Henry is putting the tractor into reverse when Barbara appears on the doorstep.

‘What the hell are you doing, Henry?’ ‘I’m getting things ready for your vigil.’ ‘My vigil.’

‘Well it certainly wasn’t my idea.’

There are a few minutes when she just watches him manoeuvre the tractor. Angry, jerky movements to and fro. He hopes she will go inside. Leave him to it. But no.

‘I still don’t understand what you’re doing.’ ‘Putting out some bales of straw. Seating.’

‘People won’t want to sit down. They won’t be here for long, surely.’ ‘People always want to sit down. There will be some older people who

need to sit down, Barb. We can’t put chairs out. I don’t want them to get too comfy or we’ll never get rid of them.’

‘Oh, you’re being ridiculous.’

Henry is thinking that this is a fine time to call him ridiculous. He never wanted the stupid vigil. In bed last night they had another spit-whispered row about it.

We could have it at the front of the house, Barbara had said when the vicar called by. Henry had quite explicitly said he would not support anything churchy – anything that would feel like a memorial service.

But the vicar had said the idea of a vigil was exactly the opposite. That the community would like to show that they have not given up. That they continue to support the family. To pray for Anna’s safe return.

Barbara was delighted and it was all agreed. A small event at the house. People would walk from the village, or park on the industrial estate and walk up the drive.

‘This was your idea, Barbara.’

‘The vicar’s, actually. People just want to show support. That is what this is about.’

‘This is ghoulish, Barb. That’s what this is.’

He moves the tractor across the yard again, depositing two more bales of straw alongside the others.

‘There. That should be enough.’

Henry looks across at his wife and is struck by the familiar contradiction. Wondering how on earth they got here. Not just since Anna disappeared, but across the twenty-two years of their marriage. He wonders if all marriages end up like this. Or if he is simply a bad man.

For as Barbara sweeps her hair behind her ear and tilts up her chin, Henry can still see the full lips, perfect teeth and high cheekbones that once made him feel so very differently. It’s a pendulum that still confuses him, makes him wish he could rewind. To go back to the Young Farmers’ ball, when she smelled so divine and everything seemed so easy and hopeful.

And he is wishing, yes, that he could go back and have another run.

Make a better job of it. All of it.

Then he closes his eyes. The echo again of Anna’s voice next to him in the car.

You disgust me, Dad.

He wants the voice to stop. To be quiet. Wants to rewind yet again. To when Anna was little and loved him, collected posies on Primrose Lane. To when he was her hero and she wanted to race him back to the house for tea.

Barbara is now looking across the yard to the brazier. ‘You’re going to light a fire, Henry?’

‘It will be cold. Yes.’

‘Thank you. I’m doing soup in mugs, too.’ A pause then. ‘You really think this is a mistake, Henry? I didn’t realise it would upset you quite so much. I’m sorry.’

‘It’s OK, Barbara. Let’s just make the best of it now.’

He slams the tractor into reverse and moves it out of the yard and back into its position inside the barn. There, in the semi-darkness, his heartbeat finally begins to settle and he sits very still on the tractor, needing the quiet, the stillness.

It was their reserve position, to have the vigil under cover in this barn, if the weather was bad. But it has been a fine day. Cold but with a clear, bright sky, so they will stay out of doors. Yes. Henry rather hopes the cold will drive everyone home sooner, soup or no soup.

And now he thinks he will sit here for a while longer, actually. Yes. It’s nice here alone in the barn. He finds he does not want to move at all.

A full hour later, and Jenny turns up in the kitchen to check on her mother just as Henry finally takes off his wellies in the boot room.

‘You gonna be OK for this, Mum?’

Barbara is stirring two large stockpots of soup. ‘I’ll be fine. It’s just so difficult to know how many people will come.’

Henry stares at her back. ‘I’m sorry about earlier, love. I’m just a bit wound up.’

‘It’s OK.’ She does not turn to look at him but reaches out her arm to touch Jenny’s shoulder for reassurance.

