The Sinner

by Caroline England

Genres: Domestic Thrillers; Psychological Thrillers

Synopsis

'Powerful . . . psychological menace and dramatic plot twists' Daily Mail

'A riveting tale full of intrigue. I was fascinated by the characters and the setting. I couldn't put it down. Caroline England at her best and given the standard of her work that is really saying something' Amanda Robson

EVERY SAINT HAS A PAST

To the unsuspecting eye Dee Stephens has a perfect life as the vicar's wife: a devoted marriage to her charismatic husband Reverend Vincent, an adoring congregation and a beautiful daughter.

EVERY SINNER HAS A FUTURE

But beneath the surface, Dee is suffocating. Vincent is in control, and he knows her every sin. Desperate, Dee escapes into a heady affair with Cal, an old schoolmate.

EVERY CONFESSION HAS A PRICE

But is Cal the saviour she thinks he is? What dark secrets does he harbour? And to what lengths will Vincent go to when he uncovers the truth?

From the Top Ten ebook bestselling author, Caroline England's newest thriller will have you hooked from the first page to the last jaw-dropping twist.

'Absolutely amazing. Full of twists and turns I didn't see coming and a true study in character perception. A definite 5 stars from me' Angela Marsons

'Gloriously rich and dizzyingly twisty domestic noir that delves into the emotional chasm between public perception & personal reality. Engaging, gripping & actually very beautiful' Helen Fields

'Addictive and gripping, the twists and turns of The Sinner had me hooked from the first page to the final shocking denouement' Lisa Hall

'A guilt-riddled tale of family dysfunction and simmering resentment, with fatal consequences. . .' Heleen Kist

'Secrets upon secrets are gradually revealed in this intriguing tale. The Sinner is chock full of mystery, with a spicy side helping of romance into the bargain. A great read!' C.J. Cooper

'An incredibly twisty thriller, with lots of secrets, lies and menace. Highly recommended' Karen King

'I loved this book - Caroline's such a wonderful writer. The characters are so well crafted and THE SINNER builds to a satisfyingly twisty end. Highly recommended.' Elisabeth Carpenter

'Suspenseful, twisty and packed with dark secrets and lies... The perfect domestic noir' Alice Hunter

'A well-written, perfectly plotted psychological thriller with a steady build-up of tension all the way through until the fantastic ending! Clever and compelling! Loved it!' Diane Jeffrey

'England's writing is intelligent and this domestic noir is one of the best I've read in a long time. A sure-fire summer hit' Louise Beech


Praise for Caroline England

'Stunning . . . dark undercurrents and sinister twists' AMANDA ROBSON

'In the very top tier of psychological thrillers' M W CRAVEN

'The duchess of dark domestic noir strikes again' HELEN FIELDS

'Powerful . . . psychological menace and dramatic plot twists' DAILY MAIL

'A twist that I didn't see coming!' T. M. LOGAN

'Kept me gripped' B. A. PARIS

'Incredibly twisty . . . deliciously satisfying' CLAIRE ALLAN

'A taut, tantalising thriller' SHERYL BROWNE

'Truly terrific!' MARTINA COLE

 

Read more

Release date: June 16, 2022

Publisher: Piatkus

Print pages: 447

Sample

THE SINNER by Caroline England

The Manchester Crematorium

Another coffin; another crematorium, another grieving crowd. Sometimes it feels as though I’m surrounded by death. But aren’t we all? Industrial accidents, car crashes, drownings; ill health, old age. Earthquakes, ethnic cleansing, executions, tsunamis. They buzz all around us on the radio, in newspapers, on the internet and TV.

Background noise.

Faces here are like that. Listening to the grief in the air, but not really hearing. Paying their respects but not engaging in sorrow. Friends of friends, neighbours, work colleagues, hangers-on. It’s not personal for them. Or maybe they’re bewildered first-timers who haven’t been here before, haven’t felt that slam of gutting emotion we try to keep hidden. Because we’re in a public place and we’re too bloody scared or embarrassed to let it all out.

