Behind me a twig cracks underfoot, and I try to kick the slab away, but I can’t. I’m wedged – and it really bloody hurts.
The hairs on my neck go up as I sense someone behind me. But this garden is walled, secure – how can someone have got in unless it’s through the house?
I crane round quickly, wrenching my neck painfully.
A dark-skinned man stands on the path, halfway between the house and me. He’s holding something in his hands – some kind of bag, I think.
‘Hello?’ My voice comes out as a creak. ‘What do you want?’
He doesn’t speak but walks a bit nearer.
It’s not the gardener, who, from my short-sighted peering out of windows, I think is fair haired.
‘Can I help you?’ I croak – and I’m praying, Please, stop, don’t come any nearer. I crane round a bit more, so I can at least see half of his face. His brow is knitted in thought as he stares at me. ‘Please…’
‘I thought you were a gardener.’ He grins. ‘But you must be the wicked stepmother instead.’
Again a sort of relief floods through me – but I’m still worried. ‘Who are you?’ I don’t want to show my fear. ‘How did you get in?’
‘I’m Yassine.’ He moves nearer. ‘Kaye’s other half. Worst half.’ He laughs at his own joke. ‘I came through the garage.’
Like a fool, I must have left it open.
‘I brought Luke’s football boots.’ He has a pleasant-enough face and a wiry physique – and I don’t recognise him from Adam.
‘But he’s not here.’ I’m confused. ‘They’re in Belgium.’
‘Yeah – I know. But he’s got a match tomorrow evening when they get back, so he’s gotta go straight to the club. Or so I’m told by madame anyway.’ He grins again. ‘I just do what I’m told.’
I desperately want to move, but my foot is well and truly wedged, and I can’t lift the stone from this angle.
I’m trapped.
‘You okay?’ he asks politely.
‘Yeah. No, actually. I’m… sort of stuck…’
‘Wait a sec.’ He walks to me, putting the bag down. ‘Lean on me, yeah?’ He crouches – and I realise I have no choice. I put my hand on his shoulder, and he levers the stone away, using the weight of his whole body – but as he pushes it, summoning some gargantuan effort, he slips. He can’t regain his footing, and he falls into the ivy – and the mud.
‘Shit!’ he swears loudly. When he stands again, he’s covered from head to foot in dark brown mud, all down his right side, his face, his dark curly hair – the other side still pristine.
I try not to laugh, but it is quite funny – and then we’re both laughing, despite my sore foot and my arms that are now aching from all the hacking earlier.
‘You’d better come and clean up,’ I say.
* * *
Inside, he takes his muddy shoes off by the French windows.
‘I can use the downstairs bathroom,’ he says, and I’m about to direct him when I realise he already knows where it is. He has a slight accent, freckles that stand out very clearly against his tawny skin; he looks like a decent man. A young man.
He must be much younger than Kaye.
I change quickly in the utility room off the kitchen, pulling on leggings and a hoodie of Matthew’s, still not entirely comfortable that we’re alone in the house together.
The top of my foot feels really bruised, but at least, thank God, my boots were thick. The damage could have been much worse.
In the kitchen I wash my hands and put the kettle on, wondering about the sheer proliferation of animal graves. Yassine appears – cleaner but dripping wet where he’s sluiced himself down. He’s got no top on and rubs his hair vigorously with a hand towel. I’m about to offer him a T-shirt of Matt’s when a face looms at the window.
‘Oh my God!’ I hear myself exclaim.
‘What?’ He turns.
It’s a woman with elegant silver hair, tapping lightly on the pane, and for a moment, I can’t quite place her…
Of course! Sylvia Jones from the cul-de-sac. She must have changed her mind about coffee.
‘Hi!’ I wave. ‘Hang on a sec – I’ll open the front door.’
An expression I don’t understand crosses her face.
When I open the front door, she’s gone. I stare down the front drive, but the only sign of her is the garden gate slowly swinging back into place.