Frank sat in the bar of the Norfolk Hotel staring into his fourth Johnnie Walker. He’d had an appalling week. Every move they’d made on the drugs case had drawn a blank. The night he’d arrested Marissa’s neighbour he’d been confident he would crack the case wide open within a few weeks but here he was, months later, the big operators still eluding him and the Deputy Commissioner increasingly impatient for a result.
His gloom about the case was compounded by the old depression and the fact that Marissa was neither answering her phone nor returning his calls. Her silence over the past week was deafening. Something had happened in Port Hedland and she clearly wanted to be left alone. He feared that whatever she was struggling with might end up changing things between them.
‘Cheer up, Frank, it might never happen,’ said a voice behind him, and before he could turn, there was a hand on his shoulder and warm breath in his ear.
‘It already has, Gina,’ he said. ‘Haven’t seen you for months. I didn’t know you were back in Fremantle.’
She settled on the stool beside him. ‘Been back a while now. Couldn’t stand the southwest – too quiet. I’ll have a Redback, if you’re buying.’
He signalled the barmaid, and ordered her drink and another for himself.
‘You look as though you might have had enough already,’ Gina said, adjusting the plunging V-neck of her black dress. It was long and simple, made of some sort of T-shirt fabric that draped softly over her legs. ‘You’re a mean man when you’re drunk.’
‘You never complained before,’ he said. ‘In fact, I thought you got me drunk to take advantage of me.’ How easy it was to fall back into playing the old games.
Gina grinned and raised her glass. ‘You should be so lucky,’ she said, and Frank knew that he could, if he chose, get lucky again right now.
‘You’re looking good,’ he said. ‘Are you working?’
She nodded, ‘New Age shop down the road, weekends.’
Frank smiled. ‘What are you reading this time? Classics?’
‘Get off,’ she said with another grin. ‘The tarot, and palms, whatever people want. Like me to take a look at your palm, Frank? Want to know what’s waiting round the corner?’
He shook his head. ‘I can barely cope with the present, let alone the future,’ he said. ‘Are you living in the same place?’
Gina shook her head. ‘That warehouse conversion on South Terrace. I moved in last week.’
Frank let out a low whistle. ‘Going up in the world. Not your usual style.’
Gina took a long drink of her beer. ‘A legacy. My dad died. It’s all right, you don’t need to do the sympathy thing. He was in his nineties and didn’t know one day from the next. He was ready to go.’
‘Just the same . . .’
‘Yeah, just the same . . . It’s sad, but he went peacefully.’
‘And he left you something?’
‘Everything. I knew he would, I’m an only child. What shook me was finding out how much there was. He’d been living like he was hard up but it turned out he’d got a whole lot of investments. He had one of his mates in the RSL looking after them.’
‘So you rented a fancy apartment.’
‘Bought it. I knew I’d fritter that money away if I didn’t put it into bricks and mortar. I’m fifty-three and it’s the first time I’ve owned my own home.’
Frank raised his glass. ‘Impressive starter home,’ he said. ‘Well, here’s to you, Gina, a good decision.’
Gina nodded. ‘Two bedrooms, state-of-the-art kitchen, white marble bathroom, spa bath,’ she paused. ‘And a jacuzzi in the courtyard with jets in all the right places. You should come and have a look, Frank, help me christen it.’
He paused, looking hard at her. She had the complexion of a much younger woman; only when he got as close as this were the tiny lines visible around her eyes. The once-blonde hair was streaked with grey, and it brought a lump to his throat.
‘How long have we known each other?’ he asked suddenly.
Gina shrugged. ‘Twenty years? More maybe, on and off –’ she laughed – ‘literally! What d’you reckon? You look like you need something to take your mind off your troubles. What is it this time, the Vietcong or the crims?’
‘Bit of both,’ he said, ‘and more. A Jacuzzi, eh?’
‘Big enough for four but more fun for two.’
‘Sounds like just what I need,’ he said, finishing his drink and signalling again to the barman. ‘Better take a couple of bottles of decent champagne with us so we can do it properly.’
Gina threw back her head and laughed again. ‘Ah, dear Frank,’ she said. ‘As long as I can remember, you’ve always known how to do it properly.’
Oliver was feeling rather as he had done at the age of ten, on his first visit to the Royal Show. He’d been looking forward to seeing the animals, to throwing balls into the open mouths of plastic clown heads as they turned from side to side, and he’d pictured success at the shooting ranges. But Janet, who was a year younger, had dared him to go on the Big Wheel. Even at ten the prospect of being suspended hundreds of feet above the ground in a perilously swaying wooden box was not Oliver’s idea of fun, but he felt bound to rise to the challenge.
