‘Here we are then.’ Mrs Park opened the door. The moment was lost.
A tray with coffees and small almond biscuits was put on a side table by the stairs. ‘So as not to disturb the puzzle,’ Mrs Park said. ‘Where’s Milton?’
‘He went to his room,’ Sabina said. ‘Molly, do you have any sugar?’
Mrs Park went back to fetch the sugar bowl, and Sabina reached for the flask in her pocket, shot Blue a devilish smile.
‘Fancy making these Irish?’ She poured a glug of whisky into her coffee and then some into Blue’s before she could say that she didn’t drink, didn’t have the head for it.
‘It’s Saturday night.’ Sabina winked and then gave a shush and suppressed a smile as Mrs Park came back with the sugar bowl.
Blue was tempted to leave the spiked coffee where it was and pick up the unadulterated cup, but that would mean the whisky would be left for Mrs Park.
‘Demerara, that all right?’ Molly Park said.
They were all adults, Blue told herself. The flood had put paid to the retreat; there was no reason Sabina couldn’t enjoy a drink. Blue, too, for that matter.
The coffee filled her mouth with a sharp, sweet heat, and an antiseptic burn hit her throat. Sabina eyed her over the rim of her cup. They returned to the puzzle and pieced it together, and when Mrs Park excused herself to help with dinner, Sabina added another small glug to their mugs.
Blue volunteered to take Milton’s jigsaw pieces in with her own and she touched each in turn but got nothing, only the numbness of whisky and the taint of despair. Hers, his; she couldn’t tell.
The wooziness intensified when Joshua Park called them through for dinner, and Blue rose from her chair. She was relieved to be able to line her stomach with food. She forgot the strange visions, forgot the car cloistered in the barn, the open doors, the floodwater, the fear she would never get home.
Instead, she saw the shape of Sabina’s body beneath her jumper and jeans. She saw the motherly kindness in Mrs Park’s eyes, heard the humour in Mr Park’s baritone, caught the struggle in each of Milton’s chesty breaths and felt sad for him. Blue carried her coffee cup to the kitchen and drank the dregs as they sat at the table. She no longer worried about the rules, any of the rules.
A bottle of Sancerre stood proud on the counter, and Joshua Park poured a glass for his wife. ‘You can take the night off,’ he said and then poured a drink for everyone else, and even Milton seemed to cheer up.
The whisky and wine loosened Sabina’s tongue. She revealed herself as a raconteur, made everyone laugh with anecdotes, and when the food was all eaten, and Mrs Park sat a bowl of bread-and-butter pudding at the table, Joshua Park used his hand as a gavel and stood up.
‘It’s Saturday night, we’re flooded in, the retreat’s on hold’ – he opened the pantry door beside the safe to reveal a far deeper cupboard stacked with, among many other things, a wine rack – ‘a dessert wine to go with pudding!’
‘That’s for special occasions—’ Mrs Park said.
‘What more of a special occasion than this?’
‘It’s for Ea—’
‘Easter’s a month away; we’ll buy another before then.’
‘Just one and small glasses—’ said Mrs Park.
‘Enormous glasses,’ said Mr Park and emptied the bottle between the five.
Tension oozed from Blue’s body like tree sap. The golden-amber wine was sweet and delicious and melted the last of her unease. Mrs Park looked unsettled, but even she had to smile when Sabina suggested they go and listen to music by the fire and that Molly Park, head of the retreat, host extraordinaire, should play maestro.
Another bottle of wine was brought out, and Blue was amazed at how easily the rule on alcohol had been abandoned.
In front of the fire, Mr Park told his own stories about working his way up the ranks, life as a chancer, a businessman, a determined anti-rogue, and Mrs Park turned on the sound system. She played soft, sweet jazz, the music at odds with Mr Park’s tales of colleagues who spent a fortune every night in Birmingham strip clubs, who got so drunk on a Thursday they turned up drunk to work the following morning.
‘Were you an angel then, Mr Park?’ Sabina asked, one eyebrow lifted.
‘I had no interest in that lifestyle,’ he said. ‘I was smart enough to know how to play the game and get out early.’
‘You never joined your colleagues at the clubs?’ Sabina said.
‘I was happy to wave them off and let them dig their own early graves.’ Mr Park drank the rest of his glass in one swig, unscrewed the lid off the next bottle. ‘I learnt that it’s not always wise to follow; sometimes it’s best to forge your own path.’
‘You clearly worked very hard,’ Sabina said.
