There’s very little petty crime in Nepal. Buddhists, quite sensibly in my opinion, believe in karma—what you give out, you’ll get back in spades. I wish it were the same here, where criminals appear to get away with whatever they like—usually backed by some loony judge who’s never heard of mobile phones. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if the young thugs here believed that their punishment would fit their crime? Then they’d be worried about some old granny turning up and spraying graffiti on their front door or running a key down the side of their precious car. That would be justice in my mind.

‘I know this isn’t a good time,’ Jake continues, ‘but we need to sit down together and talk. There are things I need to say.’

I rest my head back on the rolled edge of the bath, which digs into the tense muscles of my neck. ‘Pip’s already told me.’

Jake straightens. ‘About the baby?’

I twist round to look at him, sitting up out of the water. ‘What baby?’

His colour drains to match my own. He doesn’t speak for a very long time. ‘Neve was pregnant.’

I feel as if I’ve been punched in the stomach all over again. Kicked while I’m down. Fresh, hot tears spring to my eyes. ‘Was pregnant?’

‘She had an abortion.’ Jake hangs his head. ‘But it was mine, Lyssa. I was the father.’

‘You’re right,’ I say, closing my eyes in the hope that everything will go away. ‘This isn’t a good time.’

Chapter seventy-five

Chapter seventy-five

It’s three o’clock in the morning and I’ve had two bouts of restless sleep and two nightmares. I’m awake and sweating ice-cold droplets all over the pillow. My first nightmare involved a dozen hulking, great, blank-faced thugs circling me and taking it in turns to hit me, but they were all wearing baby bonnets and were hitting me with Pooh Bear rattles. In my second nightmare, I was at an antenatal class where I was the only woman who wasn’t pregnant and no one liked to tell me. They were all fat and waddling, like Edie is just before she drops, and wearing tent-like maternity clothes. I was wearing tight-fitting Lycra and high heels and trying to join in a conversation about piles and swollen ankles when it was obvious to everyone else that I had no idea what I was talking about, so they decided to mug me too. How sad can you get?

I lie shivering beneath my duvet. How can I turn my brain off? I need more painkilling drugs—or maybe I need less.