The mother was kneeling among the soggy autumn leaves, her dark wool coat soaking up the rain, her face hidden in trembling hands. Beside her, the father gazed, hollow-eyed, at the granite headstone, as though all his tears had dried long ago.
Set into the stone, a small sepia photograph showed two young boys, their smiles frozen forever.
Thena little girl appeared, barefoot, from the far side of the grave. Her pinafore was torn, her fair hair wild, and her small feet muddied from wandering the cold paths of the graveyard.
She lifted a finger, pointing straight at the photo.
Theyre not gone, she said.
The mothers head jerked up, eyes glistening with tears. The father spun around, sudden hope sharpening his face.
What did you say?
The girl didnt move, didnt flinchshe kept her finger on the faces of the boys, the calmness in her manner making the chilly air somehow colder.
They stay with me.
The mothers sorrow gave way to something sharper, edged with fear. She crawled one step closer, brittle leaves clinging to her coat.
Who?
The girl pointedfirst at one brother, then the other.
Both of them.
The father leapt upright, leaves crunching beneath his brogues.
Where?
The girl finally drew back her hand and glanced towards the cemetery gate.
At the orphanage.
The mother seemed to stop breathing altogether. The fathers voice cracked as he spoke for the first time.
Take us there.
The little girl turned slowly, facing the lane beyond the iron railings. The mother scrambled to her feet. The father reached towards the child
but she stepped backwards, just out of reach.
She wasnt frightened. She was sure of herself. Dead leaves rustled around her bare toes as the wind swept through the graveyard. Overhead, the sky had turned a bruised, pewter grey.
The mother stared at the girl as though she were watching some impossibility climb out of the grave itself.
What orphanage? she whispered.
The girl tilted her head.
The red one.
The fathers face lost all colour.
There was only one red-brick orphanage in this part of Surrey.
St. Agnes.
Abandoned thirteen years ago after a fire.
The mother seized her husbands sleeve, clutching so fiercely she left creases in the fabric.
No, she whispered. No, that place burned down.
The little girl seemed bewildered by the protest.
Not all of it.
A heavy, uneasy silence crept through the churchyard.
The father stepped forward, slower this time, like any sudden move might shatter whatever spell had been cast.
How do you know our boys?
The child turned her gaze to the gravestone and its faded photograph.
They speak to me at night.
A small, wounded sound escaped the mother. Not disbelief. But the kind of pain that flares when hope is suddenly even more frightening than despair.
The fathers Adams apple bobbed as he swallowed.
Our sons died three years ago.
The girl shook her head gently.
No.
The wind found another gear, setting branches to sigh and scrape above.
She pointed at the younger boy.
He cries in his sleep.
Then at the elder twin.
And he hides food under his brothers bed.
The mother slipped back down into the leaves, her knees too weak to hold her, because she knewthat was real. Only her sons had done that. The older twin always left biscuits for his brother after bad dreams. Always.
The fathers voice rose, alive with desperation.
Who told you this?
The girl looked at him, puzzled.
Jamie did.
The mother let out a broken, strangled scream. Not loud, but dreadful. Jamie was her sons name. The younger twins name. That name never appeared on the headstoneonly the family surname.
The father staggered back, pallid.
How do you know that name?
The little girl turned towards the gate once more.
Theyre waiting.
The world seemed to empty of air. The mother lurched to her feet, sobbing now.
Take us there, pleaseif this is cruel, if someones put you up to this
The girl shook her head.
No-one told me.
Her voice was barely above a whisper.
They asked me.
The fathers hands shook as he grabbed his car keys.
Where?
But the girl didnt answer straight away. She looked back at the gravestoneat the photograph.
And, for a heart-stopping instant, the mother could swear the image moveda glimmer, a whisper of a smile flickering across one childs facethen gone.
The girl began to walk, bare feet silent on rain-soaked stone. The parents hurried after, through rows of worn tombstones and wilted flowers, past marble angels blackened by English rain.
The father kept glancing down, caught between wanting to protect the girl and fearing what she meant.
Why were you at our sons grave? he managed at last.
The girl didnt look back.
They didnt want to be alone today.
The mother broke into fresh tears, because todaytoday was the twins birthday. No one had told the child that. No one could have.
The gates creaked open. Beyond the puddled track, across shadowed fieldsstood the hulking red-brick shell of St. Agnes. Burnt windows, half a roof, empty for years.
The father stopped, body rigid.
Theres no one there.
The little girl finally turned, her grey eyes suddenly sorrowful.
Yes, there is.
She raised her hand, pointing to a shattered upstairs window.
The mother followed her gestureand froze.
Because through the cracked glass, for the briefest moment, stood two boys. Twins. One pressed his hand against the pane. The other
The other clutched the very same stuffed rabbit they had buried with Jamie three years ago.
