'Maya Scotton? Sara's sister?'
I nod. Her face tightens. And I think I've just met another of my sister's victims.
'But you lived over the road from us.'
'I did.'
'And now you're seeing Dan?'
Jesus, this must be weird for her. She's shaking her head now, ever so slightly, and it's clear that she's struggling to take it all in.
'It's kind of … kind of complicated … ' I stammer. 'How we got together.'
'And he knows you're from here? He knows you're from Limmingham?'
'Yes.'
She stares at me, wide-eyed with confusion. I'm pretty sure I'm about to be told to sling my hook when she steps back, waving the tea towel in the direction of the back of the house. 'You'd better come in.'
Stepping over the threshold, I'm ushered through a gloomy hallway into a kitchen-diner where a set of French windows give out onto a modest garden. Outside, the sun has come out again and two young boys are whirling about on the lawn, circling a paddling pool and shrieking with delight.
'Take a seat.'
She motions to a table. It's littered with pencils, colouring books and mangled Plasticine figures. I sit down just as the boys skitter into the kitchen and come to a halt in front of me.
'Who's that?' Clutching an Action Man in one hand, the smaller boy gazes up in awe.
'A friend,' Layla explains, eyeing me suspiciously. 'And this is Cameron.' She places a palm on the back of his head. 'He's my youngest. How old are you, Cameron?'
'Three!' he squeals.
'Hi, Cameron.' I smile.
'Did you wee in Ben's bucket?' Layla asks with mock sternness.
'Yes!' He runs back out into the garden.
'And this is Ben.' The taller boy comes forwards, watching me cautiously. 'He's five.'
'Hi, Ben.' I smile again.
'We've got a paddling pool,' he announces proudly.
'Go and play in it,' Layla encourages him.
I watch as Ben runs back out into the garden to join his brother. Picking up the offending seaside bucket, he slings it across the lawn before jumping into the paddling pool and disappearing from view.
'We had it out last week when it was hot.' Layla throws the tea towel onto the counter. 'I can't get them out of it. I filled it again this morning and it's already clogged up with grass. Who'd have kids, eh?'
I grin like an idiot, recalling my little day dream in Dan's garden. Shaking it quickly out of my mind, I drag myself back to the task in hand.
'Cup of tea?'
'Please.'
I don't want a cup of tea at all, but I know the deal: we're about to have a difficult conversation, something that's always easier to bear with a touch of caffeine. In silence, she flicks on the kettle, makes two mugs of tea and brings them over to the table.
'So … ' She pauses, settling herself onto a chair. 'Dan's girlfriend, eh?'
I nod.
'And you're Layla.'
'That's me.' She raises her mug as if making a toast, and takes a sip of tea. 'He definitely doesn't know you're here?'
'No.'
'Good.' Placing her mug on the table, she runs a finger round the rim, watching its slow progress while she speaks. 'I don't think he'd be too pleased about it. You know he doesn't want anything to do with me?'
I nod again.
'So, what made you come?'
Oh God, how do I explain that? Trying desperately to put the chain of events into order, I run through it all in my head, every last detail that's brought me to this point. And then I simply give up, open my mouth and let anything spill out.
'Because I love him, and I want to spend the rest of my life with him … because I need to understand him and trust him.' The words begin to catch in my throat. I must sound ridiculous. 'I just can't work out why he's so determined to cut you out of his life. He says it's complicated, but it doesn't make any sense to me. And I don't think he's happy about it, not really. I want him to work it out. I want him to get back in touch with you.'
She seems to wince. 'I'm not sure that's possible.'
'But why not? Why won't he see you?'
'I don't know for sure.'
Her eyes shift from my face to the garden. She watches her boys, clearly thinking things through. I have no idea how long we spend in silence before she finally speaks again.
'I'd love to see him again, Maya. I'd love nothing more. After all, he's my brother … and their uncle.'
I take a sip of tea, listening to the sound of splashing and squealing.
'Do they know about him?'
'I tell them he works abroad. He's a very busy man, but they might meet him one day.' She picks up a lump of Plasticine and rolls it between her thumb and forefinger. 'Has he told you anything about when we were kids?'
