Peggy’s lips were dry, her tongue thick and heavy in her mouth. She was getting used to the iron tang of blood, the white noise of pain like the sound of pulsars. She wondered if he’d come again to talk. He gave the impression he enjoyed their conversations, would miss them. Yesterday he ordered the thug she hated – the huge one with the wolf’s teeth, who looked at her as if she was so much meat – to chain her where she could see the stars from the window. A small kindness. It was bitter cold in the cell tonight and the night sky dark and clear. Hugging her knees on the stone floor, she was home again. They were so far away. Billions of light years.
She missed her father. His arm around her when she was small, sitting on the backyard doorstep as he named the stars. Wave at Mam, Peggy girl. Missed her life. All of it. Honor’s laughter. Her voice. Jansky. The sunshiney taste of grapefruit juice on a morning. Green tea. How it felt to decipher a pattern in the numbers, sense their beauty and order. The plaintive call of the curlew on the beach. The rock and motion of the boat as she fished. Friendship. Joy. The breathtaking smile of the daughter she’d never see. Leaving it all behind as she walked into the sky she knew so well, through the Milky Way, her hands trailing through the dark matter, energy running through her absorbing her back into the cosmos. Solar flares and explosions. Noise everywhere. The thought – whether light years away anyone was listening?
And in the furthest corner of the bare room, a key turned in a lock with a soft, dull click and the door began to open.