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He gripped the door handle, stepped out into the pulsing heat, his trainers sticky on the softening tarmac. Waited as Charlie climbed out, locking the door behind her. She dropped into step beside him. The world’s least-ambitious date.

‘Now that’s nice.’ Charlie shook her head.

The graffiti splayed across the red-brick wall, unsteady letters in an angry black:
FUCK THE POLICE
. Someone had left flowers, cream carnations wilting in the heat; had tied them to the lamp-post with blue parcel string. Aden’s stomach turned.

They stood, stared at the house across the street. The windows were hanging open, music billowing. It didn’t look like a house that tragedy had visited. A child’s bike lay abandoned on the front step. Someone had filled a paddling pool, set it on what sufficed as a front lawn, but no children played in it. Aden wondered where they were, the other children: an eight-year-old boy, ten-year-old girl. Wondered what their lives looked like now – a childhood blown apart by gunshots, a brother turned inert with a bullet through the brain.

He felt a flood of nausea.

Then there was a sound, a creaking breaking through the still air, the front door of the Lowe house swinging open. Aden recognised Dylan’s mother from the news. Carla Lowe’s hair was pulled up into a tight topknot. She wore cut-off jeans, an off-white top with spaghetti straps. Stood on the doorstep, hands digging into the pockets of her shorts, gaze fixed on the sky, perhaps looking for clouds, some sign of a break in the heat. She pulled her hands free, lighting a cigarette, pulling in a deep, long draught.

‘We should go.’ Aden kept his voice low.

Then Carla Lowe lowered her gaze from the clear blue sky. Looked directly at them.

THE SMELL OF
sausages hung in the still, hot air, the plate of food standing, largely uneaten, mashed potato congealing into soupy baked beans, turning the orange sauce peach.

‘I wish she’d eat a little.’ Mara watched as Amy turned the pages of the board book like she was examining jewels.

‘She will. When she’s ready.’ Imogen flicked through a magazine, sticky with sweat. She could not have said what was on those pages already past, or even the ones that lay open in front of her. This, she supposed, was why people smoked, to give them something to do with their fingers. ‘She’s taking in plenty of fluids. She’ll be okay.’

‘They’re saying her temperature is still higher than they’d like.’

Imogen watched as her niece fidgeted on Mara’s lap. Did her breathing sound strange or was that the hospital effect, the innocent turned deadly within these whitewashed walls?

‘Baaaaa. Mooooo.’

‘That’s right, sweetheart.’ Mara smiled, kissed her daughter’s head. ‘Clever girl.’

‘Look, A’tie Im. A do’key.’

‘A donkey? Wow! They’ve done blood tests on her, right, Mar?’

Mara shook her head. ‘No . . . said they’ll wait for now. She’s on antibiotics, though, so hopefully . . .’

They sat in straight-backed chairs, Amy snug on her mother’s lap. A change of scene, Mara had said. Rather the same scene, just seen from a different height. There were voices outside, children laughing. Seemed out of place here. But then it was a children’s ward, and children would be children. Even here.

‘I wish we could take her outside,’ murmured Imogen. ‘It’s such a beautiful day.’

‘We can’t risk it,’ said Mara, turning the pages of the book. ‘Look, Amy. A monkey.’

‘I ’ike mo’key.’

‘I know you do.’

Dave hadn’t come to bed last night. Imogen had awoken with a start, the clock on the night stand flashing 2.08 a.m. Had lain there for a moment, alone, listening. There were sounds coming through the floorboards. She had pushed herself up, padding on the carpet with bare feet, a smell catching in her throat. It had taken her a moment to realise what it was. Cigarette smoke.

He was lying on the sofa, a burnt-out cigarette resting in an ashtray that she had never seen before. The television crashing and loud. Three cans of Stella lined the table, a miniature shooting gallery, a fourth open and sweating in his hand.

‘Dave?’ Imogen had said it quietly, like maybe she didn’t want to be heard.

But he had heard her anyway, turned ponderous and awkward. Looked at her like she was dancing, his gaze struggling to find her.

‘Are you okay?’

He had shrugged. ‘I’m watching a film.’

