All She Ever Wanted

by Patrick Redmond

Genres: Suspense

Synopsis

For Tina Ryan, falling in love is the worst thing that could ever happen to her. Love is a refuge for the weak, lonely and needy. Once she was like that herself - but no longer. Recovering from a turbulent, tormented childhood, she has reinvented herself as Chrissie: strong, self-reliant and firmly in control. She is everything she ever wanted to be and nothing will ever be allowed to threaten that. But she is also human. So when love does force its way into her life, leaving her utterly shocked and exposed, her new and carefully constructed personality is in peril. And nothing can ever be allowed to do that. Control must be maintained and feelings must be on her terms. No matter how dreadful those terms might be.

Release date: November 21, 2013

Publisher: Sphere

Print pages: 485

Sample

The Wishing Game

‘The setting is genuinely chilling, and the atmosphere of menace and sterility riveting’ – Daily Express

‘Patrick Redmond’s chilling debut novel is a first-rate page-turner’ – Daily Mirror

‘The repressive world of single-sex boarding schools is a fertile ground for novelists, and Redmond grasps every opportunity for delineating the resulting psychological deformations with relish… Such is the hard-edged skill of Redmond’s writing that the carefully structured revelations about the past have a bitter and compelling power’ – Times Literary Supplement

‘Assured writing sets up evil to overcome the weak in this deft, Hitchcockian portrayal of a malevolent microcosm of warped power’ – Publishing News

‘The Wishing Game is dark and gripping, like an anaconda. I could not pull myself away: an astonishing debut’ – Tim Rice

‘Thanks to Redmond’s masterfully subtle fore-shadowing, a brooding sense of impending disaster is maintained throughout his gripping suspense thriller’ – Publishers Weekly

‘Redmond has a way of making individuals seem both more human and more vile as new levels of detail are unearthed. Even his villains manage to become more understandable, vulnerable and complex as the book marches on… An impressive debut’ – Washington Post

The Puppet Show

‘Redmond marries a sure grasp of psychology with a beguiling narrative that allows its series of revelations to unfold in a totally organic fashion… But his principal gift, as in The Wishing Game, is an effortless grasp of narrative texture, and multiple levels of sympathetic insight into his brilliantly drawn characters – Crime Time

‘A highly successful thriller: a page-turner, certainly, but also original, well-constructed and intelligent’ – Spectator

‘As dark psychological thrillers go, this is dark… A good read’ – Maxim

‘His style is strictly no frills – simple, sparse and straightforward… but he does have a way of making you gag to know what happens next’ – Daily Mirror

‘A mesmerising narrative, plainly but urgently told. Redmond’s particular talent lies in the book’s careful structure, its plotting and steadily accelerating pace – and in the psychological veracity that made the previous book a stunner… An excellent novel: clearly a talent to watch’ – Tangled Web

Apple of My Eye

‘A dark and bloody tale which keeps the tension going right until the last page… A superb, intelligent read’ – Joanne Harris

‘A compelling novel that draws you deep into the world of children at the mercy of the dangerous adults. Disturbing and gripping’ – Natasha Cooper

‘An intense, gripping read’ – Heat

All She Ever Wanted

‘The lurking tension and twisting cruelty in Redmond’s writing and plotting make for a hypnotic, compelling read’ – The Bookseller

‘The ghastliness of the English class system lies at the heart of Redmond’s creepy psychological thriller… Du Maurier meets Patrick Hamilton’ – Guardian

London, October 2004

It had been a long day. Remarkable too, in its dark, disturbing way. And for the two policemen heading this particular investigation it was still far from over.

‘Do you believe it?’ asked Tony Webb.

Nigel Bullen, tired but knowing that bed was hours away, gave a noncommittal shrug.

‘This is twisted. I mean seriously sick.’

‘Tell me something I don’t know.’

They faced each other in the corridor, both clutching plastic cups of lukewarm coffee. Tony was smoking while Nigel, who had recently quit and was suffering appalling cravings tried to ignore the smell of tobacco. ‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘Do you believe it.’

Tony blew smoke into the air. ‘I’m reserving judgement. For now at least.’

‘I bet the media won’t. Two more hacks have been on the phone trying to ferret out information. They’re going to turn this mess into a bloody circus.’

‘Can’t blame them though, can you? It’s a big story and they’ve got their jobs to do.’

‘Just as we have.’ Nigel gestured towards the room at the end of the corridor. ‘Better get back in there. I’ll keep leading. You jump in as and when.’