'Not a lot. Just the basics. It's pretty difficult to get much out of him.'
'That's not surprising.' She takes in a deep breath. 'He had a hard time. I don't blame him for wanting to forget.'
While she drifts away into memory, staring at the Plasticine and squeezing it over and over again, I begin to wonder exactly how I'm going to keep her in this conversation.
'He told me you saved his life,' I venture.
The fingers come to a halt. Convinced I'm about to be told to mind my own business, I'm on the verge of apologising when she looks up, smiles and leans forwards.
'I wasn't that old,' she explains, her voice lowered. 'Eight, I think. He was sleeping in the outhouse.' She checks the garden, making sure the boys are still otherwise engaged. 'You know about that?'
I nod.
She nods back.
'It was freezing cold out there.' Dropping the lump of Plasticine, she begins to move an index finger about on the table top, as if tracing the outline of the rooms. 'There was a door from the kitchen. Dad locked it at night, but I knew where he left the key. Every now and then, usually when he was pissed, I'd sneak a bit of food out to Dan.'
She pauses, waiting for my reaction.
'I know they didn't feed him. He told me.'
Her eyes widen slightly and she smiles again. Evidently satisfied that I've been allowed a handful of confidences, she presses on with the story.
'He used to pretend to be asleep, so I just left the food next to him. A bit of bread. A biscuit. Anything I could find. He never said thank you but I didn't care. He didn't need to.' She checks the garden again. 'But that one time, I just knew there was something wrong. He was on top of the covers and there was this weird smell … like metal.' She pauses. 'I tried to wake him up … and then I saw what he'd done ...' Her voice wavers. She's deep in the past now, her eyes unfocussed.
'You don't have to tell me.' I lay a hand on her arm.
She shakes her head.
'I want to.'
'But I'm a stranger.'
'For now.' She watches me for a moment or two, her bottom lip trembling. 'I've never talked about this before, not even with my husband.'
Watching me some more, she waits for a sign that she can unburden herself. With a slight nod, I give it to her.
'I called the ambulance. I had to get it done before Dad woke up. God knows what he would have done if he knew … And then I got a cloth and tried to make it stop, but it wouldn't stop. I thought he was going to die.' She stares at something on the table top. 'They took him away. That was the last time I saw him, for years. He never came back and we never got to visit.'
She checks the boys again, the ghost of a smile playing across her face. It doesn't reach her eyes.
'So what happened to you?'
Pulling her arm out of my touch, she leans back. 'Me?'
'Your dad? Was he the same with you?'
'Nothing quite so bad. With Dan out of the picture, I was his next target. He was always more careful, but it didn't stop him.' She levels her gaze at me. 'I felt the back of his hand.'
'And Sophie?'
She laughs quietly.
'Sophie was the apple of his eye. The special one. He never touched her. To this day, she won't accept what he was really like. I didn't even go to his funeral. She didn't talk to me for years.'
'But you're talking now?'
'A little. But we don't talk about … that.' She chews at her lip. 'Sophie's not well. She wanted to get back in touch. We've kind of turned a blind eye to all the crap.'
She frowns, and I decide not to ask any more. After all, I've done the same with my own sister.
'I heard he'd died.'
'In his sleep. Too quick. Too easy.' She's deadly serious now. 'He should have suffered more.'
Trailing into silence, she flicks a pencil across the table.
'Does Dan know that he's dead?' I ask.
'Yes. And he knows about Mum.'
My forehead furrows. 'His mother died?'
'Liver cirrhosis. Last summer. After Dad went, she drank more than ever. Maybe it was grief. Maybe it was guilt. Anyway, she drank herself to death.'
My mouth opens but nothing comes out. My brain's far too busy stumbling through the facts and tripping over connections. Last summer. When he was miserable. When a visit from someone sent him over the edge. When he walked away from his old life forever.
'It was you,' I gasp. 'You went to see him.'
Her eyes meet mine.
'I did. When I knew Mum was on the way out, I traced him. Somebody contacted him for me, just to see if he was interested, and he said yes.'