But when you’ve already been there, it brings it all back. The real thing.

God, I hate funerals. A stupid thing to say; who doesn’t? Yet it is cathartic on many levels: respect for the dead; a final goodbye; continuity and hope for the living; an acknowledgement that one’s relative was loved; a celebration of their life.

Or maybe just the nailed-down confirmation that the bastard is dead.

 

Cordelia

1

New Year’s Eve

Perched in my usual pew, I watch the tall, handsome and impressive vicar move to his lectern, smooth back his shock of thick hair and take a deep breath before speaking.

‘Sisters, brothers, family,’ he begins, his voice echoey in the red sandstone church. He gestures to the forty or so parishioners who comprise his regular flock. ‘Thank you all for joining me tonight. Admittedly it’s late for the little ones, but what better reason than to welcome in a brand new year.’

He smiles at the line of his front-row ladies. ‘And to kneel in prayer, joining in unity to celebrate the glory of the Lord. To catch God’s heart and ask him that the New Year will be one of opportunity and transformation for ourselves and our community. To mend broken lives and work together for each other. To say thank you to God for all our blessings, the many good things he has offered us this year – the friendship, the healing, the fraternity, the love.’

His expression more grave, he lifts his arms to the nineteenth-century stained-glass window above him. ‘To confess our sins in penitence and faith.’

Though Abbey is squashed between us, I hear Harriet’s intake of air. My mother-in-law has never committed a sin – unless one counts gluttony, greed and sloth.

Berating myself for such an unkind thought, I revert to my husband’s eloquent tones.

‘In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit ...’

‘Amen.’
‘The Lord Jesus Christ be with you.’
‘And also with you.’
‘Let us pray.’

Mindful of the disabled and the elderly, Vincent doesn’t insist on actual kneeling, but out of habit I do, and I drift as the prayers waft over me.

I’m eventually brought back by my daughter’s elbow. ‘Mum,’ she hisses. ‘Don’t be embarrassing, it’s nearly time.’

‘Sorry,’ I reply, quickly scrabbling to my feet at her usual reprimand.

The six bellringers head for the tower door. Tonight they are here to chime in ‘new beginnings’. Thirteen years ago, I was one of them, fervent and joyous, my eyes on my heavily pregnant stomach and thanking the Lord for his blessings.

Blinking the memory away, I smile as Vincent approaches. He cups Abbey in one arm and me in the other, then pecks the tops of our heads. ‘My family,’ he says. ‘I am one blessed man.’ He bends to Harriet’s powdery cheek and plants a kiss. ‘Made complete by my dearest mother.’

He reverts to his congregation and grins. ‘I hope you are all wearing your hats, gloves and scarves. It’s somewhat nippy outside, but once we’re accustomed to the chill, we’ll breathe in the night air, watch the bells as they peal out their joyful chimes from the tower and pray.’

His elderly ladies pull up their collars and nod enthusiastically, and though the younger generation look a little dubious, as ever Vincent’s persuasion and enthusiasm are hard to deny.

‘A few words before we brave the weather,’ he says. He glances at me with the secret smile he gave to me in this very spot two decades ago. ‘On New Year’s Eve groups of church bellringers gather all over the world to pray, reflect and ring in the New Year, so we are participating in a long tradition. At the great turning point of “In Memoriam” – Tennyson’s wonderful exploration of time and eternity, mortality and resurrection, doubt and faith – come his famous and beautiful lines which begin . . . ’

He clears his throat. ‘“Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky.” It concludes – and do forgive me if I misremember a line – “Ring in the valiant man and free, / The larger heart, the kindlier hand; / Ring out the darkness of the land, / Ring in the Christ that is to be.”’

As Harriet leads the enthusiastic clapping, her latest best chum whispers loudly in her ear. ‘Your son is a marvellous orator, isn’t he? How he finds the time to write such exquisite, meaningful sermons and speeches, I’ll never know.’

He takes a theatrical bow. ‘Thank you, Monica. Your appreciation makes it all the more worthwhile.’ He signals to the arched doorway. ‘Onward to our local benefactor’s resting place in the graveyard!’