Having survived the Wheel, and even almost enjoyed it, he had foolishly dared Janet to go with him on the roller coaster, confident that the prospect would reduce her to tears. But Janet was made of sterner stuff, and they were soon careering at breakneck speed up and terrifyingly down the steep slopes and wild curves of the track, grasping a metal bar that shuddered in his grip. Oliver had emerged white faced and shaken, and for the next hour at least was at severe risk of bringing up his lunch. That was exactly how he felt now as he left the centre of the floor and headed for the plastic chairs lined up along one side of the studio.
What madness had induced him to inflict this torture on himself? One minute he was chatting to Gayle on the phone, feeling happy, positive and inspired, and now here he was, three days later, wondering what on earth he was doing. Gayle had a lot to answer for – she, after all, had suggested it. It had been so good to talk to her again he’d been completely carried away by the relief of finding their friendship intact. She told him all about Josh and her own past and he, in turn, told her about his therapy. No apology, no going over what had happened seemed necessary; it was a conversation like they used to have, only better, because now she was telling him things about herself, and he was remembering to ask.
‘I do admire you for sticking with the therapy, Oliver,’ Gayle said. ‘I tried once and it was so confronting I couldn’t face going back.’
‘But look what you’ve done now, Gayle,’ he answered. ‘Going on this tour, finding your son and telling him everything, and now you’re telling me. That’s huge and really brave.’
‘It’s the dancing,’ she said. ‘It got me out of my head and into my body, made me see everything more clearly. Come to think of it, Oliver, something physical might be good for you too.’
So a couple of hours later he’d found himself standing in front of the noticeboard in the Fremantle Public Library, staring at the advertisements for tennis clubs and gyms, yoga classes, Pilates, fitball and pleas for members to join the soccer team. But Oliver was the least sporty person imaginable. He had once joined the university gym only to set the treadmill running so fast that his glasses steamed up and he couldn’t see how to stop it. He’d been rescued by a student whom he’d recently failed for plagiarism, so it was embarrassing as well as scary.
There was a walking group wanting members, someone looking for a golf partner, and a sponsorship form you could fill in to pledge that you would run the city-to-surf in aid of the Heart Foundation. Oliver’s own heart missed a beat at the mere prospect. And then he saw it, a scarlet postcard with the black silhouette of a couple dancing.
It Takes Two to Tango!
Get fit, meet people.
Learn the tango, the rumba, the salsa.
Beginners welcome.
It had seemed like a good idea at the time – after all, look what dancing had done for Gayle, and Sonya too was insisting that she was fitter and more in touch with her body. That was obviously what he needed and so here he was, sweating profusely from exertion and embarrassment, and clearly the only person in the room totally incompetent when it came to Latin American dance.
‘No, no, Oliver,’ Ramon called when he spotted him slinking way into a corner. ‘More practice, come back here, try again. Judy will help you this time, won’t you, darling?’
Oliver’s heart sank. Ramon was a slavedriver with gleaming gelled hair, olive skin and a body like a rod of iron. In a scarlet satin shirt and tight black flared pants he might as well have had a whip in his hand given the authority with which he dominated the dancers.
Oliver lurched against the wall as Judy came towards him smiling, hands out stretched. ‘Come on, darl,’ she said kindly. ‘Just go through the moves with me and then he’ll pick on someone else.’
Oliver was relieved to see someone he knew at his first class. Judy was married to his doctor and he was staggered to discover that this plump, grey-haired, sixtyish woman, normally seated behind the reception desk at the surgery, was a tigress on the dance floor.
‘I may not have any moves left in me,’ he groaned as she put his hand on her waist and hers on his shoulder. ‘Are you sure I should be doing so much my first time?’
‘No half-measures with Ramon,’ she said with a smile. ‘He’s a great believer in the deep-end theory. He tortures everyone the first week, so we’ve all been through it. Now we’ll have a go and that’ll keep him happy. Let’s do the promenade, seven steps, a turn and then the corte and the quebrada – that’s where you bend me backwards and lean over as though you’re going to ravish me. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. I’m a trained nurse.’
‘I saw Angie the other day,’ Trish said, ‘in David Jones. She was buying a wok.’
