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don’t want to.’
    A silence grew between them, going on and on until she hardly dared look at him. At last he took her hand, holding it between both his own. After a while he said, ‘You’re tired, I’ll sleep in the other room tonight.’ He smiled shyly. ‘I’m making some sandwiches. Come down when you’re ready, if you’re hungry.’
    When he’d gone she got up, going to the mirror above the chest of drawers. She pushed her fingers through her hair. In the vicarage bathroom she’d rubbed away the last of the sticky lipstick and she looked pale, more like a mourner than a bride. Catching sight of the holly from the corner of her eye she touched the prickly leaves, imagining their sharpness might pierce her skin, that the pain might shock her out of her numbness. Instead the leaves gave against her touch, soft and glossy as funeral lilies.

Chapter Six
    P ATRICK WATCHED THE BRIDAL party from his hiding place behind a yew tree, close to the church porch. He watched as Paul smiled for the camera and turned to kiss his bride at the photographer’s insistence. A reluctant kiss, Patrick thought. The girl on his arm didn’t even close her eyes. All kisses should be received blindly, but this girl stared wide-eyed at some point beyond Paul’s shoulder. Behind the newlyweds, the doctor, the vicar and his wife forced smiles. Patrick had witnessed few weddings in his life, but those he had attended he remembered as exceptionally joyful compared to this sad little gathering. He smiled to himself, grimly satisfied.
    Earlier he had watched Paul and another man walk up the path to the porch and wait outside the church while Paul smoked a cigarette. The other man was weedy and bespectacled, nervously checking his watch and smiling fleetingly at guests who hurried past them into the church. Paul ignored everyone. Later, Paul came out on his own and the sudden conviction that he had changed his mind and wouldn’t be going through with it had made Patrick’s heart race with the idea that he might step from his hiding place and take him home. Eventually, however, he went back inside the church and Patrick had noticed how his hand went to his face as though checking on a non-existent eye-patch.
    â€˜He’s blinded.’ He remembered the pity in Thompson’s voice as they watched the stretcher-bearers take Paul away. He’d been about to run after them, all sense and discretion lost to grief and shock, when Thompson had caught his arm to hold him back. ‘Leave him be. Someone else can look out for the poor little bastard now.’
    Walking back to the shop Patrick remembered how until then he’d always thought he’d been so careful, that no one would ever guess except Paul himself. He day-dreamed that Paul would one day notice and then, during some routine business, would catch his eye, would smile that all too rare smile of his and lead him to some quiet, private place where a sergeant could fuck an officer senseless.
    In the shop, Hetty glared at him. ‘Where have you been?’
    He ignored her but she caught hold of his sleeve. ‘It’s Christmas Eve, our busiest day!’
    â€˜Be quiet!’ He glared back at her, keeping his voice quiet and immediately turning to the customers. ‘Right. Who’s next?’
    She didn’t speak to him for the rest of the afternoon until, as she was about to leave, she said grudgingly, ‘Have a nice Christmas, Mr Morgan.’
    â€˜Hetty …’ She glanced at him from buttoning her coat. ‘I hope you and your family have a nice Christmas, too.’ From beneath the counter he brought out the chicken he’d put aside. ‘I kept this back for you.’
    â€˜What is it?’
    â€˜A pound of apples – what do you think?’ He bundled the cold, heavy parcel into her arms.
    Looking at it suspiciously she said, ‘I thought I’d had my bonus.’
    He