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The worst thing about working as a carer is not what you might think. It's not the lifting and cleaning, the medicines and wipes and the distant but somehow always perceptible smell of disinfectant. It's not even the fact that most people assume you're only doing it because you really aren't smart enough to do anything else. It's the fact that when you spend all day in really close proximity to someone, there is no escape from their moods. Or your own.

'That's… what you want to do?" His eyes had flickered, but his face betrayed nothing.

Will had been distant with me all morning, since I had first told him my plans. It was nothing an outsider could have put their finger on, but there were fewer jokes, perhaps less casual conversation. He asked me nothing about the contents of the day's newspapers.

I shrugged. Then I nodded more emphatically. I felt there was something childishly non-committal about my response. "It's about time, really," I said. "I mean, I am twenty-seven."

He studied my face. Something tightened in his jaw.

He gave a little nod, raised a smile. "Glad you've got it all sorted out," he said, and wheeled himself into the kitchen.

It was, frankly, exhausting.

"Oh no. We're Buddhist," I said firmly, closing the door as the man began to protest.

Two weeks previously a pair of Jehovah's Witnesses had kept Will captive at the back door for almost fifteen minutes, while he struggled to reverse his chair back over the dislodged doormat. When I finally shut the door they had opened the letter box to call that "he more than anyone" should understand what it was to look forward to the afterlife.

I was starting to feel really cross with him. I had never felt judged by anyone as I felt judged by Will now. It was as if me deciding to settle down with my boyfriend had made me less interesting to him. Like I could no longer be his pet project. I couldn't say any of this to him, of course, but I was just as cool with him as he was with me.

In the afternoon, there was a knock at the back door. I hurried down the corridor, my hands still wet from washing up, and opened it to find a man standing there in a dark suit, a briefcase in hand.

I felt suddenly, unbearably tired. I felt this peculiar urge to say sorry, and I wasn't sure what for.

The man stepped over the threshold, held out his hand and shook mine. 'Michael Lawler," he said.

"We'll be in the living room. Could you make some coffee, then leave us for a while?"

"Um… I'm here to see Mr Traynor?" the man said, and I opened the door cautiously. In all my time at Granta House nobody had ever come to see Will via the back door.

"Let him in," Will said, appearing behind me. "I asked him to come." When I still stood there, he added, "It's okay, Clark… he's a friend."

Brushing invisible dust from my skirt, I straightened up and said, "Well. I'll leave you to it."

"You sure you don't want anything else? Biscuits?"

"Um… okay."

'Thanks, Louisa."

He was about to say something else, but Will moved his chair between us, effectively cutting off any further conversation.

Mr Lawler smiled at me, a little awkwardly, and followed Will into the living room. When I walked in with a tray of coffee some minutes later they were discussing cricket. The conversation about legs and runs continued until I had no further reason to lurk.

Will never called me Louisa. And he had never banished me from anything before.

Mr Lawler stayed almost an hour. I did my chores, then hung around in the kitchen, wondering if I was brave enough to eavesdrop. I wasn't. I sat, ate two Bourbon creams, chewed my nails, listened to the low hum of their voices, and wondered for the fifteenth time why Will had asked this man not to use the front entrance.

He didn't look like a doctor, or consultant. He could have been a financial adviser, but he somehow didn't have the right air about him. He certainly didn't look like a physiotherapist, occupational therapist or dietician -- or one of the legions of other people employed by the local authority to pop by and assess Will's ever-changing needs. You could spot those a mile off. They always looked exhausted, but were briskly, determinedly cheerful. They wore woollens in muted colours, with sensible shoes, and drove dusty estate cars full of folders and boxes of equipment. Mr Lawler had a navy-blue BMW. His gleaming 5-series was not a local authority sort of a car.

'Thank you, Louisa."

"Email would be preferable to letter -- at least, for now."

His clothes were beautifully cut; they carried the sharp edge of the city in their tailoring, serious money in their thread count.

"I should be in touch later this week," Mr Lawler said.

"Right. So that's all for now."

I was in the hallway within seconds.

"London, unfortunately. Still, hope the traffic won't be too bad at this time of the afternoon."

'Thank you, Michael." Will didn't look at me. "I'll wait to hear from you."

I stepped out after him. The sun was high in the sky and I had to squint to see him. 'So… um… where in London are you based?"