I rotate to take Abbey’s arm, but she’s already slotted it through her daddy’s. Feeling the usual tiny stab at their two-person club, I smile at the mostly female throng and motion for them to go ahead. Bringing up the rear, I wonder what my prayers – or perhaps my contemplation or wishes or hopes – might be this year; there’s no point asking for what has already been firmly declined – both by God and my husband.

‘Dee!’

Hearing my big sister’s voice, I stop and turn. She slides to a standstill on the icy path. ‘Bloody hell, I thought I’d missed it!’ Looking edgy and alternative despite the bobble hat, she catches her breath. ‘Happy New Year, Dee Dee. Well, almost.’

‘And to you!’ I look over her shoulder. ‘No Britt?’
‘She’s fast asleep.’
‘Oh, of course. There was no need to trek out into the cold this year.’

Mari raises her dark eyebrows. ‘And miss all the fun.’ She squints at the parish ladies circling Vincent. ‘Warmed by purple- perm adoration, eh? Now I know why our debonaire rector doesn’t need a coat.’

I chuckle despite myself. ‘Mari—’

‘Anyhow . . . ’ she quickly continues before I can admonish her. ‘It’s nearly time to call our little bro.’

It is the one time we’re guaranteed Ed will answer his mobile. Wherever he happens to be, he’ll always pick up to wish me and Mari a happy New Year just after UK midnight.

The thought of my beach-bum brother brings a genuine grin. ‘All for one and one for all!’

Mari wraps her arms around me. ‘Always. Even if the silly sod is on the other side of the world.’

As the bells start their knell, I sniff. Ed is the one musketeer who managed to escape.

 

Cordelia

2

New Year’s Day

Though Harriet hasn’t yet lifted a finger to help, I’ve been putting out food and replacing platters, filling glasses and flushing the downstairs loo since three o’clock.

‘So sorry, like everything else in this cherished vicarage, it’s as old as the hills,’ Vincent says to Mrs Craven this time. Slipping his arm around my waist, he kisses my forehead. ‘Would you do the honours, darling? I know it’s a chore, but we will get it fixed, I promise.’

He reverts to his audience. ‘I’ve no idea how my beautiful wife does it, but she has the technique. It must be her fair hands.’

Mrs Craven pats my arm. ‘Thank you, dear. I did close the lid.’

‘No worries at all.’

Although Vincent only invited the ministry team and their partners, it feels as if all the congregation are stuffed in my kitchen, celebrating and taking turns to espouse their New Year’s resolutions. What are mine? Communicating with my daughter would be a start.

‘I’ll sort out the toilet then look in on Abbey,’ I say to no one in particular.

When I reach her bedroom, I take a breath before knocking. ‘How’s tricks?’ I ask.

Her laptop open, she’s lying on the new furry throw I bought her for Christmas. She mildly frowns. ‘I’m just watching a prog, so . . . ’

‘Oh, OK. Can I fetch you something to eat?’

She nods to the plate on her side table. ‘Dad brought me up some stuff earlier, so . . . ’

I withdraw at the loaded ‘So . . . ’ I know teenage years can be a challenge, but it feels as though I’ve been the recipient of that word ever since she could talk. I make my way to the stairs, but instead of going down to the clamour below, I climb up to my attic sitting room, step to the mirror and study my reflection. Am I still ‘beautiful’ as Vincent described? Is the feisty Dee Dee Stephens still somewhere behind the sensible haircut and clothes? Or am I simply the servile, toilet-flushing vicar’s wife?

‘You’re only thirty-five; you’re only flaming thirty-five,’ I say to the pale woman staring back. And though I’m fully aware it was me who wilfully chose this life fifteen years ago, I’m suddenly overwhelmed by a need to escape, so I grapple with a hoodie and my trainers, grab my mobile and hurry down to the hallway.

I pause at the door. Should I take keys? Nope; this sprawling old house isn’t just mine and Vincent’s; it’s everybody’s, portals and rooms open to all and sundry, whatever the weather. As if she’s listening to my thoughts, Harriet’s deep chortle echoes through. Yes, it’s her home too, the controller and warder, ever bustling and busy and loud.

