The doctor came out of the room. He was frowning. Did that mean bad news? Not necessarily. Doctors always frown when they come out of the operating theatre. He had seen it on TV. The doctor sat down beside him, cleared his throat.

Jamie didn’t speak. He couldn’t. He heard Heather say, ‘How is she?’

Everything went out of focus. The doctor’s voice slowed down, like a stretched tape. The lights in the corridor were so bright. He tuned back in.

‘Kirsty’s going to be fine,’ the doctor said. ‘But I’m afraid–’

The voice warped. Jamie heard fragments of words that he would piece together later into some semblance of sense.

‘…the baby…trauma to the abdomen…placenta detached…sorry Mr Knight…’

Everything went black.

Chapter Twenty-three

Twenty-three

Jamie stood outside and looked at the front door. The patch of oil had gone. There was no longer any trace of the mark Kirsty had made when she skidded and fell. He pulled the door to and fro. No squeak. He looked down the steps towards the Newtons’ flat. The curtains were drawn, a chink of light visible between them. He wondered what they were doing right now. Watching TV? Sitting side by side, reading? Or making plans, plotting, deciding their next move?

He picked up a large stone and weighed it in his hand, turned it over in his palm. He felt dizzy. He swayed and had to catch hold of the door to stay upright. He dropped the stone and it thudded harmlessly on the path.

The police had turned up at the hospital. Again, they were policemen he hadn’t seen before. Why was there no continuity? He wished there was someone who knew the story, who would believe him when he said that his downstairs neighbours wanted to destroy his life. Whenever he tried to tell the tale he saw the listener’s eyes glaze over; saw their mouth set in a sympathetic but disbelieving half-smile. Here was a man whose wife had just had a miscarriage, understandably angry and upset, ranting away in a hospital corridor, trying to pin the blame on someone, on the man who had kindly fixed their front door but had unfortunately – and accidentally – left some oil behind on the path.

‘I understand, sir,’ said the policeman. ‘You’re upset…’

‘Of course I’m fucking upset!’ Jamie shouted. People further up the corridor looked, attracted to the drama. A man shouting at a policeman. ‘That bastard has murdered my fucking baby! My wife had to deliver the baby – it was a girl. A little girl.’

Jamie collapsed onto a seat, covering his face with his hands, crying. Heather put her arm around him. The policeman shook his head. Sympathetic. But disbelieving.