He swallowed. “You never need to say that to me, Vic.”

Then they were quiet, breathing in synchrony, until the officer snatched the receiver and hung it up.

55.

KATE

Twenty-five years earlier

“Mum,” I say, my voice offbeat with nerves. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

I have no idea how I’m going to say it. How she’s going to react. Once it’s said, it’s said. As irreversible as what I did to Nick.

She’s still doubled over after her fit of crying. When she raises her chin, I’m startled to see blood leaking from her nose. “Oh, Mum! You’re having a nosebleed!”

She blinks and raises a hand to her nostrils. The blood ribbons over her fingers, across her chin, onto the collar of her gray T-shirt.

I dash to the bathroom for a wad of toilet paper. She tries to stem the bleeding, then tips back her head and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Damn,” she murmurs in a way that makes me think this isn’t the first time she’s had a nosebleed this bad. She doesn’t seem surprised, just annoyed, frustrated.

But I’m scared to see her losing so much blood. Disturbed by the puddle of red on the front of her top. Uneasy, as I remember a different top, a similar stain. Scarlet against pale blue.

“You okay, Mum?” I ask when the bleeding’s stopped. She’s slumped in the armchair, burrowing her feet beneath our scruffy flowery rug.

“Oh, Kate,” she says in a strangled voice, shutting her eyes. “What are we going to do?”

A tremor passes through me. “What do you mean?”

Her tears brim again, slipping from beneath her closed lids. She opens her eyes but doesn’t wipe them; pearls of water cling to her skin.

“Maybe Nick was right. I should’ve told you months ago.”

“Told me what?”

She massages her cheeks with the heels of her hands. There are clots of dried blood around her nostrils, like little splodges of paint.

“What, Mum?”

“Things are going to be difficult now, love. Nick’s gone. Becca and Rach won’t be coming back here. And it’s going to be hard. Even harder than it would’ve been if I didn’t . . . if I wasn’t . . .” She leans forward, grasping my hands. “I’m ill, Kate.”

Everything freezes. I feel a door swing shut in my brain as though it’s rejecting this information, refusing it entry.

“It’s called MDS, love. Myelodysplastic syndrome. It’s a kind of cancer.”

Her words fall through me but still I can’t speak. It’s like my mouth is anesthetized.

“I didn’t want to upset you, love. Didn’t want to jeopardize your exams, I thought it was best . . .”