Tony stubbed out his cigarette. ‘OK.’

They entered the interview room. It was spartan: white walls, a harsh overhead light and a table with recording equipment. Nigel had always found it a depressing place. ‘Like a cell in a loony bin with the padding taken out,’ he had once observed to a colleague. Now, as he considered the darkness of the story unfolding before him, the comparison seemed chillingly apt.

The suspect and a lawyer sat behind the table. They had been whispering to each other but now fell silent. A sign of guilt, perhaps, though Nigel had been in his profession long enough to know that simply being in the presence of a policeman could make even the most innocent of people feel they had something to hide. It was just one of the pitfalls of the job.

But it was his job. And he meant to do it.

Five minutes later and the interview was underway. ‘It wasn’t like that,’ the suspect said for the third time. ‘I swear it wasn’t.’

‘Wasn’t it? That’s how it looks to me and that’s how it’ll look to a jury. You see that, don’t you?’

Silence. The suspect stared at the ground, looking pale, frightened and suddenly much younger. More like a child than an adult. The way suspects so often did when confronted with the enormity of what faced them. For a moment Nigel felt sympathy. Then he remembered the details of the case and the feeling vanished as quickly as it had come.

‘Let’s start again. Go right back to the beginning. And remember, I want to know everything …’

But he never would. Just as he would never know the true beginning of it all. A crime is like a carpet of emotion. A thousand different feelings weaved by a thousand different hands on a thousand different days.

And this one had been started many years earlier, involving people who, in the first acts of creation, could have had no clue as to the monster their crude handiwork would finally produce.

September 1987

‘Here comes another one, Tina. Are you ready?’

The little girl in the life jacket felt the dinghy rock as the wave rushed towards them. When it hit she let out a scream of excitement as cold water sprayed her face and filled her mouth with salt.

‘Were you scared?’ her father asked.

She shook her head. Nothing could scare her when she was with him. He would always keep her safe.

He grinned at her while around them other boats turned back into the shelter of the estuary. The wind was building and the water growing turbulent but she didn’t mind. She wished they could sail out further into the North Sea towards Denmark and Russia and all the other places in the world her father had sailed to when he was younger. One day they would sail to them together, just as he had promised her they would.

The sky was filling with clouds. He stared up at them, looking completely happy. In the perfect world she had created inside her head that was how he always looked. Though only eight she already knew that things were rarely perfect. But if there were enough moments like this then she would be happy too.

A man on a nearby boat called out for them to turn back. ‘Shall we do what he says?’ her father asked.

She shook her head, watching as another wave raced towards them. Even bigger than the last and threatening to drench them completely. Not that it mattered. The waves could have been as big as houses and she wouldn’t have cared.

But her father was steering the dinghy around. ‘Suppose we should,’ he said. ‘You know what your Uncle Neil’s like about his precious boat. The slightest breeze and he starts to panic.’ Momentarily his face darkened, then it broke into a smile. ‘Not to worry. We’ll come out again soon. On a better day than this.’

She masked her disappointment with a smile as bright as his. ‘Yes, Dad.’

‘That’s my girl.’

An hour later they walked along the harbour path. Boats bobbed on the river beside them but soon the tide would be turning, sucking all the water away and leaving them marooned on the mud flats beneath.

They passed Hodgsons Boat Yard where her father had once worked and the Sailors’ Rest pub on the corner where he liked to drink. An elderly man sat at an outside table eating an early supper of fish and chips and watching her father with disapproving eyes. Having him beside her made her feel brave so she stuck out her tongue, causing the man to look away. She looked up at him, wanting approval but finding his attention focused on the water they had just left. She tugged his hand and he turned and gazed down at her. A tall, heavyset man with unruly dark hair and strong, hard features. Once she had heard a neighbour describe him as looking like a ruffian, but with her he was always gentle.

‘Was I getting the evil eye?’ he asked.

‘Yes. But I gave it back for you.’

He bent down and kissed the top of her head. ‘That’s my girl.’

They followed the path as it turned and led into the town. One long, shabby central street dotted with shops and dozens of smaller roads running off it. They walked up the right hand side, passing Kendall Street, where her Uncle Neil and Aunty Karen lived, before turning into Ansell Street: two rows of drab red brick terraces built in the nineteen-thirties. Cars lined each side, occasionally double parked. The neighbours were always complaining about the lack of parking space.

