I watch my hand as it stretches out like a ghost, like Carly is already dead, and traces out the loops and curls of C, M and G, the last doodle that her hand will ever draw.

Bye, Carly, who can map the stars in the sky without looking. Who likes to dance when no one’s watching, to tell stories when no one’s listening except her. Who loves to add, minus, times and divide, because numbers always give her a straight answer. The pen stabs as I remember her.

Bye, Carls. Your story’s over. You never have to tell it again.

I decorate my signature with kisses, just one last line. I guess I loved her once, didn’t I?

166

Marie ~ London ~ 2006

In real life, this journey, the one from the newsroom to the Ministry of Defence, takes all of five minutes; but in my life, this twisted wreck of a double life, this wretched excuse for a fresh start, new chance, second try – any of the mindless terms they came up with to try and disguise the fact it was nothing more than the last roll of a loaded dice – well, this journey may as well have taken a thousand years. The inside of that taxi has seen every frame of my pathetic existence, from birth to now and back again, except all I could see, and will ever be able to see, is Dominic’s picture. The fact his police source has shown it to him can only mean one thing, and every blink makes it clearer, every rub of my eyes makes it sharper, every acid swallow makes it louder, like it’s screaming the answer directly at me.

Go back, Carly rasps in my ear as I stumble through the entrance, fumbling for my press pass. They lied to us, she hisses, as I smooth my hair over the egg on the side of my head. Everything they said, everything they told us is a twisted mountain of lies! I jump as someone brushes past me, tutting. Did she say that out loud? Who did? I rub at my head, fingers stabbing at the child inside. Now it’s Rach, sneering as she holds Carly’s hand. Make it right, she purrs, as I join the back of the line through security. You’re the only one that can make it right.

‘Marie Grant, Nine News,’ I chant under my breath as we shuffle forward. That’s my name, isn’t it? I count backward with every step forward, remembering when it changed, reprinting it on my bones. The security arch squeals up ahead as someone forgets about the phone still in their pocket. I’ll never forget 167though, will I? How could I ever forget? Carly weeps, curled in school uniform, rocking in a ball just inside my eyelids.

‘Gateway badge, miss,’ a guard shouts as I approach the reception desk.