Feeling a spike of guilt for my unkindness, I look at the sky and blow out my hot agitation. The rain has stopped, so that’s something. I’ll walk until the desire to bolt has receded; walk until they’ve noticed I’ve gone. Then I’ll retrace my steps and retreat, climb from my angry body and morph back to what I signed up for.

I glance up to my sitting-room window and wryly smile. Yes, ‘the woman in the attic’, as Mari calls me.

Wishing I’d brought gloves, I set a brisk pace and listen to my feet smack the suburban pavements. Save for the flash and twinkle of Christmas lights, the dusky streets are still, the handsome Victorian houses seemingly empty and quiet.

‘If only mine was too . . . ’ I mutter out loud.

Yet I know that isn’t fair: a vocation’s a vocation. Even at the tender age of twenty I knew that. And I really have nothing to complain about; I’m married to a good man who looks after me, a husband who went beyond the call of duty when I desperately needed him to.

Pushing that thought away, I hunker against the fine drizzle, shove my hands in my pockets and continue to tromp. Will either Vincent or Abbey have noticed my absence? And why do I have the paradoxical need for them to? I chuckle to myself. Mari would have a theory. My psychologist big sister always does, even if at times she gets too close to the bone with her analysis of the relationship between me and our dad. Not that there is or has been a bond between us for many years.

The rainfall abruptly full pelt, I take in my bearings and spot a covered bus shelter opposite. Though a car is approaching, there’s time to sprint over, so I splash through the puddles. But when I reach the other side, I realise my mobile has fallen from my pocket. Snapping around, I scan the tarmac and see it glint in the path of the oncoming vehicle. My phone is the one thing that only I have sole access to – including my kitchen, my lounge, my bedroom, my books, even the flaming bathroom, not to mention my husband – so I lift my palm in a ‘halt’ sign and step onto the road. Surely the motorist will see me and slow down? But the blinding full beam and shrill blare of a horn tell me otherwise, and before I can react, my feet have gone from beneath me and I’m thudding heavily to the ground.

Winded and shocked, I stay frozen for moments, but when I finally glance around there’s no vehicle and no one else, just the steady rain, still lashing down. Good God, the driver didn’t stop. Sure, I was at fault, yet it wasn’t as though he or she didn’t notice me, the ringing in my ears and flashing shapes in my vision are evidence of that.

I slowly hitch to the kerb and test fingers and toes. Though my pulse is galloping, I’m actually OK; the bonnet caught my side and nothing feels broken; I’ll have a bruised buttock and grazed palms, but I’ll live. I rock forwards to stand, but my legs refuse to comply, then my heart follows suit, thrashing as if to burst through my chest, so I lower my head and gently talk to myself like I used to: breathe, Dee, just focus on breathing, in and out, in and out.

A shadow then a voice penetrates my nauseous fug. ‘Hello? Are you OK?’ A man’s Mancunian twang. ‘Are you injured? Do you need any help?’

‘No, I’m fine.’ I briefly look up, but I can’t quite focus. ‘Thank you. I just need a moment.’

The figure doesn’t move. ‘You don’t look it. What happened?’

‘No, I’m good.’ Feeling self-conscious and stupid, I will him to leave. ‘A car was approaching and in my haste I slipped, that’s all. I’m just catching my breath.’

‘Can I help you up?’
‘No, thanks. I’ll do it in a minute.’
I suck in air. Thank goodness I didn’t puke; that would be mortifying. It’s still teeming though, the rain like small spikes on my skin. ‘You’ll get wet,’ I manage. ‘I’m really OK. Don’t let me stop you going on your way.’

Sound filters through – the hum of a stationary car, presumably this man’s. But when I squint through the squall, I see he’s parked on the very spot where my phone fell.

He follows my gaze. ‘What’s the matter?’

I sniff back the need to cry. ‘I think you’ve just run over my mobile.’

‘Have I?’