They lived at number 19: a small house with a living room, kitchen and cloakroom downstairs and a bathroom and two bedrooms above. Her mother, a slim, pretty woman with dark blonde hair and a good figure was waiting for them in the living room.

‘Hi, Mum,’ she called out cheerfully.

‘You’re soaking, Tina. I told you not to get wet.’

‘Don’t be angry with her, Liz,’ said her father. ‘It’s my fault, not hers.’

‘Supper’s probably burnt. You said you’d be back earlier.’

‘Well, we’re here now. We’re not that late and we like burnt food, don’t we, Tina?’

‘Yes!’

Her mother looked tense. ‘Tina, go and get changed. Quickly!’

Leaving her parents together she headed for her bedroom. It was at the front of the house with walls covered in posters of pop stars. A tiny desk stood by the window. Above it were two maps; one of the world, the other of Ireland. Her father had been born in a village in Connemara where he said the countryside was full of shades of green the like of which she had never seen. But she would see them one day. When she was older he was going to take her there, just as he was going to take her to all the other places he had ever visited.

In the centre of the desk was the diary Aunty Karen had given her for her birthday back in February. ‘I used to keep a diary when I was your age,’ Aunty Karen had told her. ‘I wrote in it all the time. Things that had happened, poems and stories and anything else I felt like. I found my old diaries recently and had fun remembering what I’d done and felt when I was your age. Perhaps, when you’re my age you’ll look back and do the same.’

The diary was blue with her name, Christina Ryan, painted on it in white letters. Impulsively she picked up her pen and began to write.

I’m going to be a sailor when I grow up. I’ll have a boat of my own and I’ll paint it red and call it Firehorse and Dad and I will sail in it wherever we want and never turn back, not even if there are the worst storms in the world.

Someone was shouting outside. Old Mr Jones from across the road was angry because his car was blocked in. As he waited for the offending vehicle to be moved he saw her in the window and waved.

Her mother was calling. Closing her diary she began to change her clothes.

Dinner was burnt, just as her mother had feared. Charred sausages, rock-hard potatoes and blackened peas. She covered them in ketchup to improve the taste.

‘Don’t use so much,’ her mother told her.

‘Leave her alone,’ said her father while doing the same.

‘I’m just saying …’

‘Well don’t. It’s only ketchup.’ He went to fetch a beer from the fridge.

‘A bit early for that,’ her mother observed.

‘It’s just one for Christ’s sake.’ As he spoke Tina heard the Irish lilt in his voice. He had come to England when only ten but traces of the accent still remained. As he sat down again he took a swig of beer while staring at her mother as if defying her to say something. Instead, she pushed food round her plate, her expression thoughtful.

‘I saw Irene Clark today,’ she said eventually.

He nodded.

‘She works in the supermarket and was saying they’re looking for more people.’ A pause. ‘So I was thinking …’

‘I can guess.’

‘It’s a job, Pete.’

‘Sure it is. Putting tins on shelves. Who wouldn’t want to do that all day?’

‘We need the money. I’ve asked Mr Rennie if I can work more but it’s not possible at the moment.’

Mr Rennie was a local solicitor for whom her mother did part-time secretarial work. He wore shiny black suits and walked with his toes pointing outwards. Her father used to do impressions of him, likening him to a penguin. They made her laugh, though sometimes she felt guilty because the previous year, when her father had been in trouble, Mr Rennie had been the one to sort things out.

‘Irene’s boss will be in the shop tomorrow morning. You could go and talk to him.’

He gulped down more beer. ‘Excited about school, Tina?’

‘No. I wish the holidays weren’t over.’

‘You have to go to school,’ said her mother.

‘But it’s boring.’

‘You still have to do it. Sometimes we all have to do things we don’t want to do.’ As she spoke her mother watched her father continue to sip beer while a motorcycle raced past the house, the rider revving the engine and whooping with excitement.

‘Will you see him, Pete?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Please. We really need …’

‘I said maybe. Don’t nag.’

‘I don’t mean to.’ Her mother reached across the table and touched her father’s arm. ‘I’ll get pudding. Ice cream and peaches.’ A nervous laugh. ‘Even I can’t burn that.’

As her mother stood at the sink Tina caught her father’s eye. ‘Don’t argue,’ she mouthed. ‘Please, Dad.’

He picked up a ketchup-covered potato and tapped her on the nose with it. ‘Don’t worry,’ he mouthed back. ‘Everything’s fine.’