‘She told me,’ Gayle said. ‘An electric one. She said she’d seen you.’
‘I’m surprised she didn’t get one as a wedding present. So you’ve spoken to her, then?’
‘This morning,’ Gayle said towelling her hair with her free hand. Trish had called just as she was coming out of the shower.
‘Is everything okay?’
‘Great. Really. I mean, I’ve told you about Josh – it’s made such a difference to me, Trish. He might come down, he and Dan, when I’ve sorted things out. You won’t recognise him.’
‘Yes, yes, I know, that’s wonderful, Gayle. But I meant Angie. Is everything okay with Angie?’
‘As far as I know. Why wouldn’t it be?’
There was a pause. ‘I don’t know . . .’ Trish began. ‘It’s just that she didn’t quite seem herself. I mean, she’s normally so bubbly but I thought she was rather down.’
‘She didn’t say anything to me,’ Gayle said. ‘Is it Brian, d’you think?’
‘No, I don’t think so. Angie said she hadn’t heard from him for more than a week now. He’s away. When did you last speak to him?’
Gayle hesitated. ‘A couple of weeks ago. I suppose I should find out when he’s coming back to Perth.’
‘Does it feel odd, being away so long, having all this happening? Fronting up to Josh and not being on the end of the phone for Brian whenever he chooses to call?’
‘It feels fantastic. Like I’ve been let out of a cage. I still have to talk to Angie and Brian, though, and, Trish . . . I’ll tell you more when I get home. More about me, and the past.’
‘Yeah yeah,’ Trish said. ‘I know, all the secrets are coming out. Plenty of time for that. But Angie, you’re sure she’s okay?’
‘I think she’d quickly be on the phone to me if she wasn’t. Anyway, I’ll be home soon.’
She sat down on the edge of the bed, dropped the phone back into her bag and stared at the concentric patterns on the carpet. Trisha’s call had dampened her spirits. It was a reminder of what was ahead, that this particular adventure was coming to an end and a new and difficult one was about to begin. Three days left in Geraldton, and then a day’s drive back to Perth. Perhaps she should find out where Brian was and when he’d be home. Reluctantly she got the phone out again and sent him a text.
Brian, with a sheaf of real estate agents’ papers in his hands, was viewing a three-bedroom apartment in Manly, with a view across the water. He could just see himself here, sitting out on the balcony in the mornings in his dressing gown, morning papers, pot of coffee. It was small, of course, a third the size of the house, but Gayle had always complained that the house was too big. A mausoleum, she’d called it, which was hurtful really, considering he’d only been trying to do his best for her and Angie. Somewhere like this ought to keep her happy, though: sell the house, make a move over here, set up a consultancy business. On the other hand, he could afford to retire. Play the stock market a bit, some golf, get into a wine club, things he’d always wished he’d had time to do. Plenty of men younger than him were taking early retirement and plenty more wished they could afford it.
The agent was having a long and loud conversation on his mobile phone, and Brian went out onto the balcony and watched the ferry pulling in to the wharf. A week earlier he’d moved out of the Sydney CBD hotel into one in Manly to see if he liked it. He did. He felt better here, and when he thought of Perth he realised it was over for him. It reeked of failure and he didn’t need that.
Ruminating on the past he recognised that he had got a few things wrong. He should have spent more time with Gayle, for a start. It couldn’t have been much fun for her stuck at home while he was travelling around the country and back and forth to Chicago. Well, he could put that right, they could do plenty together from now on. She could ditch the job and the study thing that she’d probably only been doing because she missed having him around. With a place like this, they’d have a great time, travel a bit – take a cruise, maybe – and he could buy a boat, one of those motor launch things.
‘Top class location, isn’t it?’ said the agent, joining him on the balcony. ‘It won’t be around for long at this price, Mr Peterson. Someone’ll snap it up in the next couple of days.’
‘Give it a rest, mate,’ Brian said. ‘I wasn’t bom yesterday. This place has been on the market for a couple of months because the vendor is demanding an exorbitant price and won’t look at a lesser offer. I’ve done my homework. Now, if you really want to sell me this joint you’d better stop playing silly buggers. Let’s go and have a drink and talk about a deal.’