"Ah. Would you mind pointing me towards the bathroom?"

I did so, mutely, and stood there, fidgeting, until he emerged.

"Yes. Of course."

I opened the back door to see him out. Then, as Will disappeared back into the living room, I followed him into the courtyard and said lightly, 'So -- do you have far to go?"

Finally, Mr Lawler emerged. He closed his briefcase, and his jacket hung over his arm. He no longer looked awkward.

'Regent Street."

'The Regent Street? Nice."

"Clark. Louisa Clark."

"Yes. Not a bad place to be. Right. Thank you for the coffee, Miss…"

"Ah. Miss Clark," he said, his professional smile swiftly reinstated. 'Thank you, anyway."

That night, I stopped off at the library on my way home to Patrick's. I could have used his computer, but I still felt like I should ask, and this just seemed easier. I sat down at the terminal, and typed 'Michael Lawler" and 'Regent Street, London" into the search engine. Knowledge is power, Will, I told him, silently.

He stopped then and looked at me for a moment, and I wondered whether he had sussed my inadequate attempts to work out who he might be.

He put his briefcase carefully on the back seat, climbed into his car and was gone.

There were 3,290 results, the first three of which revealed a 'Michael Lawler, practitioner at law, specialist in wills, probate and power of attorney" based in that same street. I stared at the screen for a few minutes, then I typed in his name again, this time against the search engine of images, and there he was, at some Round Table function, in a dark suit -- Michael Lawler, specialist in wills and probate, the same man who had spent an hour with Will.

Mum cried; she thought she was forcing me out.

'She's still my baby," she said, pressing two tins of fruit cake and a carrier bag of cleaning products into my arms.

I moved into Patrick's that night, in the hour and a half between me finishing work and him heading off to the track. I took everything except my bed and the new blinds. He arrived with his car, and we loaded my belongings into bin bags. Within two trips we had it all -- bar my school books in the loft -- at his.

"For goodness' sake, love. It's time she moved on. She's twenty-seven years old," my father told her.

I didn't know what to say to her. I don't even like fruit cake.

It was surprisingly easy, fitting my belongings into Patrick's flat. He had next to nothing, anyway, and I had almost nothing from years spent in the box room. The only thing we fell out over was my CD collection, which apparently could only be combined with his once I had stickered the backs of mine and sorted them into alphabetical order.

'Make yourself at home," he kept saying, as if I were some kind of guest. We were nervous, strangely awkward with each other, like two people on a first date. While I was unpacking, he brought me tea and said, "I thought this could be your mug." He showed me where everything lived in the kitchen, then said, several times, "Of course, put stuff where you want. I don't mind."

He laughed nervously. "What's that?"

He had cleared two drawers and the wardrobe in the spare room. The other two drawers were filled with his fitness clothes. I didn't know there were so many permutations of Lycra and fleece. My wildly colourful clothes left several feet of space still empty, the wire hangers jangling mournfully in the closet space.

He looked at my calendar, tacked up on the spare-room wall, with its ideas in green and its actual planned events in black. When something had worked (music, wine tasting), I put a smiley face next to it. When it hadn't (horse racing, art galleries), it stayed blank. There was little marked in for the next two weeks -- Will had become bored of the places nearby, and as yet I could not persuade him to venture further afield. I glanced over at Patrick. I could see him eyeing the 12 August date, which was now underlined with exclamation marks in black.

"I'll have to buy more stuff just to fill it up," I said, looking at it.

"Um… it's just reminding me about my job."

'That way you're covered for whatever happens," he said. He kissed me and left me to it.

Patrick took the pen from its clip, looked at the next month, and scribbled under week 28: 'Time to start job hunting."

"You don't think they're going to renew your contract?"

"I don't know, Patrick."

I laid my creams out carefully in the bathroom, tucked my razors, moisturizer and tampons neatly into his mirrored cabinet. I put some books in a neat row along the spare-room floor under the window, including the new titles that Will had ordered from Amazon for me. Patrick promised to put up some shelves when he had a spare moment.

And then, as he left to go running, I sat and looked out over the industrial estate towards the castle, and practised saying the word home, silently under my breath.