Squatting on his haunches, he peers beneath his vehicle and pulls out my treasure which he rubs on his jeans. ‘You’re lucky, it looks fine. Nothing appears broken.’ Handing it over, he frowns. ‘How about you?’

I awkwardly laugh. Lucky, I’m not; I ran out of that several years ago. ‘All good, thanks. Well, except my pride.’

He eyes me a little strangely. ‘Pride. Yes, that can take a while to heal. If ever.’ Seeming to notice the downpour, he gestures to his car. ‘Do you want a lift home?’

I do, preferably one that transports me directly from here into the privacy of my sitting room, but this man is a stranger and it’d be too, too embarrassing to ask for a ride to the vicar- age, of all places. Should I call Vincent and ask him to fetch me?

No, I can’t risk a throwback to those days when he thought I’d completely ‘lost it’. Though in truth, I had. Besides, he’s been drinking all day.

‘Or you can borrow a brolly.’ The man’s voice breaks into my thoughts. He looks vaguely familiar; do I know him from somewhere?

‘Thank you . . . ’ I quickly consider what to do. The rain has seeped through to my skin and my hot flush has been replaced by icy shivering. This thirty-something guy seems OK. ‘Thank you, that’s kind of you. If you don’t mind your car seat getting wet . . . ’ Then picturing the millions of carriers in the boot of Vincent’s Volvo, ‘If you have a plastic bag, I could sit on it . . . ’

He laughs. ‘We’re cool.’

He offers his palm. Though taking it feels strangely intimate, my limbs have solidified and a dull ache has set in. ‘Thanks,’ I say, as he hefts me towards him.

For a beat and another, he observes me intently, then releases my hand and climbs into his car. When I’ve done the same, he tosses me a towel from a kitbag behind him. ‘So where are we going?’

Distracted by my mobile, I don’t reply. There’s no message or text from either Vincent or Abbey. ‘Sorry, what was that?’

‘Do you want to go straight home or have a quick drink to dry off?’ His chiselled features are softened by an easy, white grin. ‘The Horse and Jockey has an open fire.’

I go back to the blank screen. So much for ‘family’. But in all honesty, I’ve been invisible for years.

Disgruntlement flaring, I study my saviour. His shoulders are wet and his cropped hair’s sparkling with raindrops because he had the kindness to stop. Goodness knows how I appear, but right now I don’t care. ‘We’re both pretty drenched. Do you think they’ll let us in?’ I ask with a shaky chuckle.

He sheds his jacket and puts the car into gear. ‘There’s only one way to find out,’ he replies.

 

3

Cordelia

The haunting sound of Chopin’s Nocturnes in the background, my new friend doesn’t speak as he drives. Although accepting a lift from a stranger – let alone going to a pub – is a surreal and dangerous thing to do, there’s a tight knot of rebellion lodged in my chest, so I blot out my jangling nerves and keep a careful eye on the landmarks we pass. I soon gather we’re on our way to Chorlton, and if the guy is abducting me, I reason there are cam- eras everywhere these days. No one gets away with an illicit kiss, a red light, a drunken moment or crime without the incriminating photograph popping up on Facebook or Twitter. Except invisible me, in all probability.

I inwardly sigh. Vincent will twig I’ve disappeared eventually. Won’t he?

Still astonished that I said yes, I glance at my Good Samaritan and take in his sculpted profile. My eyes slide to his muscled forearms and I smile at the image of Guido Reni’s torso-toned Archangel Michael defeating Satan. Maybe he is a Malakim, one of Harriet’s human-like messengers of God, swooping down in my hour of need. Did I really believe in all that biblical baloney once upon a time? Yes, pretty fervently. Or was the delirium simply my huge and obvious crush on the charismatic man who later became my husband? The one I couldn’t get enough of back then.

When I focus again, heat shoots to my cheeks. As though he’s been reading my carnal thoughts, my chauffeur has parked on a residential side street and he’s studying me through the glow of streetlight.

