able to recognise him. She called out his name in panic and he turned towards her and smiled and she was comforted by the clarity of her memory. Of course she would never forget even the smallest detail of his face. It was engraved on her heart. She woke and lay flat on her back looking up at the ceiling, tracing the cracks from one end of the room to the other. Her face was tight with tears, the pillow wet under her head. It was at these quietest moments that she felt the most pain. It came in slyly with the thin grey light of morning and curled itself around her. It forced her to remember the way his hands held a spoon, his lurching run, the way he tilted his head and looked at her with such immaculate joy.

Chapter Seven
    Damian and Carrie had not made it through. Loss has a way of multiplying like mould spores up a wall, and neither of them had found a way to stop the rot. In the first days and weeks after it had happened, she had clung to him, feeling as if letting go would cast her adrift, but in the end it was he who let go of her.
    They had stayed on the beach until the early hours of the morning, despite everyone’s efforts to get her to go home. She had watched the sun come up, hoping that its warming rays would touch the beach and restore her child. She thought that he would be there, waiting for her in the curve of a dune, his hair the same colour as the grass, his face alight.
    â€˜I want to stay,’ she had said to the policewoman who had