Her mother returned to the table. ‘Tina, what have you got on your nose?’

‘Ketchup.’

‘Well, wipe it off.’

‘Yes, funny face,’ joined in her father. ‘Wipe it off this instant.’ He winked at her. She winked back and did as she was told.

*

The following morning she walked to school with her cousins, Adam and Sue.

All three attended the primary school at the top of the high street. Ten-year-old Adam was two classes ahead of her and seven-year-old Sue was one class behind. Both were small and dark and resembled their mother, Aunty Karen, who was going to the Post Office and walking part of the way with them.

They were making slow progress. Sue was trying to avoid stepping on a single crack in the pavement. ‘Can’t you walk a bit faster?’ Aunty Karen asked.

‘No, Mum. It’s bad luck. Everyone knows that.’

Adam pointed to a sweet shop across the road. ‘Mark Fletcher nicks stuff from there.’

‘No, he doesn’t, Adam. He’s just trying to impress you.’

‘He does. He nicks loads of stuff. Last week he nicked two singles from Rocking Sounds. He says it’s easy ‘cos the punk girl who works there is too stoned to notice.’

‘Adam!’

‘Well, she is. He also nicks condoms from Boots to make water balloons.’

‘What are condoms, Mum?’

‘Nothing, Sue. Just keep avoiding the cracks.’ Aunty Karen looked at the traffic. ‘There was an accident on the Melchott road first thing,’ she told Tina. ‘Uncle Neil heard about it on the radio. I hope he’s not held up. He’s got a meeting at ten.’

Uncle Neil was Tina’s mother’s brother. He worked in a bank in Melchott; the nearest town of any size and home to the comprehensive school all three of them would one day attend. He had recently been promoted and talked about it all the time. Her father told her that if Uncle Neil’s head grew any bigger it would explode. He did wonderful impressions of Uncle Neil, though she had never told anyone else in the family for fear they would be upset.

‘You’re quiet this morning,’ observed Aunty Karen. ‘Not looking forward to school?’

‘Not really.’

‘Mrs Abbott, your new form teacher, is very nice. You liked her, didn’t you, Adam?’

‘No. She was a real bitch.’

‘What’s a bitch, Mum?’

‘Watch out, Sue. There’s a crack.’ Aunty Karen glared at Adam. ‘And a certain person will get a crack himself if he doesn’t watch his language.’

They approached the supermarket. ‘Dad’s going to work there,’ Tina told them.

Aunty Karen looked surprised. ‘Really?’

‘He’s going to see them about a job today. Well, Mum said he should see them.’ As they passed by she looked through the windows at the staff in their dreary blue uniforms. She tried to picture her father wearing one but couldn’t. Perhaps Aunty Karen couldn’t either.

But if he didn’t get a job there would be arguments. Bad ones.

Suddenly she felt scared; remembering what had happened the last time the arguments had been bad. She didn’t want that to ever happen again.

Aunty Karen smiled reassuringly. ‘I’m sure he will see them, Tina. It’s just a job, after all. If he doesn’t like it he’ll find one he does soon enough.’

‘And if he does work there,’ added Adam, ‘we can nick stuff.’

‘Adam!’

Sue stepped on a crack and howled. ‘Now I’m going to have bad luck.’

‘You certainly are. I’m about to beat your brother to death.’

‘That’s good luck, Mum.’

Aunty Karen burst out laughing. The sound was infectious and soon Tina was laughing too and telling herself that everything would be all right.

*

And it was.

Her father saw the people at the supermarket and got a job starting the following Monday. He told them about it at supper that evening. Her mother was pleased, talking about how useful the money would be. Tina too but when she tried to describe her day her mother didn’t seem interested. She told herself it didn’t matter. Her father’s job was the important thing. New timetables and seating arrangements were nothing compared to that.

The week passed quickly. She settled back into the school routine and decided that she liked her new teacher. Philippa Hanson, the prettiest girl in the class, had modelled dresses for a catalogue and brought in a copy to show them. ‘I’m going to be a proper model when I grow up,’ she boasted. ‘The photographer said I was a real stunner.’ Tina said she’d like to be a model and Philippa said that ugly people with red hair couldn’t be models. One of the boys told her she was pretty and then asked to copy her answers in the maths test which she let him do in return for some sweets.