I am pretty hopeless at keeping secrets. Treena says I touch my nose as soon as I even think of lying. It's a pretty straightforward giveaway. My parents still joke about the time I wrote absence notes for myself after bunking off school. 'Dear Miss Trowbridge," they read. "Please excuse Louisa Clark from today's lessons as I am very poorly with women's problems." Dad had struggled to keep a straight face even while he was supposed to be tearing a strip off me.

I spent the next couple of nights trying to work out what Will was up to, and what I could do to stop him, my thoughts racing even as Patrick and I chatted, cooking together in the little galley kitchen. (I was already discovering new things about him -- like, he really did know a hundred different things to do with turkey breast.) At night we made love -- it seemed almost obligatory at the moment, as if we should take full advantage of our freedom. It was as if Patrick somehow felt I owed him something, given my constant physical proximity to Will. But as soon as he dropped off to sleep, I was lost in my thoughts again.

Keeping Will's plan from my family had been one thing -- I was good at keeping secrets from my parents (it's one of the things we learn while growing up, after all) -- but coping with the anxiety by myself was something else entirely.

There were just over seven weeks left.

The following week, if Will noticed that I was preoccupied, he didn't say anything. We went through the motions of our daily routine -- I took him for short drives into the country, cooked his meals, saw to him when we were in his house. He didn't make jokes about Running Man any more.

And Will was making plans, even if I wasn't.

Nathan watched us both, as if he were observing some kind of new species.

I talked to him about the latest books he had recommended: we had done The English Patient (I loved this), and a Swedish thriller (which I hadn't). We were solicitous with each other, almost excessively polite. I missed his insults, his crabbiness -- their absence just added to the looming sense of threat that hung over me.

'That's exactly what he said."

"You two had a row?" he asked me one day in the kitchen, as I unpacked the groceries.

"You'd better ask him," I said.

He looked at me sideways, and disappeared into the bathroom to unlock Will's medical cabinet.

It was a much smarter affair than The Buttered Bun -- all limed oak and bleached wood tables and chairs. It sold home-made soup full of actual vegetables, and fancy cakes. And you couldn't buy a normal coffee, only lattes, cappuccinos and macchiatos. There were no builders, or girls from the hairdresser's. I sat nursing my tea, and wondered about the Dandelion Lady and whether she would feel comfortable enough to sit in here and read a newspaper all morning.

Meanwhile, I'd lasted three days after Michael Lawler's visit before I rang Mrs Traynor. I asked if we could meet somewhere other than her house, and we agreed on a little cafe that had opened in the grounds of the castle. The same cafe, ironically, that had cost me my job.

"I was held up in court."

"Will had a lawyer come to the house," I said. "I found out he is a specialist in wills and probate." I couldn't think of any gentler way to open the conversation.

I fought the urge to stand up. There was never a time when I spoke to her that I didn't still feel like I was engaged in some kind of interview.

She looked like I'd just smacked her in the face. I realized, too late, that she might actually have thought I'd have something good to tell her.

'Sorry. To get you out of work, I mean. I just… well, I wasn't sure it could wait."

She held up a hand, and mouthed something at the waitress, who within seconds had brought her a cappuccino. Then she sat across from me. I felt her gaze like I was transparent.

"I looked him up on the internet. He's based in Regent Street. In London," I added unnecessarily. "His name is Michael Lawler."

"A lawyer? Are you sure?"

"Louisa, I'm sorry I'm late." Camilla Traynor entered briskly, her handbag tucked under her arm, dressed in a grey silk shirt and navy trousers.

"How is he in himself? Have you… have you come up with any other ideas? Outings?"

All the while I spoke, I could see her mind working ahead of me, calculating, assessing.

I knew how she felt.

Her face looked almost leached of colour.

"We have carrot cake on special today. We make it here ourselves. It's got a lovely buttercream fill-"

'Did you want anything else?" the girl said.

The girl stood there just long enough to let us know she was offended and then stalked off, her notepad swinging conspicuously from one hand.

"I'm sorry," I said. "You told me before that I should let you know anything important. I stayed awake half the night trying to work out whether to say anything."

"No. I don't think he wanted me to know. I… I got his name and looked him up."

Her coffee arrived. The waitress put it on the table in front of her, but Mrs Traynor didn't seem to notice.

"No, thank you."

"No." Mrs Traynor's voice was sharp. 'Thank you."

