She finds herself on the floor, gasping for air, on her elbows in a half-crawl. Gaia is standing over her. Somewhere in the distance is the sound of crying. She scans the room for Coco, but she isn’t there, and neither is Tom or the woman. In a great rush she realizes that Coco is still in the basket, and the air around her ionizes with the slow knowledge that she’d fallen asleep again, that she was dreaming, that the terrible thing that happened didn’t happen.

Her heart is still pounding in her throat and her shirt is soaked with sweat. ‘Are you OK?’ Gaia asks timidly. She watches as her mother pulls herself to her feet with all the stiffness of a skeleton stepping out of its grave and lumbers towards Coco, scooping her gently out of the basket.

‘Is everything all right?’ a voice says from the doorway. Aurelia screams, an involuntary reaction to the sight of Tom. She is trembling, crying, and when he tries to take Coco from her she pulls away from him, holding the baby as though she’s just been attacked.

‘Aurelia?’ he says, reaching out to her a second time, but she doesn’t respond. He looks down at Gaia as though she might reveal the cause of her mother’s hysteria. But Gaia merely stares up at him, her eyes wide, seeing the gulf widening between her parents, and her mother fragmenting like a scattered jigsaw.

Aurelia keeps her distance from Tom, as though he’s radioactive or clutching a live grenade, and paces unevenly by the window which is beginning to blister with rain. Six months ago they stood in this very room, emptied of its contents and blooming with fungi. They looked out at the view of the woods and endless sky and glittering fjord. Let’s buy it, Aurelia said. It’s perfect. And so he did.

‘Aurelia?’ he tries again, summoning all his patience. ‘What’s going on?’

When she doesn’t answer he feels a flush of rage. His own words boil in his throat. Just like his father. Finally she turns to answer, but he has already turned to walk out of the room, slamming the door so hard behind him that the wood cracks in protest.

   17   

WORDS THAT BOIL,
WOUNDS THAT BURN

Now

‘What do you mean, “rumours”?’ Tom asks, angling his head up at Clive.

‘Look, I know what you’re going to say …’

‘No, you don’t,’ Tom throws back. ‘You haven’t a clue what I’m going to say.’