She spent Friday night at Uncle Neil’s who was away on a course so Aunty Karen let them stay up late and watch a ghost story on television. ‘On condition you don’t have nightmares,’ Aunty Karen told them before watching the whole thing through her fingers. ‘You’re a real wimp, Mum,’ observed Adam. ‘I’ve seen much scarier stuff than this at Mark Fletcher’s. We saw one film where a man had knives instead of arms and went round killing people snogging in cars.’ He was just describing a particularly gory scene when the ghost burst onto the screen making Aunty Karen scream and the rest of them shriek with laughter.

On Sunday afternoon, after reading a book in her bedroom, she came downstairs to find her mother cleaning in the living room.

‘Where’s Dad?’

‘Gone for a walk.’

‘Why didn’t he take me?’

‘Probably didn’t want to.’ Her mother was dusting a set of china figurines that stood on the mantelpiece. They had been a wedding present from her father. Her mother was very proud of them and cleaned them constantly.

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t know. I’m not a mind-reader.’ Her mother’s tone was irritable, just as it always seemed to be.

‘I’ve finished my book. Mrs Abbott thought it would be too difficult for me ‘cos it’s meant for eleven year olds but I read it all.’

Silence. She was hoping for praise but her mother kept dusting.

‘Mrs Abbott says my English is really good. We had to write stories and she said mine was the best. Do you want to read it?’

‘Later.’

‘I could read it to you.’

‘Not now, Tina.’

‘It’s not very long. Only two pages. It’s about …’

‘Tina, I’m busy and the last thing I need is you under my feet.’

‘Sorry, Mum.’

She left the house and made for the waterfront, hoping to find her father. It wasn’t difficult. He was sitting in his favourite place; the bench at the end of the harbour path, smoking a cigarette and staring down the estuary towards the sea.

‘Hi, Dad.’

He didn’t answer. Seemingly too wrapped up in thought to notice her. She tapped his arm. He turned, saw her and smiled.

‘Hi, you.’

She sat down beside him. ‘Mum’s cross with me.’

‘Why?’

‘She was cleaning and didn’t want to hear my story.’

‘You know what she’s like about cleaning. Woe betide the person who disturbs her when she’s holding a duster.’ He took a drag on his cigarette and blew smoke into the air. His hands were big and powerful. Sometimes he got into fights and his knuckles would be bruised but he always gave better than he received.

‘Dad?’

‘What is it, funny face?’

‘Are you cross with me?’

‘Why, should I be?’

‘Because when you went for a walk you didn’t take me.’

He put his arm around her. ‘That doesn’t mean I’m cross with you. Sometimes grown-ups like to be on their own. That’s all.’

‘Do you want to be on your own now?’

‘No, not now.’

She leant against him, feeling the warmth of his chest. A wind blew off the water. It was growing colder and though the tide was in there were few boats on the estuary. The sailing season was coming to an end. But there would be other summers to enjoy.

She thought back to the previous summer. The arguments had been bad then. So bad that one evening her father had stormed out of the house and stayed away for a week without a single phone call. She had begun to believe that he would never come back until one day he had met her at the school gates with a smile on his face and presents in his arms. That had been a good day. The best of days.

But she didn’t want to live through another like it again.

‘Are you scared about your job?’ she asked him.

‘Why should I be scared?’

‘Because it’s new. I was scared last week about being in a new class and having a new teacher but now I like it. And we can walk there together ‘cos it’s on the way to school. Maybe Mum will let me wait for you so we can walk home together too.’

He stroked her hair. It was cut short, like a boy. ‘You want to look after me, do you?’

‘Of course. I love you, Dad.’

For a moment a troubled look came into his eyes. Then it was gone and his smile was as bright as ever. ‘I love you too, funny face.’

‘I’ve got an ugly face and horrid hair. Monkey face ginger nut. That’s what the girls at school say.’

‘They’re just jealous.’

‘No they’re not.’

‘They will be one day. Your hair’s auburn like my mother’s was. You’ve got her face and her green eyes too. When she was your age people told her she was ugly but when she grew up she left broken hearts wherever she went.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘Just like you will.’

She remained pressed against him, listening to his heartbeat and the soft rustle of chest hair against the fabric of his shirt. He smelled of tobacco, strength and the sea. Her dad. The person who loved her best in the world. The only one who could banish all her fears and make her feel totally safe.

‘Everything’s all right, isn’t it, Dad? It is, isn’t it?’

‘Everything’s fine, funny face. Don’t worry anymore. Everything’s fine, I promise.’