Gayle’s message buzzed into Brian’s phone several glasses of wine later, just as he was shaking hands with the agent. He stood in the shade of the palms in The Corso to read it. When was he going to be home? Perhaps her going away had been a good thing. Maybe now she was looking forward to getting back to normal again. He smiled at the text, wondering whether he should play her own game for a while, let her wait for an answer. Overnight, perhaps? Maybe a few days? He wasn’t ready to go home yet, he had to feel right about it. He needed a bit more time and then, when he went home, he could tell it his way, make it seem more as though he’d been part of the decision. And there’d be the sweetener: a place in Manly, a whole new life. Perhaps it was turning out to be a blessing after all, a new start. That was what he needed, what they both needed: a new start.
Getting away from Port Hedland hadn’t proved to be all that Marissa had hoped, but it was an improvement. Despite the way she felt, she was pretty sure she was giving the impression of normality, but she knew she could unravel at the slightest provocation. Part of her longed to be home, safe in the cocoon of her house, wind chimes singing on the verandah, the scent of lavender in the garden. But each time she imagined herself there she knew that something had changed. The isolation she had treasured was now much less appealing. The intimacy of this shared journey had given her a taste for the company of friends and, much as she wanted to be home, she didn’t want this time to end.
‘The day you trust someone, Marissa, is the day you’re going to crack wide open,’ Gina had once said, slipping the cards back into a pile after a reading. ‘That day all hell’s going to break loose and whatever it is you’re hiding is going to hit the fan like the proverbial –’
‘I’m not hiding anything,’ Marissa had said.
‘Maybe hiding’s the wrong word, but whatever’s festering away in there will burst out one day and, if it doesn’t kill you, it’ll set you free.’
‘Good lord, Gina, you’re even starting to sound like some wise old gypsy now.’
‘I’m a wise old gypsy’s granddaughter and another’s great-granddaughter,’ Gina said. ‘I know what I’m talking about, believe me. One day, Marissa, you’ll let down your guard and someone will sneak in. They’ll get under your skin, may even love you, and when they do, you’ll face your biggest ever battle.’
‘I don’t have battles,’ Marissa had said, putting on her sunglasses despite the rather dark interior of Gina’s rented cottage. ‘I don’t need to.’
Gina laughed and stood up, taking the money Marissa held out to her. ‘Your battle is with yourself, Marissa, yourself and the past. As soon as you let someone in, you’ll have to face the fact that they can see who you are and they might actually like what they see.’
Marissa had slipped her wallet back into her bag and headed for the door. ‘The reading was good, Gina, the psychology was shonky. See you next time.’ She hadn’t, though, because next time she wanted her cards read she went to another tarot reader, who didn’t know her.
Marissa picked out her costume for tonight, checked that the fastenings were okay and slipped it into her bag. Two more performances, two more days to go, and they’d be on the home stretch. Then what? Would these new friendships last, or was it just an element of the journey that would evaporate once they were home again? She knew that while a part of her desperately wanted the friendship, another part was terrified of breaking out of her emotional isolation.
There was a tap on her bedroom door. ‘You ready?’ Sonya called.
‘Almost,’ Marissa said. ‘Come in.’
Sonya flopped backwards onto the bed. ‘I’m exhausted,’ she said. ‘We’re in our fifties, for god’s sake – actually our late fifties. Aren’t we supposed to take life easy, get our hair permed, wear fluffy slippers and have a rest in the afternoons?’
‘Wrong generation,’ Marissa said. ‘You and Gayle are baby boomers, the generation that changed the world. You’re still changing it now.’
‘Why just us?’ asked Gayle, who had followed Sonya in and was sitting on the other side of the bed. ‘You too.’
Marissa shook her head. ‘Too old to be a baby boomer. I’m a war baby.’
Sonya sat bolt upright. ‘Get off, you’re not. How old are you, Marissa?’
‘Sixty-one, but don’t tell anyone.’
‘You mean don’t tell Frank,’ Sonya said.
‘Not even him.’
‘You’re a great advertisement for belly dancing,’ Gayle said. ‘Hope I look as good as you in five years’ time.’
‘Will we still be dancing in five years’ time?’ Marissa asked, not looking up for fear of revealing her vulnerability.
‘Of course we bloody will,’ Sonya said, getting up. ‘We’ll be dancing, talking, listening to Normie Rowe, guzzling wine round your kitchen table, won’t we, Gayle?’
‘Obviously,’ Gayle said, heading for the door. ‘Why wouldn’t we? Now, get a move on or we’ll be late for our own performance.’
The chaos of Marissa’s emotions made her weak and dizzy. ‘You lead tonight, Gayle,’ she said, trying to keep her voice calm as they went down the stairs. ‘Right out in front. This is your night. And you tomorrow, Sonya.’
