She thinks of the way that woman climbed into the ambulance with him. She thinks of the way Leah had looked down upon him, had reached out to touch his face, just as the doors had closed. And a new uneasiness lodges inside her, like a pill just swallowed. It has a bitter taste as it breaks out over her tongue.

17

Anton

A vase of sweet peas adorns the bedside locker. While he has been in hospital, the bedroom has been tidied and aired, the sheets changed. He had not wanted to come home, and now that he sees these kindnesses from his son, Anton feels sad and ashamed. What kind of a father is he? Outside in the hall, the carpets have been ripped up. Discarded, he presumes, although he hasn’t asked. He hardly cares.

Downstairs, Mark is busy in the kitchen, making tea. He intends to treat Anton like an invalid – he’s said as much already. Passing along the landing on the way to his room, Anton had glanced through the open door to the front bedroom – a room he still thinks of as Charlotte’s – and there he had seen a travel bag unzipped and open on the floor, clothes, shoes, books falling out of it, deodorant and aftershave sitting atop the dressing-table. Anton is unhappy about having his son to stay. He doesn’t want company, can’t bear the thought of being constantly watched. And he feels an accompanying sense of failure and apprehension. Mark should not be here. This house is not good for him.

Anton closes the window in his bedroom, glances outside. The garden is empty: no laundry pinned to the clothes line and fluttering in the breeze; no movement from the patio below. Downstairs feels curiously silent. They must have gone, he surmises. They must have moved on. He can hardly blame them. He had taken his chance, and it had backfired. Anton turns away.

He takes off his shoes and lies down on the bed, closes his eyes. Immediately, he hears Charlotte in his head.

‘Have you been a naughty boy, Anton?’

Her voice is sly in the lidded darkness. A hard edge undercutting the playful tone.

In the hospital, his mind had been quiet. But always she waits for him. Biding her time, like a faithful lover – his Penelope – watching for his return.

‘Think I don’t see, Anton? Do you think I’m thick, or blind?’

An old argument, dusted off, unspooling in his thoughts. His own voice played back at him, weary, disingenuous: ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, woman.’

‘Your little friend downstairs. That plain mouse.’

You cross a line – a word said, a phrase used – and something changes. His heart hardened.

‘I’ve seen you sniffing around her, like a dog in heat. Pathetic.’ Eyes narrowed, a plume of smoke coming from her mouth. Half cut and not even lunchtime yet.

‘You’re drunk,’ he’d told her.