"He's not keen." I told her about Paris, and my list of things I had compiled.

She blinked hard, as if trying to take this in. 'Did Will tell you this?"

"If there's anything else you can think of… just to buy us some time. I'll pay your wages beyond the six months, obviously."

I nodded.

"Anywhere," she said, finally. "I'll finance it. Any trip you want. I'll pay for you. For Nathan. Just -- just see if you can get him to agree to it."

'That's… that's really not an issue."

"I suppose I should get back to work. Please let me know anything that you… you can come up with, Louisa. It might be better if we have these conversations away from the annexe."

I stood up. "Oh," I said, "you'll need my new number. I just moved." As she reached into her handbag for a pen, I added, "I moved in with Patrick… my boyfriend."

We finished our coffees in silence, both lost in our thoughts. As I watched her, surreptitiously, I noticed that her immaculate hairstyle was now flecked with grey, her eyes as shadowed as my own. I realized I didn't feel any better for having told her, to have passed my own heightened anxiety on to her -- but what choice did I have? The stakes were getting higher with every day that passed. The sound of the clock striking two seemed to spur her out of her stasis.

She stood, one hand resting on the table. "Will mentioned the other day that you… he thought you might be moving into the annexe. At weekends."

"I didn't know I needed to tell you."

"I didn't know you had a boyfriend."

I don't know why this news surprised her so much. She looked startled, and then she handed me her pen.

"Well, I thought it might be more straightforward for everyone if I moved in with Patrick." I handed her the slip of paper. "But I'm not far away. Just by the industrial estate. It won't affect my hours. Or my punctuality."

We stood there. Mrs Traynor seemed agitated, her hand running through her hair, reaching down for the chain around her neck. Finally -- as if she could not help herself -- she blurted out, "Would it really have hurt you to have waited? Just a few weeks?"

"I'm sorry?"

I scribbled Patrick's home number.

"Will… I think Will is very fond of you." She bit her lip. "I can't see… I can't see how this really helps."

"Hold on. Are you telling me I shouldn't have moved in with my boyfriend?"

"I'm just saying that the timing is not ideal. Will is in a very vulnerable state. We're all doing our best to keep him optimistic… and you --"

She lowered her voice. "I am doing everything I can, Louisa, to stop this… thing. You know the task we're facing. And I'm just saying that I wish -- given the fact he is very fond of you -- that you had waited a while longer before rubbing your… your happiness in his face."

"I what?" I could see the waitress watching us, her notepad stilled in her hand. "I what? Dared to have a life away from work?"

I could hardly believe what I was hearing. I felt the colour rise to my face, and took a deep breath before I spoke again.

"How dare you suggest I would do anything to hurt Will's feelings. I have done everything," I hissed. "I have done everything I can think of. I've come up with ideas, got him out, talked to him, read to him, looked after him." My last words exploded out of my chest. "I've cleaned up after him. I've changed his bloody catheter. I've made him laugh. I've done more than your bloody family have done."

That conversation with Mrs Traynor kept me jangling for the next couple of days. I kept hearing her words, the idea that I was rubbing my happiness in his face. I didn't think Will could be affected by anything that I did. When he had seemed disapproving about my decision to move in with Patrick, I had thought it was about him not liking Patrick rather than any feelings he had for me. More importantly, I didn't think I had looked particularly happy.

She turned, and walked swiftly out of the cafe.

"Yes. Yes, Mrs Traynor. I think it probably has."

Mrs Traynor stood very still. She drew herself up to her full height, tucked her handbag under her arm. "I think this conversation has probably ended, Miss Clark."

When the door slammed shut, I realized I too was shaking.

At home, I couldn't shake this feeling of anxiety. It was like a low-level current running through me, and it fed into everything I did. I asked Patrick, "Would we have done this if my sister hadn't needed my room at home?"

He had looked at me as if I were daft. He leant over and pulled me to him, kissing the top of my head. Then he glanced down. 'Do you have to wear these pyjamas? I hate you in pyjamas."

'They're comfortable."

"I'm not going to wear a basque and suspenders every night just to keep you happy. And you're not answering my question."

"But we weren't talking about it, were we?"

It felt like I was living a life I hadn't had a chance to anticipate.

But it didn't feel simple.

'They look like something my mum would wear."