Gayle turned to her in shock. ‘I couldn’t,’ she said, ‘no way.’
‘You did it the last night in Hedland, when I was a zombie.’
‘I wasn’t out in front.’
‘No,’ Marissa agreed, ‘but you led. You drove that performance. Of course you can do it again, only this time you’ll be leading from the front.’
‘Yes,’ Sonya said. ‘You can, Gayle. You’ll be great. Do it, and I’ll do it tomorrow. Our last two nights, let’s give it a go.’
Gayle took a deep breath. ‘If you really think so . . .’
‘I know so,’ said Marissa, knowing too that she did not have it in herself to lead them tonight. ‘This is the new you, the woman you’ve become – let’s see her on the stage.’
‘Hurricane Gayle,’ Sonya said with a grin. ‘Come on then, whip us up a storm.’
Frank could barely believe his luck. Just a few days earlier he’d been crying into his drink in the Norfolk, feeling a failure at every level, and then, suddenly, everything had changed. An informant he’d been cultivating for months had finally come good with a tip-off, and not just any ordinary tip-off but the ultimate one. By next morning, along with half a dozen other officers, he was on an unmarked launch heading up the coast towards a large yacht moored a kilometre from the coast off Dongara. As they drew closer, giving a convincing impression of a handful of blokes enjoying a few days’ fishing and drinking, the police helicopter was on standby in Geraldton and a couple of patrol boats were positioning north and west of the target.
It was the most satisfying moment of Frank’s years in the force when, pleading for a can of fuel to get them back to shore, they had pulled alongside with the grudging agreement of the skipper. As he leapt from the prow of the launch onto the deck of the yacht, Frank felt a shot of the old adrenaline course through his veins. Seconds later, in the cabin, the syndicate boss who had eluded him for months was his, caught literally with his pants down, staring shocked and helpless into the barrel of Frank’s police revolver.
It was a coup and Frank knew it, planned at short notice and executed like clockwork. The long months of detective work, of waiting and near misses, had at last paid off. Not only did they have the big man, they had his girlfriend, clutching a sheet around her and blabbing everything she knew before the handcuffs were on. That and the drugs they found on board assured him they had evidence that would stand up in court. The operation had recruited and run teenagers as mules carrying heroin into the country through Bali, as well as trafficking in cocaine and crystal meth through a network of small boats moored off Fremantle and Geraldton.
Elated despite several hours of interviews, Frank dealt with the paperwork and walked out of the Geraldton police station, pausing to inhale the fresh night air. The adrenaline was still pumping: not only was the case stitched up but fate, or rather, the drug trade, had brought him to Geraldton at just the right time. Marissa and the others had arrived earlier in the week and were staying nearby. He needed to go to the pub, buy drinks for his team and join in the post mortem, but by the time he’d be able to get away, Marissa and the others would be back at the hotel.
The pub was crowded and noisy. News of the arrest had spread and the bar was packed with locals and off-duty police. As the drinks kept coming, the story was acquiring wilder and more heroic dimensions and it was building up to a long night of celebration, but Frank had other plans. He left a message on Marissa’s phone and then joined the throng, accepted the plaudits, the slaps on the back, listened to the tall tales and bought a few rounds, and when he was sure he’d talked to everyone who’d played a part in the operation, he slipped quietly away.
It was ten o’clock when he got to the hotel, later than he’d intended, but when he glanced into the bar he saw Gayle and Sonya in a booth tucking into an enormous plate of sandwiches.
‘Normie!’ Sonya said. ‘What a surprise. Come and join us.’
‘Was it you who arrested those guys on the boat, Frank?’ Gayle asked, pushing the sandwiches towards him. ‘I heard it on the early news.’
He nodded and took a sandwich. ‘Me and others. At bloody last, we’ve been after them for long enough. I thought I’d be retired or dead before we pinned this lot.’
‘Well done, Frank, congratulations,’ Sonya said, thumping his shoulder. ‘Let’s get you a drink. What’ll it be?’
He hadn’t realised how hungry he was – he hadn’t eaten since breakfast – and he wolfed down the sandwich.
Gayle pushed a bowl of fries towards him. ‘You look exhausted,’ she said, ‘and hungry. Dig in. Does Marissa know you’re here?’
‘I left a message on her phone,’ he said. ‘Where is she, anyway?’
