‘Come,’ he says, gently pulling on my elbow, guiding me towards Kayleigh’s cubicle. I’m suddenly giddy as relief washes over me, hand closing round the packet at the same time as I finally catch a glimpse of Kayleigh, quiet, still and peaceful, all wrapped up in a soft knitted blanket like she’s a doll, breathing the slow, regular rhythm that tickles my ear when I snuggle down next to her in the middle of the night, those precious moments somewhere between sunset and sunrise when it’s just me and her and our dreams.

I drop my head on to the blue, padded mattress next to her face, cheek wet as my tears soak into the sheet. For just that second, we’re Carly and Kayleigh again, together, warm and quiet in the velvet dark where nothing and no one can touch us, unless we want them to.

115

Marie ~ London ~ 2006

‘I hope you’ve got an umbrella or something, love? Want to wait till this passes?’ Neon-white teeth leer at me from the front seat as the taxi pulls over.

‘You’ll be lucky,’ I snap back, pushing a pile of pound coins into his tray as I step back out into the flood, St James’s Park lying soaked through the iron gate in front of me. Vibrations travel up my coat from the phone in my pocket … Damn. I must already be late. I can never seem to move fast enough for anyone.

Inside the gate, the park is deserted, trees wilting under the weight of the storm, grass almost invisible as puddles pool together. I skate along the path towards the lake in its centre, rain so heavy I can barely see the fountain in the middle, much less the outline of Whitehall on the far side. Nothing except trees groaning with storm, branches creaking down towards the ground, like they want to break. I flinch as the fountain brainlessly spouts water on to a tiny duckling skittering into the reeds. For a moment, I hate myself all over again. And then as lightning pops, I see it. A lone figure moving deliberately towards the edge of the pond on the opposite side.

Hood up, head down, I start the walk around the lake, to the usual spot, each step heavier than the last, until another pair of boots splashes to a stop in front of me, the rest of the drenched park completely deserted. Even the elaborate and precise buildings of Whitehall’s outer reaches are now completely fogged out.

I stare at his face, searching for clues. Tall, old, glasses. Hat. Everything about him is as grey and forgettable as shadow, apart from his army-straight back. We stand, speechless in the roar of 116the storm, waiting for someone to blink first. Except I can’t see his eyes behind his glasses, all white and misty with condensation.