"I just… don't want you to think I made this happen. I don't want to feel like I made this happen."

That Friday it rained all day -- warm, heavy sheets of it, like we were in the tropics, making the guttering gurgle and bowing the stems of the flowering shrubs as if in supplication. Will stared out of the windows like a dog denied a walk. Nathan came and went, a plastic bag lifted above his head. Will watched a documentary about penguins, and afterwards, while he logged on to his computer, I busied myself, so that we didn't have to talk to each other. I felt our discomfort with each other keenly, and being in the same room as him all the time made it that much worse.

"Lou, most people move in with each other because it's sensible. You can love someone and still see the financial and practical advantages."

He sighed, and rolled on to his back. "Why do women always have to go over and over a situation until it becomes a problem? I love you, you love me, we've been together nearly seven years and there was no room at your parents" house any more. It's actually pretty simple."

"I don't know. Probably. Yes."

I wiped a lock of hair from my face. It was true. There was a definite waft of large haddock in the atmosphere.

"What?"

'Say that again," he said, after a beat.

I could feel him watching me.

"What are you doing?"

"Come on. It's finally stopped raining. I just spoke to my dad. He said he'll give us the keys to the castle after five o'clock, once all the tourists are out."

I straightened up. "Why, are you having problems with your hearing? I'm descaling your taps."

I was bent low over the bath. I didn't turn round. "I'm descaling your taps."

"No, I just want you to listen to what you're saying. There is no reason to descale my taps, Clark. My mother won't notice it, I won't care, and it's making the bathroom stink like a fish and chip shop. Besides, I'd like to go out."

'Say that again."

I had finally begun to understand the consolations of cleaning. I mopped, cleaned windows and changed duvets. I was a constant whirl of activity. No dust mote escaped my eye, no tea ring my forensic attentions. I was dislodging the limescale on the bathroom taps using kitchen roll soaked in vinegar (my mother's tip) when I heard Will's chair behind me.

Will had escaped into the empty grounds of the castle his whole childhood, he said. His dad let him roam the place, trusting him not to touch anything. After 5.30pm, when the last of the tourists had gone, as the gardeners began to trim and tidy, as the cleaners emptied the bins and swept up the empty cartons of drink and commemorative toffee fudge, it had become his private playground. As he told me this, I mused that if Treena and I had been given the freedom of the castle, all to ourselves, we would have been air punching with disbelief and getting giddy all over the place.

I didn't feel great about the idea of us having to make polite conversation during a walk around the grounds. But the thought of being out of the annexe was appealing.

"Okay. Give me five minutes. I need to try and get the smell of vinegar off my hands."

The difference between growing up like me and growing up like Will was that he wore his sense of entitlement lightly. I think if you grow up as he had done, with wealthy parents, in a nice house, if you go to good schools and nice restaurants as a matter of course, you probably just have this sense that good things will fall into place, that your position in the world is naturally an elevated one.

"First girl I ever kissed was in front of the drawbridge," he said, slowing to look towards it as we walked along the gravel path.

'Did you tell her it was your place?"

"He still works there, you know. In the minimart. If that makes you feel any better."

"No. Perhaps I should have done. She dumped me a week later for the boy who worked in the minimart."

I turned and stared at him in shock. "Not Terry Rowlands? Dark slicked-back hair, tattoos up to his elbows?"

He raised an eyebrow. 'That's him."

It was strange seeing the castle like this, in silence, the two of us the only people there apart from the odd gardener in the distance. Instead of gazing at the tourists, being distracted by their accents and their alien lives, I found myself looking at the castle for perhaps the first time, beginning to absorb some of its history. Its flinted walls had stood there for more than 800 years. People had been born and died there, hearts filled and broken. Now, in the silence, you could almost hear their voices, their own footsteps on the path.

"I'm not sure he'd feel entirely envious of where I ended up," Will said, and I stopped talking again.

"Okay, confession time," I said. 'Did you ever walk around here and pretend secretly that you were some kind of warrior prince?"

"Of course."

Will looked sideways at me. "Honestly?"

"Yes. I even borrowed one of the swords off the walls of the Great Hall once. It weighed a ton. I remember being petrified that I wouldn't be able to lift it back on to its stand."

