Only once, I tagged along with April to visit a teenage Will. He tells us all now that it looks just the same, right down to the curtains his mother left behind when she sold the house and moved off to France.
Dad informs us that a young solicitor lives here now so we do not linger too long.
Since leaving the railway station, I feel the need to check over my shoulder every now and then. I feel at odds with my surroundings. The scene of the village around me looks so idealistic, like a painting. A dense cloud of green brush strokes, with straight lines of grey stone cottages and silver streams dappled by golden highlights. The scene is peppered with stone vases of rainbow-coloured flowers here and there.
I decide eventually that I was being silly earlier, letting my imagination run wild. What I thought I sensed at the platform was surely nothing more than a wayward dog walker.
It feels surreal being back in the village. For the most part, not much has changed. Many of the cottages, however, are now holiday lets, painted dove grey with brightly-coloured trendy doors and potted ferns.
The strangest thing is being back without April. Instead, it is Will and I that walk hand-in-hand, the loving couple. Eva looks bored as she pads along next to her grandfather who insists on pointing things out to her here and there.
I notice how the dappled sunlight filtered by the trees make the highlights in her long hair shine a warm gold, just like April's. I've seen my sister in Eva so many times over the years, but suddenly it seems so much more pronounced today.
We walk quietly past the church. It seems like so much more than a day ago since we were inside.
My eyes sting and I focus on the old village hall which has now been converted into a stylish and modern home, complete with a vegetable garden outside. Dad says the family drive their children over to Great Bishopsford Academy every day – the same school Will, April and I all attended at some stage.
As we pass the next corner, a modern children's play area comes into view that didn't exist when we were young. A tangle of brightly coloured climbing frames reminds me of the days when Eva always used to nag me to take her to the park. Now she barely gives the place a glance as we walk by and I feel a great sadness that such an innocent part of her life has dissolved, never to be seen again.
Dad insists that we venture up the steep street near the edge of the village to reach a new gastropub he has been raving about. I wonder whether he should push himself so hard up the harsh gradient.
'Dad, be careful. I think you should take it a bit easier. Maybe we can go back to the house and get the car instead?'
I look around to Will for support, but my father interjects. His ruddy cheeks are determined.
'Hannah, don't be silly, Love. I've been walking up here regularly just fine, thank you very much. Every weekend for two years I've walked up this hill. Their Yorkshire puddings are worth every drop of sweat, I promise.'
Eva giggles and Will shrugs with a look that says, just leave it.
I look doubtfully towards the top of the slope. 'It looks like a dead end.'
Dad shakes his head. 'Only for cars. This is the quickest way when you cut through the trees at the top.'
The four of us pant and sweat our way up the steep gradient. Further up are just a handful of grand Victorian terraced houses with surely more bedrooms than Will and I would know what to do with. Back in York, these properties would fetch a fair bit, coveted by greedy investors and the dream of young couples wanting to start a family.
But here, the whole row of properties looks in danger of being swallowed up by the established trees that claw their way over the roof tiles. In the gentle summer breeze, the eager fingers scratch the few remaining mullioned windows to see the glorious light of day, free of MDF boards.
Each house is in the same state of disrepair. Clearly, nobody lives on this street. The old road is silent, the only sound is of our footsteps and our collective laboured breathing. I was sure I'd been aware of birdsong before stepping onto this road.
Grass forces its way through the original patterned tiles that lead up to each of the vast entrance porches. They are peppered here and there with broken bottles and I spot a faded syringe. I wish Eva would look away.
This street seems to have been cut off from the rest of the pretty, postcard village. Like a diseased limb, it has been cast off and left to decay on its own, left to rot back into nature. A scar kept hidden away from otherwise untainted beauty.
Even the ancient-looking red pillar box at the very top of the road has been boarded up to prevent any respectable village mail ending up inside.
Even though the muscles in my thighs are screaming, I look back over my shoulder down the hill and appreciate that once, these houses would have had a magnificent view. They would have overlooked the tops of the small cottages with a degree of superiority and the inhabitants would surely have fallen in love with the untouched countryside beyond the railway station. Now, however, the trees on the other side of the lane have grown unkempt and wild, blocking out most of what I know to be there with their thick branches laden with luscious evergreen leaves.
As we pass the last house in the row, I notice the board for the sitting room has been ripped away, leaving scraps of rotting wood in the already scruffy front yard. The effect is that of accidentally ripping off a sticking plaster before a wound is properly healed. The dilapidated innards of the house are exposed – the terracotta bricks surrounding the window frame are charred, the only remnant of the window frame is splintered and black.
I'm sure I don't imagine the smell of must and damp that spills out into the otherwise sweet warm air.
Roof tiles have broken rank and fallen in, leaving a way into the house for the elements and birds. But I am sure there are none, as there is no other trace of life other than our group walking past.
'What happened here, Granddad? What is this place? It looks like it's been set on fire.'
Dad is no longer the exuberant tour-guide all of a sudden. He seems hesitant.
In the overgrown grass beside the end of the terrace, I spot a rusting sign lying nestled in a bed of faded rubbish. The vintage lettering is so badly browned that I can hardly make out the words. But then I do and I feel as though I have swallowed a heavy block of ice.
Prospect Terrace
Realisation hits me and I glance over to Will who now walks beside Eva, looking vacantly at the ground beneath his boots as though he hasn't noticed.
The Wakefields lived here. They went about their business in the village just like anyone else. They bought food from the same shops, sent their children to the same schools as Will, April and I each attended. Paige Wakefield was even in my year.
But then she disappeared. Then her father was arrested.
It was just a short while later that someone set fire to the house. Whether by flame or by smoke, everyone inside was killed.
9
Dad finds his voice. Like Will, he seems unwilling to look at the property. 'Eh? This is just an old house, fallen into disrepair. The delinquents from the bad estates in the towns come over with all their friends to get up to all sorts. Police turn a blind eye. No one lives here any more.'
'Why not?'
Dad shrugs. 'Some developer from the city bought it a few years back, thinking of turning it into flats they were, but it never happened. Probably a problem with planning permission or some other red tape.'