There’s a moment in which it feels like everything has stopped. The concrete floor rushes towards me and everything starts to swirl. It’s like the rush of standing up too quickly, when it feels as if my body is no longer under my control. Mercifully, the sensation only lasts a moment, reality twisting back into view as quickly as it disappeared. There’s a pain in my chest, though – not the one from my decades-old rib break, something else. It’s sharp and stinging, as if I’m being stabbed.

‘Blood?’

It’s my voice that speaks but only on instinct.

‘Right there.’

I’m not sure which of the two officers is speaking because the tingle in my chest has spread to my upper arm. Am I having a heart attack? This is how it starts, isn’t it? I’ve seen the leaflets at the doctors.

Somehow, I move across towards the officers but it feels more like I’m drifting than walking. If they notice anything out of the ordinary, neither of the constables say so.

They’re right, of course. There’s a patch of dried blood exactly underneath the spot where my bonnet would usually cover.

I was certain I’d checked under the car; that I’d cleaned everything away – but here it is. A crimson stain of guilt.

‘Do you have any idea why there might be blood in your garage, Mrs Denton?’

I’m still not sure who’s speaking, transfixed by the floor instead. The blood is a series of spots, rather than any specific pattern. It looks like it has dripped.

‘I don’t think so,’ I reply.

The stinging stab in my arm is clearing and so is the haze around the edges of my vision.

PC Heath clips his heels and heads off towards the driveway. ‘We’ll get someone over to take a sample,’ he says. ‘If someone did break in, it might have come from them. It’s worth checking.’

He’s quickly out of earshot and it’s only then that I realise I should have said the blood was mine – or Dan’s. Or that it was red paint for some reason. Now it’s too late, I can come up with a dozen reasons to tell them to not to bother testing. I’m one of those people who is amazing after an emergency. Or who has a hilarious comeback a good hour after the moment has passed.

‘You shouldn’t worry,’ I tell PC Harvey. ‘I don’t think anyone broke in anyway.’

‘It’s not a problem,’ he replies. ‘What we’re here for.’

‘But aren’t these tests expensive? Don’t you have tight budgets and so on? I always hear things on the news.’

This is some serious straw-clutching.

‘There’s been a series of break-ins on the other side of North Melbury. These are full-on burglaries, so perhaps not the same as this – but we have DNA from the perpetrator. The problem is that we don’t know who it belongs to. There are no matches on the database – but we’ll be able to tell if this is the same person.’

He smiles and I thank him, even though it’s the last thing on my mind. What if the blood belongs to Tom Leonard? What if it belongs to someone else who’s missing? Someone who’s been found dead on those back country lanes? How could I possibly explain it?

How can I even explain this? I was so sure I’d cleaned the floor – but then I was certain about the location of my work pass and the car keys as well. My mind feels like one big, jumbled mess. Like the pieces to Ellie’s jigsaw, all mixed up and thrown on the floor.

PC Heath walks back, his lips tight and expressionless. ‘The testing team are free now,’ he says.

PC Harvey answers before I can. ‘That never happens. What’s going on?’

His colleague shrugs and they both look to me. ‘Someone can be here in half an hour,’ he adds. ‘Should I tell them to come now?’

I should say no – but what would that look like? I called the police to report a possible break-in. They’re linking it to others across town, so I can hardly send them away. I’d look mad at best; guilty of something at worst.

‘That’s fine,’ I reply. Except it isn’t – and I have a horrible sinking feeling that it really won’t be.

---

It is a few minutes after midday when the crime scene analyst leaves the house. He was perfectly pleasant, working by himself and scraping up the hardened flakes of blood to take away. When I ask how long it’ll all take, he sighs. I’d bet it’s the type of question he’s asked a dozen times a day, every day.

‘Anywhere from forty-eight hours to two weeks,’ he replies. ‘It depends what sort of priority they give it.’

‘Do you have any idea whether it’s a high priority…?’

‘I wish I could help – but as soon as this gets to a lab, it’s out of my hands.’

I’m not sure if he means literally or figuratively – but I guess the outcome is still the same.

He explains that if the blood matches someone already in the DNA Database – or a close family member – then they’ll get a match and be able to identify who it belongs to. If there’s no match, then it will sit on file. They might arrest someone for something unrelated in the future and, assuming a crime had been committed, would be able to charge him or her for the other offences.