They stayed like that for some time, him stroking her hair as they watched the last boats of summer bobbing in the breeze.

The next morning she woke to see the sun creeping through the curtains and filling her room with light. Stretching, she turned to look at the clock on the bedside table. She had to be up at half past seven and hoped it was earlier so she could carry on lying there, preparing herself for the day ahead.

But it was ten to eight.

She felt confused. Her mother always knocked on her door to check she was up. Why hadn’t that happened today? What was going on?

Rising from her bed she walked out onto the landing. ‘Mum? Dad?’

Silence. The house was still. Perhaps her parents had had to go out. Perhaps her mother was expecting her to prepare herself for school and would be angry if she hadn’t done so on their return.

She washed her face and hands and put on her school uniform. Then she made her way downstairs, only to realize that the house wasn’t silent after all. From the living room came the sound of sobbing.

Alarmed, she hurried in. Her mother was sitting on the sofa, wrapped in a dressing gown, her hair uncombed and her eyes red from crying.

‘Mum, what’s wrong?’

No answer. Her mother just carried on crying as if she were not there.

‘Mum!’

Still nothing. Her eyes scanned the room and came to rest on the coffee table. A note lay in the centre. She picked it up and recognized her father’s handwriting.

Three short lines. That was all he had left them.

I’ve tried but it’s no good.

I’m suffocating here and I can’t stay.

I’m sorry.

She read them once then tried to read them again. But suddenly she was unable to make sense of their meaning; her brain refusing to process the information they contained.

‘He’s gone, Tina.’ Her mother’s voice. Thick with tears and raw emotion.

She shook her head.

‘You’ve read it. You see what he says.’

‘It’s just words.’

‘It’s goodbye.’

‘He’ll come back.’

‘No, he won’t.’

‘He will. He did last time.’ She swallowed. ‘He has to.’

Her mother wiped her eyes. ‘Go to school.’

‘But he will come back. He will, Mum. I know he will.’

‘Go to school.’

‘But Mum …’

‘Go to school! I don’t want you here! Get out and leave me alone!’

As she hurried up the street she told herself that everything would be all right. That he would be waiting for her at the end of the day with a smile on his face and presents in his arms, just as he had the last time.

But he wasn’t.

The days that followed passed in a blur. She sat through her lessons, trying to concentrate but hearing nothing. Her evenings were spent at Uncle Neil’s. Aunty Karen made a fuss of her, cooking all her favourite meals. Uncle Neil was rarely there. ‘He’s keeping your Mum company,’ Aunty Karen explained. She tried to argue that she could do that but Aunty Karen said it wasn’t necessary. ‘Sometimes grown-ups need to be with other grown-ups, Tina. It’s only for a little while and then you can go home again.’

‘Will Dad be back by then?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘He will.’ She spoke decisively, then looked to Aunty Karen for reassurance.

But none came. Just a gentle smile. ‘Eat your tea, Tina. Don’t let it get cold.’

The week ended. She returned to her mother but her father stayed away. She tried not to be afraid. He had gone away before but he had returned, just as he would this time. All she had to do was be patient.

And so time passed; days growing into weeks and on into months. Still she waited and still he did not come.

A wet evening in November. She sat with her mother in the kitchen, eating stew that had been reheated from the previous day. She didn’t like stew but ate it anyway, wanting to make her mother happy.

Not that her mother seemed to like it either. She just picked at it, looking tired and drawn. She was working full time for Mr Rennie now they no longer had her father’s earnings to rely on. But they would do soon. When he came back to them.

Tina tried to make conversation; talking about a school project on the history of sailing. ‘We have to make ships. There’s going to be an exhibition at the end of term and I’m making a Viking longboat.’

Her mother lit a cigarette. ‘That sounds fun,’ she said half-heartedly.

‘It is. I told Mrs Abbott how Dad likes the Vikings and that it’s going to be a present for him when he comes back.’

‘Tina …’

‘He is coming back.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I know he wouldn’t go away and not come back.’

‘Then you don’t know him at all.’

‘He promised me …’

‘What did he promise?’ Her mother’s tone was harsh. ‘That everything would be all right? That there was no need to worry? I’ve heard those promises too, more times than I can remember, and the one thing they taught me is that his promises don’t mean anything.’

‘They do! He wouldn’t just say them. Not to me.’

‘You think you know him better than me, do you? Even though you’re just a child and I’m an adult who knew him long before you were even born?’

Her mother’s voice was growing shrill. She didn’t wan