‘What is it?’ I ask, quickly averting my gaze to my sensible trousers. Though still damp, patches of dirt have started to dry. Oh God, what a stupid idiot I was; irresponsible too; I might have injured myself badly and I have Abbey to think of.

‘You’ve bled. You must have hit your head . . . ’ Taking the towel from my lap, he pads my forehead, then he moves to my hair and explores my scalp with expert fingers.

Detecting a musky aroma of deodorant or shampoo, I hold my breath and try not to flinch, not just from the tiny stab of pain but from this man’s proximity and the startling stir of attraction in the pit of my belly.

‘Yeah, there’s a small laceration from your fall. Grit probably, but it looks clean. It’s stopped bleeding but it had seeped . . . ’ He demonstrates with his own temple and smiles. ‘Well, it wouldn’t be a particularly good look. Maybe for Halloween, but not New Year’s . . . ’ He abruptly turns away and climbs out. ‘It’s stopped raining. Come on then, let’s go.’

‘Right – OK.’ Shaking myself back from the ridiculously sensual moment, I open the door and swing out my stiff legs. I’m achy all over, particularly my ribs, and I wonder if I have damaged them, but the thought is fleeting; stupid though it is in the context of the shocking incident, the need for a mirror to inspect my appearance feels more imperative just now.

Not quite rubbing shoulders, we stride to the Tudor-style building. Once inside, I gesture to the sign for the toilets. ‘I just need to—’

‘Are you all right? Do you feel nauseous?’
‘No, I just ...’ I feel my deep blush. ‘I just need the loo.’
‘Ah. OK. What are you drinking?’
‘A glass of wine would be great, thanks.’
His brief friendliness from earlier appears to have disappeared.

‘Anything specific?’
‘No, just house plonk will be lovely but red would be preferable.’
‘Of course; like Holy Communion. I’ll find a table . . . ’

The ladies is empty, thank goodness. I take a much-needed pee, then turn to my injuries. My right buttock feels tender but my whole left side positively sizzles. I drag off the soaked hoodie, and pull up the sleeve of my vicar’s-wife blouse. My elbow and upper arm are grazed, and when I smooth fingers over my ribs, it’s sore beneath my bra line. But both are manageable, so now it’s just a question of my face . . .

Smiling wryly to myself for caring so much, I step to the sink and examine my reflection. It’s not a pretty picture: any trace of blood has gone, but my usually neat bob is half frizzy and half matted, and the ‘small laceration’ has stained it on one side. I’m perfectly aware a hit-and-run isn’t something to laugh at, yet a peculiar mirth bubbles up to my throat. This type of mishap doesn’t happen to sensible, passive Cordelia Hardy. Nor does popping to the pub for a drink with a good-looking guy whose name I don’t even know yet. I’m almost tempted to take a quick snap for Mari’s amusement with the quip: Pink streaks! Bet you a tenner you’ll never guess what happened and where I am? But my saviour’s comment from just now suddenly hits. What did he say about the wine? Holy Communion. What does that mean?

My heart races at the phrase as I wash my face. Has he attended St Andrew’s at some point? Is that why he seems familiar? Please no; that would be too humiliating. I routinely make the effort to remember the features, name and backstory of every churchgoer, but if it was thirteen years ago . . .

Brought back down to earth, I take a steadying breath and enter the heaving front bar. Clearly a gastropub, the lounge is chock-a-block with diners, but there’s no sign of him. Half- hoping he’s gone, I thread through a line of people waiting for a table and find another room. Will I even recognise the guy? Well, yes. Fairly tall and lithe, dark hair and stubble. Striking green eyes and those muscled arms.

I spot him near the open fire as promised, but as I gaze another thought occurs. Was his ‘Holy Communion’ comment actually menacing? Should I bolt whilst his head is down to his mobile? As though reading my mind, he looks up and smiles that compelling white smile, so I make my way over and perch opposite him.