‘I . . . well, it’s late. Are you okay?’ Imogen had studied him, the damn mobile phone still clutched in his fingers, and had felt a flush of irritation. She could just go back to bed. There would be no shame in that. She was tired, more than tired – the kind of exhaustion that seeps into your bones. ‘Dave? What’s going on?’

He hadn’t looked at her, had stared at the television, but had let out a low laugh that didn’t sound like a laugh at all. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. The father of the bloody vegetable is trying to get me fired, but apart from that, everything’s sound.’

‘I . . . what?’

‘That Steve Lowe. The bloke from the papers. The one whose kid got shot by the police. He’s filed a formal complaint about me. He went to see Lydia today. He’s spoken to the paper’s owners, saying I got aggressive with him. It’s all bullshit, the whole thing. But they’ve just been waiting for this, for me to screw up. Lydia’s had it in for me from the start.’

‘I’m sure—’

‘That bastard is determined. He’s not going to be happy till he’s destroyed me.’

‘So has Lydia said anything?’

‘She said they’re investigating. That it’s not great. She’ll “keep me informed”. Fucking awesome, yeah? You know the bloke I mean, don’t you? I bet you see him at the hospital all the time. Probably bloody lives there.’

Imogen had looked down, could see her fingers shaking. Was thinking of Steve Lowe sitting in her office, his head in his hands talking about his son. Stuck now, in a world of limbo. But she couldn’t say that, of course she couldn’t. Client confidentiality.

Dave had shaken his head, taken a long pull of the can. ‘I’m telling you something now: I’d better not run into him any time soon. I’m not going to be held accountable for my actions.’

‘A s’eep.’

‘That’s right, Amy. And what does a sheep say?’

‘Baaaaaa.’

A spark of sound jolted Imogen out of her reverie. Her sister pushed herself up in her seat, made a grab for her mobile phone. Imogen watched her, waiting, could feel an irritation writhing in her stomach. Then, without looking at Imogen, Mara switched the phone to silent.

‘That was him, wasn’t it?’ Imogen kept her voice low, light.

‘Who?’

‘You know who, Mara.’

Mara shrugged. ‘Don’t, Im. Look, Amy, a dog.’

‘What do you mean: “Don’t”? Was that him?’ It felt like a pan, boiling over, too many secrets, too much acceptance.

Mara looked up, her gaze level. ‘I know what you think of me.’

‘I don’t think anything,’ Imogen replied, straining to keep her voice calm. ‘I just think, with the situation being what it is, that your focus should be on Amy.’

‘It is, Imogen. Besides, it’s over. I’ve finished it. Are you happy now?’ Mara’s voice was climbing, becoming shrill. Amy glanced up at her mother, her forehead wrinkling into a frown.

Imogen started, stared. ‘When?’

‘When what?’

‘When did you finish it?’

Mara sighed loudly, shifting Amy on her lap. ‘What difference does that make?’

‘It makes a difference if he’s angry. It makes a difference if it’s him who’s been coming into the hospital, who followed you. Could he be someone who has access to, you know . . .?’ Imogen didn’t want to say the word ‘gun’, barely wanted to think about it.

Mara frowned. ‘I don’t know. Lots of people do. I mean, Dave is in a gun club, isn’t he?’ There was a little something in her tone, a slyness almost, a barb stuck where it will sting.

Imogen stared at her, her mind swimming. She opened her mouth, thinking to reply, yet with little idea what it was she would say, when the door swung open, the nurse entering.

‘Well then.’ Natalie smiled. ‘How are we doing in here? Ooh, Amy. What do you have there?’

‘My A’tie Im got me book.’

‘She did? Well, isn’t that fab?’ The nurse looked at the tray. ‘Mara, why don’t you take a little break? You haven’t left the hospital since Amy came in.’ Natalie glanced at Imogen for support. ‘I’m sure Imogen would cover for you for a bit, just so you can pop home, get yourself a shower.’

Mara ran her fingers through Amy’s fine hair and gave a quick shake of her head.

Imogen closed the magazine. ‘She’s right. You should take a break. It would do you good.’

‘No, thanks. Look, Amy. There’s a snake. What colour is the snake?’

