In the middle of the night, Lydia came into their room. They woke confusedly to see her standing up at the end of the bed in her white nightdress, looking taller than she actually was against the faint light from the Velux, with her hair hanging down like a figure from a melodramatic play or an opera.
— Lydia, can’t you sleep? Christine said.
— I’m too frightened to sleep. And my feet are cold.
Christine jumped up, she went rummaging in the chest of drawers for a pair of socks for her friend. — Get in under the duvet, she said. — Keep warm.
When Lydia climbed into the bed, her movements were stiff-backed as an old woman; she did actually seem to be shuddering with cold, in spite of the warm night. Alex said nothing at first, lay turned away although he must have been awake. — I’m frightened, Lydia said. — Jane Ogden told me that Zachary vomited black blood.
— Now, why did she have to tell you that? Christine said soothingly. — Why did you need to know?
— I feel safer in here, between you two.
Christine felt for her friend’s icy feet under the duvet. Tenderly she put on the woollen socks, then got back into bed beside her, putting an arm around her where she lay between them, against Alex’s turned back. Then he turned around and embraced her too. — Poor Lydia, he said.
— Oh Alex. I wish that I had died instead, and he was still here.
— Don’t be silly. You’re what we have left, you’re all the more precious to us.
At first Christine thought that Lydia would never sleep: she could feel the panic racing in her friend’s body like an animal’s fast metabolism. But very quickly Lydia’s breathing changed and grew shallow, she began twitching and jerking unconsciously. It was Christine’s turn to lie aridly awake. She was too hot, Lydia’s feverish dreams seemed to be burning her up. Christine couldn’t tell whether Alex was also awake. She half expected him to slip out of bed, go down to sleep more comfortably in the spare room. But he didn’t move.