Chapters (35)
- Cover
- About the Book
- About the Author
- Also by Helen Sedgwick
- Dedication
- Audio log
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Audio log
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Audio log
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Audio log
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Audio log
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Audio log
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Audio log
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Audio log
- Chapter 15
- Audio log
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Video log
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Acknowledgements
A couple walked past, the man’s hand cupped affectionately – though not protectively – around the curve of their unborn child. Five months, Eva thought, perhaps six. Enough that the pouch looked full but still comfortable. Very comfortable, she knew. They had chosen a winter cover of fluffy red fleece. Christmassy. Festive. The last few years had been all about the accessories.
They saw her staring.
‘Are you OK?’
They asked kindly. So kindly her reply came out more wistful than angry, though she wasn’t wistful, and she was angry.
‘No one makes graffiti any more,’ she said.
The man looked up at the bridge then over to the woman beside him, questioning, and she explained.
‘She’s talking about vandalism.’
He looked a little shocked, though he hid it well. Eva could imagine his thoughts: Perhaps she was a historian. Perhaps she was writing a book – doing research.
She adjusted the bag on her back. It was larger than she’d needed, and awkward on her shoulders. Beams of light shot through the gaps in the bridge’s security barriers.
‘Why would anyone want to vandalise anything?’ he asked.
Eva didn’t reply. She didn’t think she had the fight left in her.
The man stood still, an uncomfortable smile on his lips. She knew that he didn’t need to adjust the straps of what he was carrying.
She had tried one on once, years ago, when she was young and would happily have argued with any stranger in the street. She’d wanted to understand – what it felt like to wear one, but more than that as well. The appeal of it. It was before all the different textures were available, though there was a range of colours. Bright yellow, she’d requested, fluorescent, like one of those tropical fish.
‘This is the equivalent of six months,’ they’d told her, as they let her strap it on over her T-shirt. In the early days the FullLife doctors had helped people position it, over the shoulders, snug on the belly, but they realised it was making people nervous – much better to do it yourself, they decided, then you can see how easy it is. How versatile. How safe.