‘She went up to her room,’ Gayle replied, glancing at her watch. ‘Said she’d just be a minute. We’ve not been back long, but Sonya and I were ravenous so we didn’t wait to order.’
He nodded and started on another sandwich as Sonya returned with the drinks. ‘To the conquering hero!’ she said, raising her glass. ‘So, tell us all about it. Were you incredibly brave and commanding?’
‘Naturally,’ he said with a grin. ‘Cheers!’ He took a swig of his drink. ‘There’s a lot of stories circulating in the pub but, to be honest, it went like a dream.’
‘Come on then,’ Sonya urged, ‘how did you get them –’
‘Hang on,’ Gayle said, ‘Marissa should be here, she’ll want to know too. What’s she up to?’ She pushed her plate aside. ‘I’ll go and get her. Don’t start the story yet.’
‘Why don’t I go?’ Frank said, getting up. ‘What’s the room number?’
‘Twenty-five,’ Sonya said. ‘Hurry up, I want to hear all about it.’
Frank took the stairs two at a time and made his way along the passage. Whisky, exhaustion and adrenaline had pumped up his heart rate. Suddenly he remembered his first date, arriving at the girl’s house to pick her up for the school dance. The same heady mix of excitement and nerves buzzed through him now as he tapped on the door. There was no answer.
‘Marissa,’ he called, knocking again. In the next room a television played softly, but there was no sound from twenty-five. Perhaps she’d decided to go to bed. But there was light shining under the door, strong light, so she couldn’t have been asleep.
He knocked again, louder this time. ‘Marissa, it’s Frank,’ he said, but there was no response. Perhaps she just wanted to be left alone. Disappointment shaved the edge off his mood, but as he turned away he thought he heard a sound, a moan from inside.
He knocked loudly with both hands and then, pressing his ear to the door, he heard the sound of water running. ‘Marissa, Marissa, let me in,’ he called, fear prickling his skin.
He turned the handle and the door swung open. There was no sign of her in the room but the shower was running, and steam drifted out through the open bathroom door. Frank was there in an instant and, wrenching back the shower curtain, he saw her, slumped in a corner of the cubicle, the water pounding down on her and swirling into the drain stained pink with her blood.
‘But why?’ Sonya said, fidgeting under the bright lights of the waiting room. ‘Why didn’t she say something? She seemed okay this evening.’
‘Search me,’ Gayle said. ‘She’d seemed better since we got away from Port Hedland. Whatever it is, she’s very good at hiding it.’
‘I feel like such a lousy friend,’ Sonya said. ‘I was cross with her when she raced us off that morning. I should have been a bit more understanding, tried to draw her out, then she might have talked to us.’
Frank, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, shook his head. ‘Don’t blame yourself,’ he said. ‘Something like this was always going to happen.’
‘You know, then?’ Sonya said, turning to him. ‘Whatever it is, you know about it?’
‘No, but I know the signs. Post-traumatic stress – takes one to know one. Something happened in Port Hedland years ago, that’s all I know, that and the fact that I don’t think she’s ever even talked about it, let alone got any help.’
‘So why did we go there?’ Gayle said. ‘We didn’t have to.’
Frank shrugged. ‘Maybe she thought she could lay a few ghosts.’ He rubbed his hands over his face, pushing down a wave of nausea. ‘I’ve gotta get some air. Call me if anything happens, will you, I’ll be just outside the door.’
He dropped some coins in the drink machine, took a bottle of water and wandered out. The night was crystal clear, the stars so much brighter than they ever seemed in the city. A couple of hours earlier he had stood outside the police station high on success and the anticipation of seeing Marissa. And now? He shook his head and took some deep breaths. Physically she would be fine. There was a vicious cut across her wrist, but the angle meant that it had missed the most vulnerable point. He was convinced that the cry he’d heard had come the moment before she fainted. It was a nasty injury and she was in shock, but it wasn’t disastrous. It was the psychological effect that worried him. Gayle had mentioned her apparent calm and he knew it well: the sudden and unusual detachment alongside the recognition of being at the brink of collapse, then the chaos and the dizziness, and finally the mindless panic in response to some trigger. And in this case, Frank was in no doubt that he’d been the trigger – he who, above all people, should have known better. Marissa’s recovery was assured but what would it mean for her, and would there be a place in it for him?
‘Frank?’ He jumped as Sonya materialised out of the shadows. ‘They say we can go in and see her now, but only two at a time. We . . . Gayle and I . . . we think you should go in first – on your own.’