Martin eased the car to a stop outside the grim little cottage that Louisa called home. Depressingly, it was now in an even greater state of disrepair than he'd remembered. The fence had completely collapsed, taking the gate with it. Where lawn and garden might once have been, there was just mud and stones and bits of rusty tin.

He pulled on the handbrake, switched off the engine and waited expectantly, but Louisa remained motionless in her seat. He examined his sleeves for lint, brushing off some imaginary specks of dust, and fiddled with his cuffs but still she did not move. For no reason at all, he flipped down the sun visor and examined it closely. He heard her sigh, and noticed that she was wringing the bottom of her jacket with agitation.

"Ummm, Louisa, shall we go in?" He said, after a moment. "I mean, are you ready?"

There was a long silence.

"Yup." She replied unconvincingly, releasing her seat belt and pushing open the door.

She paused for a moment and said casually: "So, that surgical register thing..."

"Registrar." He corrected, and immediately regretted it, as she fixed him with her unimpressed stare.

"Is that some sort of doctor?"

"Mmm."

The information seemed to mollify her and, without speaking, she wandered toward the house. Martin followed her up on to the small porch and looked on awkwardly from behind while she fiddled with the uncooperative lock.

"It probably just needs some oil." he said, "The salt laden air would play havoc with the mechanism."

Louisa turned her head toward him, giving him an incredulous look, while she continued to wrestle with the catch.

"That's really helpful, thanks Martin," she said with a decidedly salty tone of her own. "Have you got some oil then?"

Before he had a chance to reply, somewhat uncomfortably, in the negative, the lock released and the door swung open. They stepped into a modestly furnished living room. It was cold and in desperate need of redecoration but Martin was pleased to see that it was clean and tidy and that Louisa hadn't, in recent times anyway, been living in complete squalor.

She looked slowly around the room, and then wandered through to the adjoining kitchen. It was tiny and dark, and there was barely room for both of them. Martin had to duck at the last minute to avoid hitting his head on the light fitting. Louisa walked around without saying anything; he continued to follow as she walked down a narrow hallway, past a poky bathroom, to what he presumed were bedrooms. She stopped for a moment in the doorway of the first and he heard her sigh deeply before she entered.

Martin hesitated too, thinking better of following her in. He stood awkwardly in the hall, unsure of quite what to do.

"What are your plans?" He asked loudly. "For now, I mean. What do you want to do?"

She came out of the room again and leaned on the door frame, looking up at him.

"I was worried there'd be more mess, you know." she said quietly. "I can tell they've been here, but it looks like they've sort of put everything back. I expect dad's room got a bit more turned over but I'm not even going to go in there."

She looked across the hall to the other door, a look of defiance crossing her face.

"Not my problem." She added, with a slight toss of her head.

Martin remained silent, unsure of how to respond. She gave him a half-hearted smile.

"I think I need to just get my gear together and maybe we could load up your car? There's not that much really."

She scratched her head absently, and then covered her mouth as she tried to stifle a yawn.

"I'd kill for a bath though. I so need to wash my hair."

"Yes. Right." Martin said carefully. "Perhaps you could pack your things and, aaah, then, while you have your bath, I could load the car?"

To her surprise, she actually felt relieved that he might take charge. She knew what she had to do but her mind was so vague and uncooperative, and her body dull and unresponsive, that everything just seemed so daunting. She smiled at him again, wan and exhausted, and nodded.

"There should be a suitcase in that cupboard." She said indicating behind him. "Would you mind?"

He spun round, encouraged that his suggestion had been well-received, and relieved to have been provided with a task he could focus on. Pulling open the door, he spotted a battered, blue, cardboard case, the chrome catches completely discoloured by surface rust. When he turned around, she'd disappeared so, very reluctantly, he walked awkwardly in to her room and placed it on the floor next to the bed. Louisa was kneeling on the floor, her arm between the mattress and the base, a horrified expression on her face.

"What's the matter?" He said, frowning at her.

"I can't believe it. My diary's gone. They must've gone and taken it. Oh my god, Martin. Will they read it?" She cried, shakily.

" I..I don't know. But if they took it, I think the chances are that they probably will. Read it, that is."

"Oh my god." She pulled herself up from the floor and sat down on the bed, her expression aghast.

"Louisa, what could possibly be in it?" He asked.

"Just stuff about my life." She shot back at him defensively. "Personal things. Thoughts. You know. A diary."

"Really?" He said incredulously and she immediately sensed his tone.

"God, Martin, I'm a fourteen year old girl. It's what we do."

"Mmm. Yes."

The thought that anyone would dwell on their most personal, secret thoughts to that extent was a total mystery to him, never mind the abomination of potentially exposing those feelings to all and sundry by committing them to paper. Martin made a mental note to speak to his aunt. Maybe, with a call to the right person, the diary could be retrieved. He knew nothing of police procedure but he would see what Could be done."

"Are you sure it's not there? I mean, you've looked properly?"

