He did wake her in the night, a short, sharp cry from the bedroom across the hallway, followed by the sound of erratic, desperate movement. Rachel opened her eyes, wondering for a second where she was, shocked to find her hands gripping the duvet, the same way they used to when she woke in those first years spent sleeping in the van, her body anticipating an attack that never came. Then she heard Toby cry out a second time, a kind of strangled bellow, followed by more thrashing. Rachel got up, pulled her faithful blue cardigan on over the T-shirt in which she’d slept, opened her door and padded barefoot across the thick hallway carpet to his room.

Even from the doorway she could see that he was still asleep, desperate to escape whatever event was happening in the shades of his subconscious. He’d thrown the sheets half from the bed as he tossed and turned in the throes of the nightmare, his legs moving as if trying to run.

‘Toby,’ Rachel said, as she crossed the room to sit on the edge of the bed. ‘Toby…’

He didn’t hear her, still lost in the nightmare. She put one hand flat on his shoulder, a steadying gesture that pressed him back into the mattress. She could see the cold sweat of terror on his face, the frown creased into his forehead.

‘Toby,’ she said again, louder this time, and he yelled as he woke, sitting upright among the disorder of his bed, scrambling backwards to get away from her.

‘It’s all right,’ she said, keeping one hand on him so that it slid down from his shoulder to his forearm to wrap around his wrist, offering an anchor to hold him in this world. ‘You’re all right.’

He stared at her, unseeing, breathing hard, his mind still trapped wherever the ghosts that haunted him had held him while he slept. She saw the moment he registered who she was, where he was, recognition sparking in his eyes.

‘God,’ he said, wiping one shaking hand across his face. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s okay.’

He said no more, but his fingers found hers and gripped them, hard. He was still shaking. They sat like that for a while, as Toby’s breathing steadied.

‘Do you want to tell me about it?’ Rachel asked quietly.

Toby shook his head. ‘No.’

‘Do you want me to stay?’

He looked at her sharply, and then squeezed her hand. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No. Thank you. What time is it?’

Together they looked at the clock blinking on his bedside table. It was just touching 4 a.m.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, releasing her fingers and reaching for the covers he had kicked away. ‘You should go back to bed. I’ll be all right now.’

Eighteen

Gilly hadn’t gone to Cullen’s funeral, not because she hadn’t wanted to, but because she had nothing appropriate to wear. She felt guilty, though, and thought that the bookshop regulars would probably think she was being disrespectful by not attending. She half expected an earful on this subject from Edie during her next art lesson, so when, halfway through her time in the print room the day after Cullen had been laid to rest, Edie made a huffing noise and stood up abruptly from where she’d been working herself, Gilly braced herself.