The nurse stood, watched Mara, then let loose a low sigh. ‘Okay, well, I’ll be back in a bit. We’re going to see about setting up a heart-trace on this little madame, just to see what her ticker is up to.’

Imogen started. ‘Is there a reason to think there’s a cardiac problem?’

Natalie hefted the tray, gave Imogen a half-smile. ‘Oh, just being thorough. You know how it is with the little ones. We like to check everything we can. I’ll see you in a bit. Call if you need me.’

An uneasy silence filtered in, the two sisters sitting, each waiting for the other to speak.

Then: ‘I called Jack.’ Mara wasn’t looking at Imogen, was still studying her daughter’s book, her voice defensive.

Imogen started. ‘You did? That’s good.’

‘He’s going to talk to the superintendent, see if he can get a couple of weeks off. Like some compassionate leave, or something. So you see, there is nothing to worry about, is there? Because once Jack is home, he’ll be able to protect us.’

I SLIP UP
the stairs, leaving behind the chaos and the voices. Leila has brought out a karaoke machine, has let loose on it the gaggle of squawking kids, so that now my mother’s house is filled with screaming voices. I suppose you could call it singing, if you were feeling generous.

I glance across my shoulder, make sure that I’m not being followed, then quietly let myself into my mother’s bedroom. I close the door softly behind me, walk carefully to the wardrobe and pull open the doors.

It is there, still buried at the back, where I knew it would be. It is half-covered by an aged throw. It looks like my mother is still trying to hide it, even though I have no idea why. I mean, what would be the point now? I pull the box free, setting it on the bed next to me.

I knew that I was adopted, right from the beginning. The beginning? Well, let me say this, it was something that I had always known. We were what my mother referred to as a ‘modern family’. The two natural-borns, my eldest sister Beth, my brother William. Both blond, blue eyes, so much like my mother that it hurt. Then there were the rest of us, the waifs and the strays. Courtney and Leila, plucked from their natural mother when social services found her wandering high as a kite, the two little girls trailing her like vapour trails after a plane. She visited occasionally, her hair slicked back and greasy, ribs standing out proud beneath stained clothes, always smelling of urine. And then there was me. A last-minute addition.

No one ever came to visit me. No one sent me cards or presents. It was as if I had simply appeared, materialising one day amongst the daffodils and the long grass.

I asked. I would watch Courtney and Leila hanging off this awkward, smelly woman, would wonder where mine was, if there was anyone out there who knew that I existed. My mother would smile – the kind of smile that you can tell she doesn’t mean, and that just by asking you have made her sad – and would murmur something about she herself being my mother, and how nothing else mattered.

But none of it made sense. I came from somewhere else. I knew that. They had told me. But it seemed that no one knew where. So I was left, a child adrift in a world of strangers.

Then I found out. Then I wished I could go back to the time before, the time when I didn’t know.

I learned who I was from newspaper clippings. The boxed-up collection neatly tucked into the back of my parents’ wardrobe. It was for me, my mother said, for when I was older. When I could handle it. But I didn’t find them when I was older. I found them when I was eight and playing hide-and-seek with my sisters. I was always good at disappearing. I crept into the cupboard, nested inside the fur coats and the winter boots and the clothes that Mum kept because, next year, she’d squeeze into them. And I found it.

I pulled the lid off the box, something to do while I waited for Courtney to figure out how to count to one hundred. Had smelled old newspaper, faded print. Pulled the cuttings into the dim light, rested them on the palm of my hand like one would a butterfly:

Toddler found abandoned at Mount Pleasant Hospital

A three-year-old boy has been found wandering through the grounds of Mount Pleasant Hospital. Staff say the child appeared to be malnourished and unkempt. Enquiries are being made by police as to the whereabouts of the child’s mother, but so far no information has been forthcoming. The child has fair hair and brown eyes. Those with information please contact Swansea Police Station.

I read the piece, once, twice, a thousand times, but could make no more sense of it. I didn’t know the hospital, had never been there. Not then, at least.

The next clipping:

Woman found dead in Swansea City Centre

A woman has been found dead outside a multi-storey car park in Swansea city centre. Early reports suggest that she was last seen on the upper floors of the car park. The woman is said to have been in her early twenties. Police are not looking for anyone else in connection with the death.