Louisa sighed heavily and gave him a sharp look. She stood up and gestured at the bed.

"Go on then, Lofty, feel free to prove me wrong."

She crossed her arms in front of her chest and stared up at him. Reluctantly, he squatted down on the threadbare carpet, snatching up the legs of his trousers in a quick, practiced motion. He slid his arm under the mattress as far as he could, moving it in a sweeping arc. When he got to the corner, he felt something brush his finger. Pushing against the lumpy bulk with his shoulder, he managed to just grasp the corner and slid it carefully back toward him. Having safely retrieved it, he handed her the single sheet of paper, holding it out to her as if it were someone else's used handkerchief.

She took it from him, looked at it briefly, and then tossed it on the floor, exhaling contemptuously.

"Rubbish." She spat, and began to pull clothes out of a small chest of drawers.

Martin hesitated and then lifted the suitcase on to the bed, clicking open the catches. They, too, were in need of lubrication but he thought better of mentioning it. Joan had provided him with some sturdy cardboard boxes so he told Louisa that he would fetch them from the boot. She responded with just a vague grunt so he slipped from the room, relieved to gain a moment's respite from the emotional roller coaster of a girl whom he was trying so desperately to maintain his patience with.

As he stood on the porch, he noticed a small outhouse. Most of the glass panes in the door were cracked or missing and had been boarded up with bits of packing case. It crossed his mind that perhaps it were a garden shed and, if so, it might contain an oil can or, even better, a CRC aerosol. The door had no handle and was wedged closed. On entry, it was windowless and almost pitch black. As he anchored the door open with a loose brick, he was hit by the stench of the stale, cold, damp air inside. Immediately, he realised that it was a laundry room, with a large concrete sink and a big, old fashioned, mangle washing machine. Martin winced. He detested the dreadful, antiquated contraptions. In his experience, the only things that they mangled were the hands and arms of vulnerable children.

"I should have known that the Glassons would not have given any consideration to the safety of their only child." he thought angrily.

He looked around, his eyes adjusting to the gloom. There were a few crates of empty bottles on the floor, a bar of soap on the shelf above the sink, and a large bag of what appeared to be rags, or maybe even strips of fabric, hanging from a hook on the wall. However, there were no signs of any potential lubricants and so he turned on his heel, secured the door again, and strode off to the car.

After collecting the empty boxes from the boot, he went back into the house. Louisa was sitting on her case on the floor, bouncing on the lid, and pressing ineffectually on the long catches that steadfastly refused to close.

Martin watched her for a moment, wondering if he should offer to help. It seemed to him that, whatever he said might provoke either her tears, her rage, or her biting sarcasm. He could neither predict the reaction, nor deal with it when it occurred. He hesitated for a moment, and then he spoke.

"Ummm, can I take care of that for you while you, ummm, while you fill these boxes?"

To his relief, Louisa didn't react. She clambered to her feet and sat on the bed again.

"Thanks Martin, I've more or less finished in here." She said calmly, looking around her. "I think I'm just gonna take what I need, and then I can talk to your Auntie about what we do with the rest. We rent the cottage furnished so it's just little bits and pieces and I don't really care what happens to it any more to be honest."

"Mmmm. Yes." He said, unable to think of a better reply. He certainly understood her lack of interest in the household contents. He could see that she done her best to try and make her own room comfortable, despite her limited means, but it occurred to him that the rest of the house was utterly charmless and impersonal.

He squeezed the case closed with one knee and forced the latches into place with his thumb, sliding the one locking button, that wasn't seized, into place. The last thing he wanted was for it to burst open as he was carrying it as the thought of what could be inside terrified him. He handled it gingerly as he left the room and Louisa pulled a face at his back. She often envied the physical strength of men. It wasn't fair to have to let them close rusty catches and ask them to open stuck jars and move furniture. It meant that you had to rely on them and that made her uneasy.

She picked up a box, set it on the bed, and threw the last of her clothes into it. Next to the bed she placed the collection of posters, magazine cuttings and photographs that had been removed from her wall during the search. She slid the smaller items down the inside wall of the box for safekeeping and then carried the other empty box out to the kitchen, setting it on the counter. From a drawer, she removed an embroidered linen tablecloth that was yellowed with age. Rummaging around in the cupboard, she pulled out a cream earthenware jug and a pair of Cornishware egg cups. She wrapped them carefully in the tablecloth and put them gently in the bottom of the box. Making sure they were well cushioned, she looked up, and noticed Martin hovering awkwardly by the door.

"The box on my bed can go, thanks Martin. And the posters and stuff next to them please, too."

"Umm, yes." He said, and disappeared.

Louisa wracked her brain but she was unable to recall if there were any other family heirlooms that she should ensure were safe. She'd always had a feeling that anything they'd ever had of value had disappeared at the same time her mother had. Sighing, she made her way outside; she had suddenly remembered something important.