‘And how is Sarah doing?’

Jenny takes in a deep breath. ‘She still wishes she could come. Her mum says she feels bad about missing this. And she’s still saying it was an accident – the pills. But we all feel so terrible.’

There is something about her tone that unsettles Henry. ‘What do you mean, you all? It’s very sad, but it’s not your fault.’

Jenny turns to her father. ‘Well, maybe it is, actually.’ ‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘We had a bit of a row with her, before the TV appeal.’ ‘Who’s we?’

‘All of us. Me and Tim and Paul.’ Jenny’s voice is now breaking up. ‘We’ve just been all over the place, with the anniversary. And with you guys arguing all the time . . . I don’t know. I went round with the others to see Sarah to talk about watching the appeal together. And it all got a bit heated. A bit out of hand.’

‘Go on . . .’

‘I suppose we all feel bad for bailing on London. If we’d gone, there would have been more people to look out for Anna.’

‘You can’t think like that,’ Henry says.

‘But the trouble is you do, don’t you? And so the boys were grilling Sarah again about why they didn’t stick together at the club. What exactly happened to split them up. Why she’s been so vague about it.’

And now Jenny starts crying properly.

‘We didn’t mean to make Sarah feel so bad. We just got carried away. I mean, I bailed on the trip because of John and the gig, and I’m not even going out with him anymore. I can’t believe I did that. Put a stupid boy ahead of my sister. We just all feel so guilty . . . For not being there – in London – ourselves. But we shouldn’t have taken it out on Sarah . . .’

‘And this row happened when?’

‘The night before the reconstruction on telly.’

Which is why she took the pills, Henry is thinking. Jesus.

Barbara’s arms are now around Jenny.

‘Right. So this is a pickle, sweetheart,’ she says. ‘But we are all of us struggling to handle it. You’re not to blame yourself. What you need to do now is to talk this through with Sarah properly. Explain that you don’t blame

her.’

‘We don’t. Not really. We’re just . . .’

‘Upset. As are we all. I’ll speak to Sarah’s mum and see when you can

visit her. Iron this all out. Now then. Dry those tears and get your new coat. People will be arriving soon. I’m going to help you sort this out, I promise. You’ll work this through with Sarah. OK? It’s going to be all right. We just need to be strong now, tonight, for Anna. Yes?’

Henry is looking at his wife and wondering how she ever learned this trick. Always knowing what to say with the girls.

Girls? He winces at the plural.

‘This is for Anna, remember. To keep our chins up for when Anna comes home. Yes?’ Barbara is wiping Jenny’s face with a tissue as the doorbell goes.

Henry shuffles through in his socks to find the vicar in a waxed jacket and wellingtons.

‘I won’t come in. Mud.’ He is smiling. ‘Nice idea to set up some seating, Henry. I just wanted to show you the little reading I’ve planned. Nothing too churchy, as we agreed. Just something uplifting and positive. And then I thought that perhaps you would like to say a few words, Barbara? You know, to thank everyone for their support and to ask the local press to keep up the appeal for witnesses. That any little thing may help.’

Barbara smiles, and Henry watches Jenny disappear upstairs to fetch her new coat before suddenly calling to them from the landing window.

‘Look. Look out of the window, guys. You have to see this . . . Come up here.’

The vicar, stirred by her sudden excitement, removes his wellies after all and follows Henry and Barbara up the stairs, where there is a clear view of the narrow lane to the farmhouse. In the fading light, it is mesmerising.

A thin line of all manner of lights weaving their way along the track: lanterns and candles and torches too, all glowing a trail in the shadows.

Henry surprises himself. His lip is trembling.

He watches the lights flickering and pictures Anna running ahead of him, pink gingham school dress beneath her coat, a posy in her hand.

Cathy, the family liaison officer, will be here soon. And he realises that it has all gone on long enough.

He is going to have to talk to the police.

He is going to have to tell everyone the truth.