We had reached the swell of the hill, and from here, at the front of the moat, we could look down the long sweep of grass to the ruined wall that had marked the boundary. Beyond it lay the town, the neon signs and queues of traffic, the bustle that marked the small town's rush hour. Up here it was silent apart from the birds and the soft hum of Will's chair.

He stopped the chair briefly and swivelled it so that we looked down at the grounds. "I'm surprised we never met each other," he said. "When I was growing up, I mean. Our paths must have crossed."

"Why would they? We didn't exactly move in the same circles. And I would just have been the baby you passed in the pram, while swinging your sword."

"Eight years would definitely have qualified you as an "older man"," I said. "Even when I was a teenager my dad would never have let me go out with an older man."

"Ah. I forgot -- I am positively ancient compared to you."

"Not even if he had his own castle?"

"Let's do the maze. I haven't done it for ages."

"Why, are you afraid of getting lost? C'mon, Clark. It'll be a challenge for you. See if you can memorize the route you take in, then take the reverse one out. I'll time you. I used to do it all the time."

"Well, that would change things, obviously."

The sweet smell of the grass rose up around us as we walked, Will's wheels hissing through the clear puddles on the path. I felt relieved. Our conversation wasn't quite as it had been, but perhaps that was only to be expected. Mrs Traynor had been right -- it would always be hard for Will to watch other people moving on with their lives. I made a mental note to think more carefully about how my actions might make an impact on his life. I didn't want to be angry any more.

I was pulled back from my thoughts. "Oh. No, thanks." I glanced over, noticing suddenly where we were.

'That's not it."

"No problem. We'll just take our boring little walk and go back to the boring little annexe."

"Ah. Playing safe again."

I know he was joking. But something in his tone really got to me. I thought of Deirdre on the bus, her comments about how good it was that one of us girls had stayed behind. Mine was to be the small life, my ambitions the petty ones.

I glanced over at the maze, at its dark, dense box hedging. I was being ridiculous. Perhaps I had been behaving ridiculously for years. It was all over, after all. And I was moving on.

I glanced back towards the house. "I'd really rather not." Even the thought of it had brought a knot to my stomach.

I left him on the path before I could think about it. I took a breath, and walked in past the sign that warned "No Unaccompanied Children", striding briskly between the dark, damp hedging which still glistened with raindrops.

"Just remember which turn you take, then reverse it to come out. It's not as hard as it looks. Really."

It's not so bad, it's not so bad, I found myself murmuring under my breath. It's just a load of old hedges. I took a right turn, then a left through a break in the hedge. I took another right, a left, and as I went I rehearsed in my head the reverse of where I had been. Right. Left. Break. Right. Left.

My heart rate began to rise a little, so that I could hear the blood pumping in my ears. I forced myself to think about Will on the other side of the hedge, glancing down at his watch. It was just a silly test. I was no longer that naive young woman. I was twenty-seven. I lived with my boyfriend. I had a responsible job. I was a different person.

I turned, went straight on, and turned again.

And then, almost from nowhere, the panic rose within me like bile. I thought I saw a man darting at the end of the hedge. Even though I told myself it was just my imagination, the act of reassuring myself made me forget my reversed instructions. Right. Left. Break. Right. Right? Had I got that the wrong way around? My breath caught in my throat. I forced myself onwards, only to realize that I had completely lost my bearings. I stopped and glanced around me at the direction of the shadows, trying to work out which direction was west.

And as I stood there, it dawned on me that I couldn't do it. I couldn't stay in there. I whipped round, and began to walk in what I thought was a southerly direction. I would get out. I was twenty-seven years old. It was fine. But then I heard their voices, the catcalling, the mocking laughter. I saw them, darting in and out of the gaps in the hedge, felt my own feet sway drunkenly under my high heels, the unforgiving prickle of the hedge as I fell against it, trying to steady myself.

And they had all vanished. The maze was silent, just the distant whispers that might have been them on the other side of the hedge -- or might have been the wind dislodging the leaves.

I had known then, just from the feel of his hands on my waist. I had realized that some balance had shifted, that some restraint on behaviour had begun to evaporate. And I had laughed, pushed at his hands as if they were a joke, unwilling to let him know that I knew. I heard him shout for his friends. And I broke away from him, running suddenly, trying to fight my way to the exit, my feet sinking into the damp grass. I heard them all around me, their raised voices, their bodies unseen, and felt my throat constrict in panic. I was too disorientated to work out where I was. The tall hedges kept swaying, pitching towards me. I kept going, pushing my way around corners, stumbling, ducking into openings, trying to get away from their voices. But the exit never came. Everywhere I turned there was just another expanse of hedge, another mocking voice.