When she came back inside, she dropped the things she'd collected from the laundry into the box in the kitchen, rolling the top of the bag down tightly in the hope of obscuring the contents from view. When she went back into her room, to her surprise, Martin was crouched down, picking up her posters and newspaper cuttings from the floor.

"They slid off the top of the box," he explained. "I'm, aaah, I'm sorry, I should have made two trips."

"They don't appear to be damaged" he added quickly, gathering up the last few pages. He glanced idly at them and was surprised at the images.

"Ummm, Louisa." he enquired gently. "Who are these people?"

Louisa stood behind him and looked over his shoulder. She was quite taken aback that he didn't know.

"That's Robert Palmer." She said, a little embarrassed. "And that's Brian Ferry."

"Aaah," he said, perplexed. "And these?"

"That's Spandau Ballet." She said, her tone almost coy. "And that's Tony Hadley. He's the lead singer."

Martin realised that there were rather a lot of images of Tony Hadley; he was a favourite, obviously.

His eyes narrowed. "And this?"

"Martin! That's David Bowie! I can't believe you don't know who he is!?"

"I, ummm, I know the name of course. And I, ahhh, I can see that he is wearing a yellow suit in order to make himself appear bold and, umm, somewhat avant-garde. The others are, by definition, more conservatively attired. In fact, I am astonished to see that they are all wearing suits. Is this, aaah, is this a current trend in popular music?"

She suddenly felt slightly uncomfortable. Was he winding her up now?

"I dunno." She replied, switching to attack as quick as a flash. "Maybe they are all from The Professional Classes as well, Martin. Not the great unwashed, not the dreary, badly dressed working classes, like me. You really do live in Victorian times, don't you?" She added petulantly.

Then, leaning over him, she snatched the cuttings from his hand and gave him a little shove on the shoulder so he was unbalanced and had to grab the bed to prevent himself toppling over. As he turned to glare at her, she flashed a dazzling smile at him and sauntered out of the room, heading for the kitchen, where she slipped the loose pages into the box.

"That's everything now". She called to him over her shoulder, assuming he'd followed her." If you don't mind, I'm going to have a bath. I will be as quick as I can."

Martin nodded, sliding into the room and picking up the box. Then she saw him pause, frown and set the box down again, peering into it.

"Louisa, What do you want with these rags?" He asked, in a slightly frustrated voice.

She felt a wave of heat pass over her.

"Martin!"

"What?" He picked the bag up.

"Please!"

"Are they dusters?"

"Oh my god Martin! Just leave it will you?" She snatched them out of his hand and glared at him, feeling her face burn with humiliation.

She saw the penny drop. His face was ashen.

"Louisa, no, surely not."

"You're the bloody doctor, you figure it out." She threw the bag back into the box and stormed out of the room. He heard doors slam and then the sound of running water.

"Oh god, Louisa," he thought with utter dismay. "And you accused me of living in Victorian times."

It took him a few moments to collect his thoughts and to realise that he had not handled that well. It was a sobering lesson and it was clear to him what he now needed to do. He took the last box out to the car, folding the top down carefully to make sure that the breeze didn't take any of her precious posters. Having seen the sad collection of crockery go into the box, he wedged it securely on the back seat, and secured it with the seatbelt.

When he went back inside, it dawned on him that there was a chance he might not be back by the time Louisa finished her bath, so he decided to leave her a note. He felt his pockets for a pad but found only a pen and a tongue depressor. Then, he remembered the scrap paper he'd fished out from under the bed. He hoped that if he left the note in her bedroom, Louisa would find it.

The paper had slipped back under the bed so he retrieved it and noticed that one side had been written on. Without thinking, he began to read.

'On my own no more.

The beat of my heart echoes

In time with another.

And now, sore with longing,

it runs like a child to its mother

On my own again.

Rivers of my lonely tears

Fall, unseen, to the earth

The grief and pain of loss

Abandoned child, unwanted birth

I stand by the sea

Screaming so you hear me

Sirocco, like my soul, burnt

No time to say goodbye

Unworthy child, lesson learnt.'

He took a deep breath, and it occurred to him that he'd read something deeply personal. It was an uncomfortable feeling for him, especially since, as a man of science, Martin was not fond of poetry. He usually found it nebulous and overwrought, and, actually, quite pointless.

Did these words come from Louisa though, he wondered. Martin couldn't tell as it had been roughly typed, but he thought of her reaction when he'd handed it to her. She'd called it rubbish. So, while the literary form didn't appeal to him, and roughly constructed as it was, he was startled to discover that he not only understood what she'd been trying to say in the three simple verses but he actually experienced some of her sentiment as well. It was an unpleasant sensation. Unwilling to think about it any longer, he mentally castigated himself, flipped the paper over, and tore it across the middle. Then he wrote:

Louisa,

I have an errand to run.

Please wait here for me, I won't be long.

Martin.

And propped the note up on her pillow, hoping she'd see it.