Augustus’s eyes are closed, but he is not asleep.
He can still see her standing there in front of him. Every day. Every hour. Every minute.
She is in the middle of the room, with her hands up to her cheek. And her mother is behind her. Both of them are looking at him. They can see him everywhere he goes: in his bed, on the toilet, in the lamp room. Up on the walkway is the only place where the wind blows them out of his head, just a little, and so that is where he spends most of his time.
How could you? their eyes say. How could you?
There is a knock at the door. That woman again with her mush. He does not need anything; his throat is clamped shut.
“I don’t need anything,” he shouts hoarsely. “Just forget about it today.”
“Mr Waterman!” she persists. What a shrill voice the woman has. “I’ve got something special for you. Come down and get it!”
What could it be? A pudding, something sweet maybe. He has no idea, but he is not getting up out of his chair for that.
“I don’t need anything!” he shouts again. Why won’t she just leave him alone?
“Your daughter was here this afternoon.”
What? Lampie? He feels his heart skip a beat. But how? She is where she is and she can’t leave, and even if…
“That’s impossible!” he rasps. Don’t go getting my hopes up, woman! he thinks. I don’t want any maybes or what ifs – that just makes it worse.
“It’s true! Lampie, right? Well, she left something for you. Will you come down and get it? And you can take the soup while you’re at it!”
Something white slides through the hatch and flutters to the floor. A piece of paper. He limps over to it.
“And here’s the soup! Careful though. It’s dripping!”
And indeed, a hot drop of soup splashes onto his neck as he bends down to pick up the paper. Augustus barely notices. He can hear her, the woman, rattling on, waiting for an answer and then, after a while, walking away. He stares at the piece of paper in his hand. There are letters on it, big lopsided ones. For a moment he allows himself to think that it could really be from her. That she has come all the way here from goodness knows where to push this through his door. Which means that she still thinks about him. That she does not want to spit on his name.
He crumples the paper into a ball. Because it’s impossible. It can’t be from Lampie. His daughter can’t read or write; she has never learnt how. And neither has he.
He throws the ball of paper into the cold fireplace and slowly limps back up the stairs, to where the wind is blowing.