In the bedroom, their bed. It was still as it was the last time they had been here, when they had argued. The sheets were crumpled in a ball at the end of the mattress, there were indentations on the thin pillows at the head, and on the floor, a chipped saucer they used for an ashtray with stubs of their cigarettes. Her legs couldn’t take the weight of her body and she lay down on the bed, full-length, in her coat, hat and scarf, face pressed against his pillow. The mingled scents of sex and sweat were faint, but still detectable. If she closed her eyes and breathed through her nose, she could suck in his distinctive scent that was just him: the musk of his cologne, the tang of the Brylcreem and the particular sharpness of his sweat. She lay there a long time, crying, but not sobbing, letting tears wet her cheeks and soak into the sheets. It was as if she had no energy for the breakdown she expected. She’d hoped in some part of herself that he would be here, knowing at the same time that he would not be. There was still a chance he would be found, a voice said, and she tried to pin her thoughts on that. She couldn’t let herself think he was gone forever, because it would all be gone then – the secrets they’d shared and the promise of escape he meant.

It would soon be dark. Her body felt bloated and tender as if a mere touch would bruise her. She should leave, but she couldn’t bear to. It was here they had been together. She wanted something of it, something to take with her. But what was there? A couple of chipped enamel mugs, her sketches. In the bedroom, there was a dark, heavy wardrobe. The door was stiff and she had to wrench it open. There was nothing in it, just some old wire hangers, and she was going to shut it, but then at the top, on the hat shelf, there was a darker shape. She couldn’t quite reach so she got a chair. It was probably something belonging to the old crabber who’d lived here, but her heart was pounding anyway. When she pulled it down, it was a black leather bag, like a briefcase with a metal clasp and a small keyhole. It was locked. She tugged at it; she tried to saw it through with a knife but it wouldn’t budge. Exhausted and defeated, puffy with crying, she lay back down on the bed.