"You can't go yet," he said. "You'll spoil the game."

"I want to go out now," I had said, my voice sounding uncertain even to me. I had gazed up at the sky, briefly unbalanced by the vast, studded black of the space above me. And then I jumped as someone caught me around my waist -- the dark-haired one. The one who had been to Africa.

"I want to get out now," I had told them, my voice slurring and unsteady. "I've had enough, guys."

I stumbled into an opening, briefly exultant that I was near freedom. But then I saw I was back at the centre again, back where I had started. I reeled as I saw them all standing there, as if they had simply been waiting for me.

"Give us all a kiss and we'll all show you the way out."

Their faces were a blur.

"Come on, Lou. You like me, don't you? You've been sitting on my lap all evening. One kiss. How hard is that?"

"And you'll show me how to get out?" My voice sounded pathetic, even to me.

"I just… I just want you to --"

I felt his mouth on mine, a hand squeezing my thigh.

"Just one." He moved closer.

'There you go," one of them said, as his hand grabbed my arm. "I told you she was up for it. Come on, Lou-lou, give me a kiss and I'll show you the way out." His voice was soft and drawling.

I heard a snigger.

I don't know what I said then. Someone had my arm. I heard the laughter, felt a hand in my hair, another mouth on mine, insistent, invasive, and then -

He broke away, and I heard the tenor of his breathing change. "And now Jake's turn."

And there he was, in front of me.

He lifted his arm a couple of inches -- the maximum he could manage. "Oh Jesus, what the -? Come here, Clark. He moved forward, then glanced down at his arm in frustration. "Bloody useless thing… It's okay. Just breathe. Come here. Just breathe. Slowly."

"Where are -?"

I wiped my eyes. At the sight of him, the panic had begun to subside. I stood up, unsteadily, and tried to straighten my face. "I'm sorry. I… don't know what happened."

I was in the corner, as far under the hedge as I could get. Tears blurred my eyes, my arms wrapped tightly around me. I couldn't get out. I would be stuck here forever. Nobody would find me.

"Are you claustrophobic?" His face, inches from mine, was etched with worry. "I could see you didn't want to go in. I just… I just thought you were being --"

"Louisa? Louisa, where are you? What's the matter?"

"Will…"

I was sobbing now, crouched over myself. "Will," I was saying his name, over and over again, my voice ragged, emerging somewhere from my chest. I heard him somewhere far off, beyond the hedge.

"Will…"

"I'm sorry," I said, looking up, my face contorted. "I'm sorry. I can't… do it."

He had me out of there within minutes. He knew the maze backwards, he told me as we walked, his voice calm, reassuring. It had been a challenge for him as a boy to learn his way through. I entwined my fingers with his and felt the warmth of his hand as something comforting. I felt foolish when I realized how close to the entrance I had been all along.

I shut my eyes. "I just want to go now."

We stopped at a bench just outside, and I rummaged in the back of his chair for a tissue. We sat there in silence, me on the end of the bench beside him, both of us waiting for my hiccoughing to subside.

He sat, sneaking sideways glances at me.

"Hold on to my hand. We'll go out."

'So…?" he said, finally, when I must have looked as if I could speak without falling apart again. "You want to tell me what's going on?"

I twisted the tissue in my hands. "I can't."

He closed his mouth.

I swallowed. "It's not you," I said, hurriedly. "I haven't talked to anyone about… It's… it's stupid. And a long time ago. I didn't think… I would…"

"Okay. Here's a thing," he said, finally. I turned around, but he wasn't looking at me. "I'll tell you something that I never tell anyone. All right?"

I shook my head, trying to tell him that there were things I couldn't say. I wanted to reach for his hand again, but I didn't feel I could. I was conscious of his gaze, could almost hear his unspoken questions.

I felt his eyes on me, and wished he wouldn't look. My hands wouldn't stop trembling, and my stomach felt as if it were made of a million knots.

"All right." I screwed the tissue into a ball in my hands, waiting.

