Shifting, Connie searched for the strength to stand, to knock on Eileen’s door. She pushed down on her hands and struggled to rise, but her body was like lead, her limbs unresponsive. Defeated, she groaned and breathed deeply, battling to stay conscious – because the figure coming towards her, she suddenly realised, was not a figment of her imagination at all, but a woman. A woman with a bright pink lipstick mouth and a scent of eau de cologne.

Sickness rose in Connie’s throat as the woman took hold of her arm.

27

Eva

January 1992

Eva stands in front of her door with one hand on the latch. Any moment now and she will do it. She will step out onto the landing. A few intakes of breath and she will take the stairs, one at a time, holding onto the bannister as she goes. Two flights down to the hall and she will knock on the woman’s door. Zoe. She said her name was Zoe, and the name means life.

It has been a while since Eva has had a life, at least outside her flat. How does she survive? Through the kindness of strangers. Well, the kindness of almost strangers. When her mother died, Selena had brought flowers and food and run errands, buying stamps and posting letters; Giovanni had brought music. And then, of course, there was Ron, the kindest of them all, never pushing, only enquiring. Are you all right? Fancy a takeaway? Need any milk?

Opening the door, she pushes the light switch and the mechanism whirrs. The stairs are steep. She clamps her hand on the bannister. From here she can see the first-floor landing and the doors of the flats below. But she is teetering on the edge of a memory. Shadows are flitting, people are whispering, voices are rising, loud and angry.

She concentrates, takes one step at a time. She goes down slowly and by the time she reaches the first-floor landing, the light fizzles and goes out. Fumbling in the darkness, she finds another switch and pushes it hard. BAM. There is light and now she looks upwards and it feels as though she is peering through a tunnel of time.

In her imagination, Little Eva stands at the top of the stairs. She wears the purple dress. She holds the rag doll loosely in her hand. But her face is stained with tears. Why is she sad?

Listen. Little Eva’s voice is whispering. Shall I tell?

The air thickens in a heavy, malevolent swirl.

In the present, Eva presses her hands to her head and takes deep breaths. She closes her eyes to force away the memory and when she opens them again, the whispering has ceased, the voices have quietened, the ghost is gone. It’s 1992. She is standing on the first-floor landing. She can hear the hum of a washing machine, the buzz of people talking, the sound of a baby crying.