He heaves himself out of the bed and takes the key to the living room that is always kept locked. It is so neat in there: a yellow sofa and a circular coffee table, facing a stone fireplace he installed himself. There is a framed poster from an Edinburgh art exhibition they went to; a tie-dye dress draped over the sofa. In the middle of the floor are two cardboard boxes. He touches the dress, entwining his fingers around its thin spaghetti straps, and holds it to his chest in a bundle. He buries his face in the fabric and whispers, ‘Christine, I’m here, Christine. Come and see me.’ He looks around, then places the dress carefully back on the sofa, as if it is frail.

From the next box he takes out her crystals and midnight-blue candles and lights them. Christine. I’m here, Christine. I want to see you. He lets the candles flicker in the dark room. He slides out a photo album and peels through the pages. All his pictures of Christine are in this room and Lauren has never seen them. He used to tell himself she was too young. That she would only miss her if she saw her smiling face. Her face and her Claddagh ring on her slender hand.

He stares deep into one flame and holds the glassy stones in purple, amber and green. ‘I know,’ he breathes, ‘I know somewhere you’ll be laughing at me. But for the love of God come to me. I’m ready for you. Come to me.’

He crouches like a lump of rock until his shins and spine ache. There is a rustle outside the window, but it passes. A full moon shines fit to bust in the black.

He sinks into the armchair that she used to love to read in. He takes a deep breath and shuts his eyes. Once again he tries to feel her here, with all his concentration. Please. But when he opens his eyes he is alone. The dress does not smell of her. It hasn’t for years.

Back in bed, he holds the duvet tightly, twisting it in his hands, and tries to remember that what he has been desperate for has in fact happened. He tries to maintain a new feeling, that mortality can be traded, that death is finite and part of a circle.

22

When Lauren comes down for breakfast, her father is sitting with his back to her. Shiny photographs are spread all over the table. Some have fallen on the floor. When she gets close, she sees her mother. He looks up at her, tear-streaked, as if she is a strange girl in his house.

‘Your mum’s not coming back, Lauren, she’s not coming back. Christine, your lovely mum.’