Two years earlier

Cornwall, Mid-April 2017

Zac was sitting beneath the handkerchief tree on a white wicker chair, in exactly the place I’d been two weeks earlier when I phoned the Blackwater Hotel and Mrs Hopwell. In his hand was a cup of lapsang souchong. The tea was black and strong, the way he liked it. There was a hardback book on the white iron table. From the cover, I could see it was written by a lawyer who raises asylum claims for whistle-blowers.

Zac was so passionately on the side of those who fought for individual freedoms and stood up to authority, yet so against the people closest to him having any freedom themselves. It occurred to me that such a paradox wasn’t unusual. Sometimes when you knew too much about how a thing worked, even if you thought it was wrong in principle, or that it should only be used for a larger good, you still couldn’t help trying it yourself. And then it became a habit. Wasn’t I guilty of this too?

Beside the book was a laptop, a new machine, I noticed, that Zac switched to sleep mode as I kissed him. Propped against the scrolled table leg was a laptop case with built-in combination locks. The case was silver and new, and appeared to be made of some kind of high-security metal. Was he spooked that night two weeks ago, when he found the laptop in the bathroom?

He tipped his head to look at the new green leaves fluttering above him. ‘We have another month before it flowers. I know you can’t wait.’

‘True.’ I calculated. I was twenty-six weeks pregnant. In one month I would be thirty weeks. In one month I would be gone. One month seemed forever, but Maxine insisted it wasn’t, like a mother telling a child, Be patient, the journey will be over before you know it. In the meantime, I had my own part to play in preparing for my escape. This mostly meant trying to keep things as calm with Zac as I possibly could.

I wrinkled my nose. ‘Stinky tea?’ It was an old tease between me and Zac that I hated the smell of lapsang. I was using my I’m trying to be brave against all odds voice.

He put the mug down, stood, folded me into his arms, whispered into my hair, ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

My mobile was a prop, held by a hand that was seemingly too distracted to realise it was there. It wasn’t difficult to make myself cry. The pregnancy hormones helped with that.

Zac’s face was frozen in horror. ‘Is it the baby?’

For him to believe I was distressed hurt him. The realisation came with a stab of guilt that made me dizzy. It should have occurred to me he would think that. It seemed too terrible a thing to do to him, despite everything.