I thank him and then he heads back to his car, accelerating off along the road as I watch, wondering if he has my fate in his hands.

I’m about to turn back to my car, finally ready to go to work, when a familiar face emerges from behind the postbox a few doors down. It’s at the opening to the lane that runs along the back of the house and the man strides out briskly, hands in his jacket pocket. He heads towards me, watching the houses – but it’s only when he sees me that he stops on the spot. He edges back towards the road, a startled, frightened animal in headlights. For a moment, I think he might rush back the way he’s come but he doesn’t. He presses ahead until he’s at the edge of the drive.

‘Hi,’ Jason says.

‘Are you watching the house?’ I ask.

He squirms, tucking his elbows tighter into himself, his hands not leaving his jacket pockets. ‘No.’

I’m not sure if being in prison should make a person better at lying – or worse. Either way, he’s awful at it.

‘I’m on my way to work,’ I say.

‘Right.’

He bobs from one foot to the other, watching me but never making full eye contact. There’s a breeze that’s playing with his mucky brown hair. It hasn’t been washed for a day or two and is longer than it ever used to be, enough to be tucked behind his ears. He’s in jeans, with a green army-style jacket and heavy leather boots.

I move towards the car, keys clearly in hand. He isn’t standing directly behind the car and I could leave if I wanted – but I’d have to drive directly past him. I’m going to have to talk to him sooner or later and I suppose this isn’t the worst time.

‘You look good,’ he says. ‘All official, like.’

I’m in a suit that I’ve had for at least five years. It can be machine washed, which is the main reason I like it so much.

‘Didn’t wear many suits when I was a teenager,’ I reply.

‘Aye, me either.’

I remember the images from the news of Jason being hurried into a courtroom. I was twenty-one, so he was either nineteen or had just turned twenty. He was wearing a suit a couple of sizes too big. The jacket was low across his backside, the sleeves almost reaching his fingers. It was probably a charity shop job. Most of our clothes came from the local Oxfam or Heart Foundation stores in those days.

Ellie went to court every day but I never did. I’d watch the news each evening – a new thing for me – and then pore over the coverage in the papers the next morning. Also a new thing for me. I’d never bothered with news before then.

I can’t remember how many days the trial lasted. It felt like weeks but was probably only two or three days. It’s not like they had a lot of disputed evidence over which to argue.

‘How are you?’ I ask, continuing my new-found trend of asking stupid questions.

‘Outside is better than inside.’

Jason glances both ways along the street and then inclines his head ever so slightly, asking for silent permission to step onto the driveway. I wave him forward and he approaches slowly, as if I’m a coiled snake who might strike. He stops when there’s a metre or so between us, giving me a close-up view of his pockmarked skin. There’s a scar close to his ear, zigzagging across his hairline.

‘I’ve got to see a probation officer twice a week,’ he adds. ‘It’ll go down to once in a few months.’

Jason crouches, tugging up the bottom of his jeans to show me the plasticky tag that’s strapped around his ankle.

‘I’ve got to be in our Ell’s by nine every night. Not allowed out again ’til six.’

He hops for a moment, unbalanced on his single foot, and then settles back onto a solid standing.

‘How long have you got to do that?’

‘Six months if I behave.’

I’m not sure what to say, so remain silent.

‘How old’s your daughter?’ he asks.

It’s a question out of the blue. There’s every reason for him to know about Olivia – Ellie would’ve visited him in prison over the years, and he’s now living with her – but it still feels strange for him to mention something I’ve never told him.

‘Eighteen,’ I reply.

He nods slowly for a moment and then: ‘Wow… that’s old.’

It’s not – but I know what he means. He went into prison when he was only a little older than that. He knew me as a childless teenager – and now I have a daughter the same age. There’s a wistful calm between us and I know he’s thinking of the things we were doing when we were that age. Ellie, Wayne, Jason and me. Us against the world.

‘Is she a good kid?’ he asks.

‘Yes. She works at a local café in the evening. She’s doing accounting lessons with Ell and might go back to college.’

A nod. ‘What about your old man? He treat you well?’

For a second, I think Jason means my father – but he died when I was a child. It’s only then I realise he means Dan.

‘It’s complicated,’ I reply. ‘We’re sort of… separating.’

