Pain has an element of blank,

It cannot recollect,

When it began, or if there were

A day when it was not.

Louise was dreaming about fish. It was quite a weird dream if she was being honest. Large, human sized salmon were running about for no particular reason. Louise was shouting at them, telling them to get in to some kind of order – what order she wasn't quite sure - height, shades of pink, swimming ability? This bizarre gathering of fish and human was occurring in some kind of hall. It had purple walls and a display about the Queen in one corner. Louise was aware that the salmon had to get in order before something important happened. This being a dream, she wasn't quite sure what it was. It was as fish – who, for some reason, she knew was called Hector - called, in a cockney voice – Louise wasn't quite sure why her salmon were from the rough end of London – that it was raining, which it obviously wasn't, that another human entered the hall. It was Jackson.

Louise woke with a start. She was in the hotel room in Fife, but for a moment she could have sworn that she had been in the Hatter Homes house that had been her home for so long. She had lived there before everything went wrong; before she had met Jackson and Patrick and she'd sent her little boy to Fettes and her life had had some semblance of normality.

She lay, staring at the ceiling in the dark, for quite a while, her eyes quickly adjusting to the darkness. Louise was thinking about the moments that had changed her life. If she was being honest there weren't that many, she could list them all almost on one hand. When she'd slept – though that wasn't quite the right word for it, because there was no sleeping involved - with Michael Pirie in the back of his police car. When her son had been born. The moment she first met Jackson Brodie and thought of him as some lunatic making up a dead girl for attention. Marrying Patrick. When Anna appeared in the world. Divorcing Patrick. And that was it, everything of note that had ever happened in her adult life.

It seemed so small and insignificant if you thought of it like that. If she died right there, right at that very moment who would remember her? Archie, Patrick? She wasn't close to anyone at work. Anna wouldn't remember her. Jackson wouldn't even care. Archie and Patrick. The only two people who would notice her slipping away in to oblivion. What a cheerful thought, Louise. But in the end she would be forgotten just like most of the people who had lived on the Earth had been. Only a hand-full were immortalized by fame. Not her, not Louise Monroe. No, she'd be forgotten. Not immediately, no, just slowly over time – first, it would be the way she sounded, then the way she smiled, and soon after when someone thought of her, they would only be able to see a vague outline, never able to see all the features clearly. Until, at some point someone would say her name, or see it written somewhere and they would go 'I wonder who she was' because there would be no one left who'd know, no one who'd remember.

That's how it was for most people, doomed to be forgotten.

…

Jackson was on a train. He wasn't actually on a train because he was really asleep in his bed but dream Jackson was on a train. He was sitting in one of those old trains that wouldn't seem out of place in Agatha Christie's 'Murder on the Orient Express'. He was distinctly aware that he needed the toilet, so dream Jackson stood and walked over to the small cubicle. He opened the door and suddenly saw a dead body. His lost girl from the Firth of Forth all those years ago.

In the blink of the eye the girl was gone and Jackson was standing by the train door, and it had stopped moving. On the floor next to him was a pile of plates with dogs on them. A man, who had just appeared from the carriage, picked one up and opened the window. The man suddenly transformed into Francis. He threw the plate out of the train's window, towards the grassy embankment opposite the stationary train. Niamh appeared behind Jackson and proceeded to follow her brother's lead. Jackson – feeling left out – picked a plate up and watched it smash on the grass. They continued to do this for some time. Until the train started to move and Niamh opened the door and jumped out. Francis and Jackson followed a moment later.

Now they were running across a field, having miraculously survived their suicidal jumps from a speeding train. They were sprinting like their lives depended on it. Jackson felt happy, his sister in front of him, his brother behind. His family was reunited. Niamh, up a head, stopped running and turned around to face him. Except she wasn't his sister anymore. Louise Monroe stared back at him.

Jackson was lying in bed, contemplating his unusual dream. It was weird, to think of Niamh and Louise in the same sentence. The only two women – though Niamh hadn't really been a woman, just a girl, a little girl – he had ever loved. Truly loved. He guessed losing his mother, sister and brother in quick succession was what made him the person he was today. He ignored the obvious thought, that the pain, horrible and excruciating, of losing Niamh all those years ago was the reason he could never tell Louise he loved her; the fact he couldn't bear to lose somebody he loved the same way he had lost his sister. He hadn't wanted to suffer such unbearable pain again, much better to have never had her than to risk losing her like that.

He missed Niamh so much. She had been buried in the cold harsh earth for over forty years now. He didn't know how so much time had passed; it seemed just like yesterday that the police officer had told them the dreadful news, yet it was so long ago. He had changed so much yet remained the same.

Sometimes he still felt like the little boy, searching for his lost girl.

…

Joanna Hunter was dead.

