— Where have you been? I’ve been waiting forever!

— Only half an hour. I had to call a cab.

Christine realised that she had dreaded this meeting, imagining Lydia would be made more domineering somehow by the blow of Zachary’s death: now she was ashamed and stabbed with pity, because Lydia only looked displaced and lost. Putting her arms round her friend she felt how she held herself rigidly, as if she were hurt; Lydia’s hands, stiff with rings, were cold and inert. It would be her task, Christine thought, to surround her with care from now on, not to fail her. — I can’t believe they’ve left you here alone!

— I wanted to be alone. I sent everyone away. I can’t stand Jane Ogden anyway. You could see how she couldn’t wait to tell the story to everyone, with her at the centre of it all, naturally. I said I only wanted you and Alex. Where’s Alex?

— He’s at home, making up a bed for you.

Christine had been crying in the taxi; she had been determined not to cry when she was with Lydia, in case she seemed to usurp Lydia’s grief, which had priority. But now she began again, mopping her face with a wet tissue from her sleeve, knowing how ugly and foolish she looked in front of all these strangers watching – her face flushed red, mouth working helplessly open, dragged down like a baby’s. — I can’t believe this. It can’t be true. Are you sure?

— Of course it’s true. The shittiest thing is always true.

— Lyd, where is Zachary? Have you seen him? Was he still alive when you got here?

— No, and I don’t want to see him. It’s not him, is it? So what’s the point?

She said this rather loudly and people turned to look at her. Christine reassured her, she didn’t have to do anything if she didn’t want to. She knew that Lydia was afraid of Zachary’s body, shying away from the idea of it with an animal revulsion. And it was terrible, imagining him lying somewhere alone in this eerie impersonal building, which was lit up in the night like a ship at sea. Christine was afraid of Zachary’s body too. The idea of it made her sick with dread. Yet in Lydia’s place she’d probably have chosen to see it, to give a form to her fear – or at least, she’d have been even more afraid of regretting not doing it afterwards. This was one of the differences between them: Lydia acted superstitiously and followed her instincts, while Christine tried to bargain with them.

— Let’s get out of this place, Lydia said.

— Don’t you have to sign forms or something?

She’d signed the forms. There had to be an autopsy, she said.

— And does Grace know? Where is she?