It sounds so official now I’ve said it out loud to someone who’s more or less a stranger. Telling Olivia was talking to family; going over things with Ellie in the previous weeks was more or less discussing it with family. This is different. I’ll be telling people at work next, then neighbours. It’s actually happening.

Jason blinks and then quickly adds: ‘Oh. He doesn’t knock you about, does he?’

‘Of course not. Why would you think that?’

Jason coughs an apology but it’s obvious why he’d think that: he’s spent two decades in prison – and it’s not like his upbringing was Garden of Eden stuff before that. A person only knows what they know.

Physical violence isn’t the only type of mistreatment, though. Dan’s no more abusive than I am but we’ve been together so long that we bring out the worst in one another. This is what happens when you live with someone you can’t stand. You make each other’s lives a misery and, in the end, everyone loses.

Jason tugs at his jacket, glancing past me towards the house. I know what he’s thinking: that this could have been him. He’s wrong, but he can’t know that.

‘I wrote to you,’ he says quietly.

‘I know.’

‘You never wrote back.’

‘I didn’t know what to say.’

He nods slowly, acceptingly, and then hits me brutally with five stinging words. ‘You could have said sorry.’

‘I—’

He cuts me off instantly. ‘No, I didn’t mean that. I’m the one who’s sorry.’

I have to say it now. It’s been twenty years in the making, words I should have said then but couldn’t because it would have meant admitting my part in everything that happened.

‘I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have done that to you.’

He shrugs. ‘I knew what I was getting into and then, afterwards, none of that was your fault. That was all me. You didn’t set the fire.’

There’s something so powerful and evocative about the word. Fire is life: it’s warmth and comfort – but it’s destructive and terrifying as well. It was a lesson I sure as hell learned.

When he was nineteen years old, Jason set fire to a pub, killing three people who were asleep upstairs. His legal team had little defence, other than trying to get the charges negotiated down to manslaughter. The system disagreed. He was charged and convicted of a triple murder.

Even putting aside the arguments over whether he meant to kill, the fact is that he did.

That doesn’t mean it’s entirely his fault.

I say nothing because I’m not sure I trust myself. I didn’t drop the lighter but I’m not blameless either. I knew that then and I know it now.

Jason’s eyeing the scar that hoops around my own temple. Ours almost match now. I scratch it self-consciously and he takes the hint, turning away to the street.

‘Are you going with Ell tomorrow?’ he asks.

It takes me a couple of seconds to remember what he’s talking about – and then the true depth of my self-absorption is clear. I’d completely forgotten about tomorrow.

‘Of course I am,’ I reply. In my mind, I’m scrambling, trying to figure out how to tell Graham I’m going to be late once more. I’ll need to invent a client or a meeting, something like that.

‘Ell says the two of you visit every year…’ He winces and then speaks really quickly, his words blending into one. ‘Can I come, too?’

It takes me a moment to figure out what he’s asked.

‘I understand if you don’t want me there,’ he adds

‘No – he was your brother, too. You should definitely come.’

‘I just wanna chance to say g’bye. I never went to the funeral. Couldn’t face it at the time and then, when I were ready, they wouldn’t let me out on day release for the anniversary.’

‘You should definitely come with us. You didn’t have to ask permission.’

‘I was gonna ask last night – but it looked like you were a bit shocked to see me.’

I shrug: ‘Well, it has been twenty years…’

‘Aye.’

He turns and steps back towards the pavement and I wonder if this is why Dan saw Jason hanging around the house. He was building up the courage to ask if he could visit his brother’s grave with Ellie and me. I watch him walk off in the direction of Ellie’s house. He stops to look back at me and, when he realises I’m still watching, he quickly faces forward again, ducking his head and shuffling quickly out of sight.

I sigh deeply once he’s gone, unsure if this is a weight lifted, or another added. I can’t believe I’d forgotten the anniversary of Wayne’s death. Ellie and I visit his grave every year, yet, somehow, it had fallen from my memory. Like a lot of things recently.

Last night, I thought that Jason was a symbol of the worst thing I ever did – but he isn’t. It’s his brother, of course. Jason and Wayne Leveson: two brothers – and look what I did to them. Even now, look at what I’ve done to Dan; to myself.

Is this me?

Is this what I do?

I destroy everything and everyone around me.