‘It’s fine, love,’ she says. ‘I’m… I’m meeting Derek anyway.’

‘Right.’ I fold my arms, pulling myself in tight at the sound of his name.

‘I’d love you to meet him,’ she says, gently.

‘Like I say, jobs to do.’

‘Of course.’ She looks at her watch. ‘Gosh. It’s two o’clock already.’

I look down at my watch, aware that it’s now visiting time.

‘I feel like we’re leaving this unfinished, Rhys.’

‘We are, Mum. I was abandoned. My story will always be unfinished.’ I say it matter-of-factly. I give her a fleeting kiss on the cheek; she smells of Silvikrin and talcum powder. I fight the need to linger, turning towards the car park and my van. She stands and waves as I pull away, and I can’t escape fast enough. Both from her and from all the things I’ve said. I want to reach inside my belly and remove them one by one, never to be uttered or heard or remembered again. For the second time in a week, I’m driving across Sheffield like an idiot incapable of keeping control of his emotions. I don’t even know who I am anymore. Or why I’m about to pull back into the car park at the Northern General. Except that maybe there is a ghost to lay to rest here, just not the one I thought.

Chapter Thirty-One

RHYS

A nurse I vaguely recognise nods to me as I make my way to the ward. I feel sick. My stomach flips. What am I doing back here? What am I going to say, and am I really ready for her answer?

As I approach Susan’s ward, I’m stopped in my tracks as I see her hobbling down the centre of her room towards her bed. My feet are rooted to the spot; at first I neither want to stay nor leave, but the longer I watch her, the more I’m compelled to let her know I’m here, that she’s not alone and she can do this. Each step is aided by crutches, effort and pain etched on her face, and I want to take it away. I want to make it better somehow.

‘Wow,’ I exclaim, bounding over. ‘You’re up on your feet, that’s amazing!’ She stares up at me, eyes wide, mouth open, studying my features as if to check it’s really me. I move to the empty side of her bed, relieving her of one crutch as she sits down to climb in, eyes still firmly pinned on me. I pass the crutch to the nurse on the other side and she wedges it with the other, easily within Susan’s reach. ‘I can’t believe it, Susan. How are you? You look…’ She looks different. The bruising is now a faded yellow across her cheek, with a more natural pink beneath it, no doubt from the newfound strength to walk.

Susan still searches my face. As if, despite knowing me, she can’t quite place who I am, or is confused as to why I’m visiting, and for a second I share the feeling. Why am I here if not to ask the question? Except that now I am here, I can’t. Because what if the answer is no?