Free The Beauty of the End by Debbie Howells Page B

gardens, well-spaced from its neighbours. I continue slowly along a stretch of a hundred yards or so, before coming to a sharp bend.
    It’s darker here, the lane narrowing to a single track under the cover of tall trees, their branches seeming to close overhead. I glimpse one or two smaller houses behind unkempt hedges before my GPS indicates I’ve arrived.
    Pulling over beside a narrow gate, I see a sign that says Holly Cottage.
    I hesitate, because this is where April lives and though at the moment it’s quiet, the police will inevitably come and search here,. I continue a few yards up the lane, where I pull over on the grass verge and turn the engine off. But as I wait, not a car passes, nor is there a sign of anyone.
    As I walk back down the lane and slip through the gate, I’m not sure what I’m expecting, but it’s not this, a small stone cottage that looks as much a part of the landscape as the woods that surround it, its weathered, faded exterior the legacy of the elements, of time. Against the grey of the flint, the brickwork around the windows is an ugly red, the paint on the frames cracked and peeling to reveal the grain of the wood underneath. The house is softened by the mass of sprawling borders, the pale green of newly unfurled leaves, the curved paths cut into unmown grass full of wildflowers.
    The entire garden is edged by trees, and I look up, my eye drawn not only to their height, but to the gnarled spread of their branches. Then I notice more trees, only they’re smaller, a whole new generation, still saplings, planted at intervals here and there. But it’s the sound that gets to me. Surrounding me, it’s stereophonic; the wind through the leaves and birdsong.
    I’m still caught in the spell of the place as I walk round to the back, checking for an unlocked door or unlatched window, when suddenly the back of my neck prickles. Slowly turning, I look around, seeing nothing, yet with an unmistakable sense I’m being watched.

12
    1999
    Â 
    A fter April went back to London early, I was numb. I’d been prepared to give up everything for her. Even move, just to be with her. Not only had I lost her, I’d lost a future that had so briefly, brightly presented itself. I felt let down—and cheated, too. The “sweet” in her letter was patronizing. Nor did I accept her allusions to a dark secret that would ultimately keep us apart. Of course there were things we didn’t know about each other. In the couple of days we’d spent together, we’d just started. Now, we’d never have the chance.
    The excitement of my plans to go to London became a distant memory. Forced to push all thoughts of April from my head, I ripped up the letter I’d written to my mother. Now, I couldn’t leave for Bristol soon enough.
    It took days rather than the weeks or months I’d believed it would, but immersed in student life, I discovered that the teenage heart is more resilient than I’d realized. I met other girls, though no one I felt the same way about, but after four years that flew past, I left the university armed with my degree and a job in a London law firm.
    To me, Flanagan’s, the name of my firm, sounded more like an Irish bar. It was certainly as noisy and frenetic. I worked hard and played hard, sharing an extortionately priced and cavernous Canary Wharf flat, now and then managing to catch up with Will, still a student and currently on an obstetrics rotation. Our meetings were characteristically brief.
    â€œPlease buy me dinner, mate. I’m so bloody poor, you wouldn’t believe,” he bemoaned. “Do you know how often I don’t eat?”
    I didn’t believe a word of it. He looked far too healthy. “Yeah, well when you’re a rich, privately practicing doctor, I’ll expect repayment.” I turned to the waitress. “We’ll have two steak and chips.”
    Will’s face took on an