‘I work hard to get what I want,’ he replied, and Mrs Park surprised them when she took the bottle from her husband’s hand and topped everyone up. All talk of the past was drowned.
Another log was thrown on to the fire.
The box of chocolates was brought out once more.
Only Milton stayed silent, his chin resting on his chest as though he had fallen asleep. Twice, Blue caught him blinking, muttering to himself, and she knew he paid full attention.
Sabina relaxed into her armchair, the long-stemmed glass at home in her hand. ‘Have you always lived in Blackpool?’ Her accent stretched the last word and made it exotic.
The glass of wine was Blue’s fifth, and she was glad to be in a soft chair. Glad to be close to this woman, the first person in so long who seemed like someone Blue could befriend.
‘I was born in Preston. When did you move to London?’
‘In my twenties. What did you do before your job at the hospice?’
‘Worked in a warehouse. What did you do before you became an analyst?’
‘I’ve always been an analyst. I studied computer science for my degree. Did you go to university?’
‘No. Where did you go?’
‘Munich. Where did you go to school?’
‘I didn’t.’ Blue spoke without thought, felt the wine and the whisky and the rich risotto churn. She wanted to reword her answer, but Sabina cocked her head, said,
‘You were home-schooled?’
‘Aye.’
‘She must have been a huge part of your life,’ Sabina said, and Blue had no idea how she could sum up how big a part of her life Bridget Ford had been. ‘Do you have siblings?’
Blue shook her head. ‘I don’t see them anymore.’
‘So it was just you and your mum?’
‘After my dad died, yes.’ And it had been, for years after Devlin’s heart attack. Just the two of them, in that house. They travelled to shows together, stayed in cheap guest houses together, stood on stages hand in hand until the night a man caught Blue by the throat.
‘Tell me about Germany,’ Blue said. ‘What do you miss about it?’ And she leant her cheek on the headrest, and listened to Sabina’s stories about growing up, rebellion, fights with her siblings, how she ran away from home, ran back home, left for university and felt homesick for the first time in her life. She could see what a relief it was for Sabina to talk about something other than her losses, saw her face relax, the lines on her forehead smooth over, and the lines around her eyes deepen with each smile. Her accent got stronger when she spoke about her family, took on a faint twang of London when she mentioned her work.
Blue imagined Sabina’s cards as she once imagined the kids’ cards who lived on the street. Shuffle the deck and hand them to her, let the tips of their fingers brush, feel the rush of her. You would be the High Priestess, Blue thought. You would be the Queen of Cups.
Wooziness hit Blue with the last sip of wine, and she lolled back in her seat.
‘You’re a good listener.’ Sabina mimicked the posture.
Mr Park yawned. ‘My God, it’s nearly midnight.’
‘Anyone for cocoa?’ Mrs Park said with a slur in her voice. Her cheeks were bright pink, her nose too, and her hair was slightly dishevelled.
‘You and your cocoa.’ Mr Park kissed the top of her head, and Blue saw it through the fug of alcohol, the haze of the fire. It made her melancholic for her mother and the grief Bridget felt when Devlin died.
‘I would like one,’ said Sabina, ‘and so would Blue.’
‘Would I?’ she laughed.
‘Yes, good for the soul.’
‘That’s fine, just fine,’ Mrs Park said, flushed pleasure-pink at the chance to cosset. Her husband collected the wine glasses, refused help from the guests. Blue watched as he chased his wife, listened to Mrs Park giggle as they walked to the kitchen.
‘They are adorable.’ Sabina followed Blue’s gaze.
It didn’t take Mrs Park long to make up the drinks, and Blue thought of Bridget’s evening chamomile teas and her bedtime kisses of old.
Languor curled its lazy cat tail around them, and their sips of hot chocolate were alternated with yawns. Goodnights were wished, and eventually, Sabina and Blue climbed the wooden hill together.
It was all Blue could do to keep steady on the stairs. She fell halfway up, hit her shin below the knee on the next tread. She cursed but was glad of the pain. It gave an excuse for the tension in her jaw, the sting behind her eyelids.
Wine made her maudlin. She missed Mother.
‘You OK?’ Sabina’s hand was on Blue’s lower back, the pressure light and self-aware as though she was afraid to touch her, and Blue felt the straightjacket tension of her own oddness.
‘Aye, just slipped; I’m fine.’ Her voice dragged. She heard Sabina’s breath behind her, caught the scent of whisky and red wine.
