because even she was not as immune to his sunny smile as she liked to pretend.
Even though she was only seven when he first invaded her life, she had kept to her word. She had made herself love her new brother. In the first year it had felt like chewing on needles every time she smiled at him or touched her lips dutifully to his skin. But that was what did for her. The kissing of his cheek. Cuddling him on her lap, brushing his shining curls, and tickling his chubby little body until it was boneless in her embrace. His arms would wrap around her neck, imprisoning her, and his kisses landed on her face whether she wanted them or not.
To be able to hold her brother’s hand was unheard of before. It captivated her young heart. His skin was peach-warm against hers. It made something inside her ache, and alone in her own bed she would cry with relief as it filled up a cold empty place hidden inside her chest. Sometimes she would creep into Timothy’s bed at night, snuggle under the blankets and read Sherlock Holmes adventures to him by torchlight, just for the pleasure of feeling his head on her shoulder. She would sniff his hair and twirl a curl of it between her fingers and let herself imagine it was Georgie’s.
Georgie.
As she drove south of London through the rain to her parents’ house in Kent, she allowed his name to enter her mind for once. She had learned eventually to lock it out. She had banned it. Refused to let it rampage through her thoughts and bring her to tears at all the wrong moments. She had never seen or heard of Georgie again after that terrible night, yet now echoes of his voice sounded in her head. The windscreen wipers of her Austin Swallow squeaked on the windshield glass andshe peered out into the darkness ahead.
She had passed the cricket club of Dulwich Village on her left and was on the A234 when she felt her spirits sink, and her foot – with a mind all of its own – eased off the pedal. Her speed dropped to little more than a crawl, as if the car itself were reluctant to enter Beckenham. It was always the same when she drove to her parents’ house.
Your brother has disappeared
. Those were her father’s words on the telephone tonight.
We must find him
.
Twenty years too late.
‘Good evening, Jessica. You took your time.’
‘It’s raining, Pa.’
‘Of course.’
Of course it’s raining? Or of course she took her time? Which did he mean? It didn’t matter. Either way, he would find fault. She had entered the house through a side door which led straight into her father’s printing workshop because she’d seen light spilling from its barred window, painting the raindrops butter-yellow. She would prefer to speak to him first. Before facing her mother.
‘I drove as fast as I could in this filthy weather,’ she pointed out and could hear the annoyance she had meant to banish from her voice.
‘Don’t get snippy with me, my girl.’
He put down the container of black ink in his hand. He was wearing his brown work-apron to protect his clothes from splashes, but as usual his hair was immaculate, each dark thread Brylcreemed in place, and his beautiful brogue shoes gleamed like black ice. As he approached her, she regretted her words because his eyes were tense behind his spectacles and a telltale looseness at one side of his mouth betrayed that his emotions were bubbling only just beneath the surface.
‘Tell me, Pa, what has happened?’
‘Timothy has vanished.’ He flicked a hand towards the window, as if her brother might have crawled out thatway. ‘We haven’t heard from him.’
‘How long?’
‘Seven days.’
‘Oh, Pa, only a week! He’s a grown man,’ she said with a gentle smile. ‘He’s twenty-five, not fifteen. He’s probably off enjoying himself with friends somewhere.’
‘Jessica, don’t underestimate your brother. You know as well as I do that he always telephones your mother if he is going to be away from home overnight. So that she won’t