‘All OK?’ he asks. ‘No headache or dizziness?’
‘No.’
‘No nausea or vomiting?’
‘No, but . . . ’ I didn’t intend to say anything but the question flies out. ‘Do you know me?’
He eyes me a little too long for comfort. ‘I was at Grasmere Road the same time as you,’ he eventually says.
My primary school. That throws me. ‘Oh, really?’
‘You don’t remember me.’
I was only there for one year before high school and no, I don’t recall him at all. My cheeks burn again. ‘Sorry, I don’t recollect your name.’

Frowning, he takes a swig of his honey-coloured drink. ‘It’s Calvin. Cal Rafferty.’

The hot flush spreads. ‘Sorry, I have a dreadful memory. Please tell me you weren’t in my class.’

He shakes his head.
‘My brother, Ed’s?’
‘Yup.’ He nods to the glass of wine on the table. ‘It’s Australian Shiraz. Hope that’s all right.’
‘Yes. Thank you.’ Then, still needing to know, ‘Do you go to our church? The Anglican church in Didsbury? St Andrew’s?’
His demeanour relaxing, he throws back his small measure and grins. ‘Religion? Hell, no.’
‘I take it you’re not a fan?’
‘I’m not; you only have to glimpse the world news to see it does far more harm than good.’
Sipping my drink, I don’t reply. Vincent would have a well-reasoned, equanimous and charming answer to that, but I gave up trying to defend God’s actions long ago.

‘On a personal level too,’ he continues. ‘The helping clergy, for example. Help isn’t praying or asking some divine being to assist; it’s hands-on doing it. Being practical, grounded, effective. And even those few do-gooders who don’t have a less-than-devout agenda, they never stop to consider who they’re “doing good” for.’ He lifts his arms. ‘It’s for themselves. All altruism is. Which is fine to a point. But too many let it spill over into sanctimonious control. And the recipients have to be oh-so bloody grateful.’ He peers at me then. ‘Am I being offensive? In all likelihood you’re one of them.’

Sanctimonious control. Yes, that’s my mother-in-law to a T.

Picturing Harriet’s sucked-in cheeks, I chuckle. ‘A do-gooder? Me? Unlikely these days, and if I was one once, I failed miserably.’

‘You don’t look or sound like the failing type.’
‘Type? Well, thanks for that.’
‘So, I have offended you now.’
I consider asking what kind of person he assumes I am – or even letting out the old Dee Dee and challenging him – but he rubs his head.

‘Sorry, rant over. Are you still feeling well? Not dazed or confused?’

In all honesty, I feel both, but from his soft gaze, I gather he’s talking about the bump to my head.

‘I think I’ll live.’

‘Glad to hear it.’ He nods to my glass. ‘Drink up and I’ll drive you home.’

‘Only if it’s all right. I can always catch the—’
‘I wouldn’t offer if it wasn’t.’
‘OK, thanks. You could drop me at the Didsbury lights if it’s no trouble. I can walk from there . . . ’

 

5

Calvin

Breathing in the chilly night, Cal hops up his front steps and glances at the moody sky. The heavy rain has stopped, but a smatter of wet splashes his cheeks. Fine hail? Even snow? Not the latter, he hopes. Too many painful memories from child- hood come with a downfall. And on a more practical level, Mancunians can’t cope with even a small covering – there’ll be slips, falls and accidents, gridlock on the roads. He and his colleagues are busy enough as it is, so it won’t be a good start to the month.

Cooking aromas from next door pierce the keen air. Tonight it’s an intoxicating blend he can’t quite grasp. The family are a recent addition to his long row of Victorian terraces; indeed, his neighbours in general change pretty frequently, but Cal likes the nomadic and eclectic mix in his street; he welcomes the privacy. Sure, he says hello and exchanges a few pleasantries when he sees any of them, but intimacy isn’t required.

And that is just perfect.

Not bothering with lights, he saunters to the kitchen, sloshes an inch of brandy into a tumbler and ambles to the lounge.

He flops back on the settee and absently watches the sleet tap his bay window. What a night. The God squad, do-gooders, religion. And stunning Dee Dee Stephens. During that tumultuous year at school and beyond, she never gave him so much as a second glance.

He throws backs the sharp nectar and grimaces. Well, she has now.