Rain tapped on the skylight, tried to draw Blue’s attention: she’s right there, behind you, so close. Outside, the clouds shifted, hid the moonlight, the stars, the leaning trees, the flood.
A door slammed.
They stopped dead.
‘It was downstairs,’ Blue said but didn’t believe it. ‘It was the kitchen door or the one to the Parks’ rooms.’
‘It was my door,’ Sabina said, ‘my bloody ghost.’
‘They don’t exist,’ she said. A reflex.
‘My demon, then.’
‘They don’t, either.’
Sabina shook herself. ‘Foolishness.’
The corridor stretched on either side of them. The banister slumped its prison-bar shadow on the floor.
‘Do you think a mechanic will come tomorrow?’ Sabina said. ‘Fix the cars so we can go?’
‘The rain’s got heavier,’ said Blue.
They walked the short hallway together. Though they had drunk the same, glass for glass, Sabina kept a steady step. Blue ambled, sometimes brushed the wall, sometimes touched Sabina’s shoulder, couldn’t keep a straight line.
Dreaded what she would find when she reached her room.
Feared, even more, its emptiness.
‘Have some water before you go to sleep,’ Sabina fumbled through her pocket for her room key, ‘or you’ll feel terrible tomorrow. Do you have something to drink?’
‘I’m fine, honest; it was the slip on the step that made me lose my balance, not the wine.’ Blue laughed to lighten the mood, but that, too, sounded slurred, and she hoped it was only her ear that caught it.
Clouds shifted and the moon offered a blue beam. Sabina’s face was caught in the night’s half-light.
‘Will you be OK?’ Sabina asked, and she lifted her hand and stroked a strand of black hair away from Blue’s face, tucked it behind Blue’s ear, and Blue forced herself not to flinch. Told herself it was a gesture of kindness and care.
But her skin burned where Sabina touched it.
Heartache hollowed out her chest.
There was more, much more, but Blue’s gift ricocheted off the shell Sabina had built around her nut-kernel heart.
Blue’s eyes shocked open. Sabina gave her a look she couldn’t read, and it shook her further, because without Sabina to read, there was only herself, and she was sick to death of her own heart.
‘You’re lonely,’ Sabina said, and Blue realised that the look was pity. Pride made her legs itch to run; anguish made her want to crumble, be comforted by her. By anyone. To say, can’t you see how alone I am? Can no one see how alone I am?
‘I’m sorry,’ Sabina said, ‘whisky makes me mawkish. Ignore me.’ And before Blue could stop her, tell her that it was OK, that she could talk about it, needed to talk about it, please let her talk about it, Sabina had stepped out of reach and opened her bedroom door. ‘Can I offer you a final top-up? The flask is empty, but the bottle’s in my bag.’ She stifled a yawn.
Blue swayed on her feet.
The boozy blood drained cold from her head.
The scent of rotten meat stung her airway.
Her throat became tight, dry, irritated.
A figure stood, semi-concealed by Sabina’s door. Blue saw the slim shoulder, the lengths of pale hair, the tight fist of an angry child.
The constriction in her throat became stronger. Some invisible hand pressed her mouth and nose and she couldn’t breathe out, couldn’t draw fresh air in, could only stand there with the horror of the image blistering her eyes and the smell assaulting her senses.
‘Well?’ Sabina said.
The vision was horrible, the knowledge it was so close to Sabina even worse.
Repelled, Blue stumbled, squeezed shut her eyes, had to right herself before she fell, and still she could not breathe.
She couldn’t go into that room. Couldn’t go near Sabina if she was the reason for this … this thing.
‘Your niece,’ the words choked out of Blue’s dry, tight throat, ‘what was her name?’
The figure moved. First an ear visible, now the edge of a cheekbone.
‘Can’t you tell?’ Sabina said.
‘No,’ said Blue. ‘What was she called?’ And held her breath, begged Sabina not to say it, to have a different name for the girl she had lost. Don’t let it be Jessica Pike, Blue thought. Don’t let it be Eleanor. Don’t let it be—
‘Lauren,’ Sabina said.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Blue and hope drained like water from a plug-pulled bath. Behind Sabina, Blue saw the blonde hair, cheekbone and shoulder of someone, something, slightly older. Before those dead eyes could see her, she turned, fled to her room, slammed the door. Bent double, hands pressed to her knees, she breathed sweet air without constriction.
‘Goodnight then!’ Sabina called, and Blue could hear her door close, pictured her there in that clean, white room, blind to the girl who stood by her shoulder.