Patrick shunted forward an inch on the bed. Without lowering his head, he shoved his foot under the handbag and slid it up the bedside table until he was within reach of the long strap. Patrick took the book out and handed it to Helen. She opened it at the bookmark, and glanced up at him.
Behind him, the curtain was almost free of the shattered doorway.
‘It’s getting cold in here,’ said Patrick, his body half-twisting towards it.
Helen grabbed his wrist again. ‘Listen,’ she said, pressing down on his hand, firm but gentle.
Patrick settled again.
Helen lowered her gaze to the book and read, drawing her finger across the page under every line. ‘It doesn’t matter, the nature of a child’s wounds or their number or size, or their visibility, or depth, whether their flesh was bruised, or burned, cut or torn, whether their faces were reddened by the back of a hand, or the heat of shame.’ She paused and looked up at Patrick, then down again at the book. ‘It doesn’t matter whether they were taken in ways that were never meant for a body so small. It doesn’t matter whether they were poisoned by words that bound them to silence, or convinced them they were nothing or that they were everything, or that they wanted to give willingly what another person wanted to steal from them.’ She paused and looked up at Patrick. Without lowering her gaze, and while her finger still moved under the lines across the page, she spoke the words, her eyes locked on to his. ‘Because it is not our wounds that unite us damaged girls and boys. It’s what came before – the perfection of a pure spirit. Yes, we were wounded, but first, we were as perfect as humans ever are. We still are – you know.’
Patrick let out a breath. ‘What did my eyes do?’
‘Nothing,’ said Helen. ‘Absolutely nothing.’
Behind him, the shadow was a solid black shape in the doorway, poised to step over the broken glass.
‘I’m sorry about Murph,’ said Patrick. ‘You know he was in love with you.’
A frown flickered on Helen’s face.
Behind Patrick, safely, quietly over the glass, stood Murph, his face blackened with smoke, shining with sweat.
Helen tilted her head. ‘He was in love with me?’
Behind Patrick, Murph nodded. He raised his hands in front of his chest and made a heart shape with his fingers.
Tears welled in Helen’s eyes.
‘Edie told me,’ said Patrick. ‘He was meeting you for a drink, dressed up to the nines, ready to confess everything. And poor Murph. All this love stretching between you for twenty years like an elastic band. And he thought it would snap when he finally plucked up the courage to tell you. But it snapped because you told him that you had MS.’
Helen’s lip started to quiver and tears spilled down her face.
‘He didn’t even realize why he pulled back,’ said Patrick. ‘He didn’t even realize that he chose not to love another woman who might leave this life too soon.’ He paused. ‘Poor Murph.’
Behind him, Murph nodded, tears sliding down his face, making pale trails in the smoky black.
‘And you loved him too,’ said Patrick.
Helen nodded. ‘I did. I always did.’
‘Except, according to Edie, you were too busy thinking you deserved nothing better than that prick who left you. And she could never figure that out, how someone as gorgeous as you, could settle for so little.’
Helen cried harder.
‘Unfortunately, Murph is not brave,’ said Patrick.
Behind him, Murph reached for the candlestick, and took it in both hands.
Patrick frowned. He inhaled deeply through his nose.
Behind him, Murph took a silent step forward, the candlestick raised.
‘What is that smell?’ said Patrick.
‘Fire,’ said Murph, swinging the candlestick down, slamming it hard against Patrick’s temple. ‘Fire, you prick.’