Her breathing steadies.
Then she crosses to her laptop and opens it up, bringing up Geraint’s email. She wants to reply before she can change her mind.
Dear Geraint,
Nice to hear from you. I saw your name in the news as the CC spokesperson. I’m glad November’s got you to support her with handling the press. As for me, I’m doing okay, thanks. So is Will—at least, he’s not out of hospital yet, but they say he may be discharged soon.
I know you said not to reply straightaway, but I’m going to—I’m going to give you my answer now, and please know that it’s not going to change.
I am ready. But not to talk. In some ways, I feel as if I’ve done nothing but talk. I’ve told my version again and again: to the police, to the courts, to you and November and Will. I’ve been telling it for more than ten years.
I’ve said everything. And now it’s time for me to shut up—and move on.
I listened to the opening of your podcast, and I hope it’s a huge hit. You know the truth, and you’ll tell it well. And April’s life deserves to be celebrated, just as Neville’s voice deserves to be heard.
But I’ve said enough. I’ve given enough of my life to April’s death.
Be safe. Stay well. Take care of November. She needs someone like you.
Love,
Hannah
She hovers for a moment, with her mouse over the paper airplane button, and then, very firmly, she presses it and the email whooshes away, leaving her staring at her inbox, and the line of folders ranked next to her unread emails. Bills. House. Personal. Receipts. And then finally, Requests.
Slowly, very slowly, she opens up the folder, and for the first time in years, maybe even the first time ever, she scans down the list of emails.
Hannah, urgent we talk! Fee available.
Message for Hannah Jones re Pelham Strangler case.
Important update on the Clarke-Cliveden case!!! Time sensitive!!!
ITV News request for comment re April update.
Interview request for Mail—please pass to Ms. Jones
There are dozens of them. Hundreds. Thousands, going back years, and years, and years. Slowly, very slowly, she checks the box marked “all.” A dialogue box pops up: All 50 messages on this page are selected. Select all 2,758 messages in Requests?
She clicks to select all 2,758. Then she moves over and presses the delete button.
This action will affect all 2,758 messages in Requests, her computer prompts. Are you sure that you want to continue?
She clicks okay.
The page hangs for a moment, as if giving her the chance to change her mind… and then the screen goes blank. There are no messages with this label it says.
Her email pings again, and she glances at it. It’s from a reporter she doesn’t know, someone called Paul Dylon. The subject line is Urgent request for comment re quashing of Neville conviction, for 6 o’clock news.
Hannah presses delete and watches as the message swirls away into the ether. She closes down her laptop, stands, and stretches long and hard, feeling the baby inside her shift luxuriantly, as if reveling in the extra space. The bones in her hips and spine click, and she releases a long breath.
Then she walks over to the cupboard in the corner of the living room, the one where they keep the screwdrivers and the Allen keys and the spare fuses. She pulls out the toolbox and takes it across to the window, clearing a wide space on the rug.
It’s time. She has a crib to build.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Beginning any novel is daunting （have I forgotten how to do it, will the plot come good）， but writing about Oxford is a particular kind of challenge—it’s been novelized so frequently and so well that it feels slightly hubristic to add to the pile of books about the college experience. It’s particularly daunting when, like me, you didn’t actually go to Oxford yourself, so huge thanks therefore to the friends who helped with my questions and queries about the minutiae of college life, entrance exams, and what exactly I could get away with in the name of artistic license—in particular Kate Bell and Chris Moore, Rosie Wellesley, Joe Moshenska, and Beth and Amanda Jennings. Thanks also to Fiona Nixon who answered my questions about studying medicine. Needless to say any stretches of the imagination are mine, as are any flat-out mistakes—and it probably doesn’t need saying, but Pelham College is an entirely fictional entity, and its pastoral failings certainly aren’t based on any real Oxford colleges.
Thank you to Sam Gordon for his advice on elimination DNA and crime scene processes, to AA Dhand for his pharmaceutical knowledge, and to Colin Scott for invaluable help with aspects of the court case （as well as countless other things）。