She was 39 years old. A life taken far too soon.

She had been driving her car, when a drunk driver had swerved out in front of her. She didn't die on impact and was still alive when the paramedics got to her. She'd told them to tell her son his mummy loved her.

Louise had found all of this out because she had a friend in the traffic department. Good old Hannah Tate, I knew suffering through your hen night was for something. It had wrong footed her to start with, someone who everyone thought of as lucky, the lucky the little girl who miraculously survived the Mason massacre because she had run, and had been running, really, ever since, was dead. But the way Louise looked at it, Joanna Mason wasn't lucky, no, much better to have died with the rest of her family than to spend the rest of your life being the 'lucky' girl. Nice Louise, always the optimist.

Gabriel was three years old - he had started nursery the previous September, happy and excited for the future. The future that stole his mother from him before he really ever knew her. So much of Gabriel's life – just like Joanna's before him – would be witnessed by everyone but the most important person, his mother. The morning she died – Hannah, her friend in traffic, had told her – Gabriel had asked if they could finish their puzzle, his mother had said they could do it that evening, when she got home from work. It was the first thing Gabriel had mentioned when his father had explained to him what had happened, "But Mummy has to help me finish my puzzle." The trouble was everyone always though they would have more time than they really did.

…

Jackson had learnt of Joanna Hunters death from a letter. It had been one of the many letters on the mat when he returned from his sojourn to Leeds. His address on the front was written in handwriting he hadn't recognised. He had ripped open the envelope and unfolded the letter. The words helped him ascertain who the author was. 'Hello this is Reggie Chase,' was in fact the first line.

She told him that she doubted, yet hoped, that he would remember her and added a helpful resume of where she had fitted in to his life. 'I'm the girl who saved your life at the train crash in Edinburgh and you then helped me find Joanna Hunter.'

She told him about the circumstances of her death – a car crash, drunk driver, nothing anyone could have done to help – a story Jackson had heard hundreds of time before. But not to someone he knew, somehow the people he knew were untouchable by death. He'd always thought that because he'd seen so much death as a child the Grim Reaper had taken pity on him and never taken any one he had, for want of a better word, cared about. Joanna Hunter had seen death as a child – had stared it the face in fact. Death had taken her too early. But Jackson knew only too well that life wasn't fair.

He hadn't seen Joanna again after he'd watched her walk into her house. He'd read about her of course, in the papers, but never talked to her again. Is that how it would be for Louise – that he wouldn't see her again until he saw the picture next to her obituary? He knew he shouldn't let it happen like that - he knew he loved her; he knew he should go to her house and tell her how he felt.

But Jackson knew that it was too late.

…

Louise was standing at the back of the church, her daughter in her arms. She hadn't been in a church for a long time, not since she was a child at least. That part of her life was better off forgotten, though. She had – contrary to what her mother had told her- made something of herself. She was happy, her children were happy. Yes, everything was fine. Except Joanna Hunter was dead and she still, stupidly, foolishly, irrationally loved Jackson Brodie.

Neil Hunter was sitting in the front pew, his son next to him. Gabriel probably didn't understand what was happening and hadn't realized that the words 'Mummy isn't coming back' meant forever and not just for a few days. Reggie, who had invited Louise here, was sitting next to little Gabriel. Reggie, who had lost everybody now, apart from him.

Joanna's death had reminded her of a part of her life that was better of forgotten as well. There were a lot of them in Louise's life, if she was being honest. She was reminded of Reggie and how she'd thought the young girl mad. Of Joanna Hunter mysteriously reappearing out of the blue. Of the Christmas when Jackson Brodie had been part of her life again and she'd nearly told him how she felt. But now it was too late and he didn't care. She watched as Reggie gave an emotional speech, saying words of wisdom and beauty that belied her young years. She watched as Neil Hunter sobbed into a handkerchief, as Reggie spoke. Louise was too busy listening to the young girl's speech, she barely noticed a man slip beside her. She was still looking straight ahead when he took her hand.

…

Jackson knew he was late. The drive from London had been long and he hadn't really thought he'd make it at all. It was only half an hour after he should have arrived, which wasn't too bad. But now, as he got out his car, he wondered why he was here. He lingered outside the door, knowing that he just didn't really want to walk in to the church and invade their grief, that he was using the fact he was late as an excuse. He hadn't been to a funeral since Francis', having avoided all others because he didn't like being reminded of death, of the immediacy and inevitableness of it.

He stepped in to the church, trying not to make much noise and saw Reggie standing by the lectern. She was talking about what a wonderful person Joanna Hunter had been. He also saw the woman standing at the back holding a baby. Louise.

He walked over to her and stared forward at Reggie again. Jackson had the overwhelming feeling to hold Louise's hand.

So he did.