"I get really, really scared of how this is going to go." He let that settle in the air between us, and then, in a low, calm voice, he carried on. "I know most people think living like me is about the worst thing that could happen. But it could get worse. I could end up not being able to breathe by myself, not being able to talk. I could get circulatory problems that mean my limbs have to be amputated. I could be hospitalized indefinitely. This isn't much of a life, Clark. But when I think about how much worse it could get -- some nights I lie in my bed and I can't actually breathe."

Below us, two cars had pulled up near the gates. Two figures got out -- from here it was impossible to see who -- and embraced. They stood there for a few minutes, perhaps talking, and then got back into their cars and drove off in the opposite direction. I watched them but I couldn't think. My mind felt frozen. I didn't know what to say about anything any more.

He took a deep breath.

I blinked into the darkness. 'Do I do that?" I said, quietly.

"You, Clark," he looked down at his hands, "are the only person I have felt able to talk to since I ended up in this bloody thing."

He paused. 'They need to believe there is a bright side."

He swallowed. "And you know what? Nobody wants to hear that stuff. Nobody wants you to talk about being afraid, or in pain, or being scared of dying through some stupid, random infection. Nobody wants to know how it feels to know you will never have sex again, never eat food you've made with your own hands again, never hold your own child. Nobody wants to know that sometimes I feel so claustrophobic, being in this chair, I just want to scream like a madman at the thought of spending another day in it. My mother is hanging on by a thread and can't forgive me for still loving my father. My sister resents me for the fact that yet again I have overshadowed her -- and because my injuries mean she can't properly hate me, like she has since we were children. My father just wants it all to go away. Ultimately, they want to look on the bright side. They need me to look on the bright side."

"You don't need me to tell you it wasn't your fault," he said, quietly.

And so I told him.

Above us the sky had become endless and infinite.

By the time we finished talking the sky had grown dark, and there were fourteen messages on my mobile phone wondering where we were.

I reached for his hand, the same one that had led me out of the maze, and I looked straight down at my feet and I took a breath and I told him about the whole night, and how they had laughed at me and made fun of how drunk and stoned I was, and how I had passed out and later my sister had said it might actually be a good thing, the not remembering all of what they had done, but how that half-hour of not knowing had haunted me ever since. I filled it, you see. I filled it with their laughter, their bodies and their words. I filled it with my own humiliation. I told him how I saw their faces every time I went anywhere beyond the town, and how Patrick and Mum and Dad and my small life had been just fine for me, with all their problems and limitations. They had let me feel safe.

Nobody had ever said those words aloud to me. Even Treena's look of sympathy had held some mute accusation. Well, if you will get drunk and silly with men you don't know…

"No. They were responsible."

"Louisa. It wasn't your fault."

I murmured a yes.

I cried then. Not sobbing, this time. The tears left me silently, and told me something else was leaving me. Guilt. Fear. A few other things I hadn't yet found words for. I leant my head gently on his shoulder and he tilted his head until it rested against mine.

I twisted the handkerchief in my hand. "Yes. Well. I still feel… responsible. I drank too much to show off. I was a terrible flirt. I was --"

His fingers squeezed mine. A faint movement, but there it was.

I felt his head tilt against mine.

"Right. Are you listening to me?"

'Then I'll tell you something good," he said, and then he waited, as if he wanted to be sure he had my attention. 'Some mistakes… just have greater consequences than others. But you don't have to let that night be the thing that defines you."

"We'd better get back," he said, eventually. "Before they call out a search party."

"You, Clark, have the choice not to let that happen."

The sigh that left me then was long, and shuddering. We sat there in silence, letting his words sink in. I could have stayed there all night, above the rest of the world, the warmth of Will's hand in mine, feeling the worst of myself slowly begin to ebb away.

I released his hand and stood, a little reluctantly, feeling the cool breezes on my skin. And then, almost luxuriously, I stretched my arms high above my head. I let my fingers straighten in the evening air, the tension of weeks, months, perhaps years, easing a little, and let out a deep breath.

He shook his head, and turned his chair back towards the path.

Below me the lights of the town winked, a circle of light amid the black countryside below us. I turned back towards him. "Will?"

"Yes?"

I could barely see him in the dim light, but I knew he was watching me. 'Thank you. Thank you for coming to get me."