IRINA

She had woken tired, her neck cricked from lying on the sofa, bunched up and uncomfortable. She left for the hospital immediately, not staying in the flat a second longer than she had to, whisking through her workshop and out via the beaded curtain and the shop before she could explain much more to Patricia, who hadn’t expected to see her at all, full of sympathy for her mother, promises to look after the shop, for her not to worry.

She walked quickly to the car, shivering in the dress she’d been wearing the day before. Her jumpers were all in her bedroom and she hadn’t wanted to go back in there. Lynton seemed like a lifetime ago, had they really been walking along the seafront less than twenty-four hours earlier? Being back in the apartment seemed to have returned her to the mood she’d been in when she’d left. She had to know what had happened. She knew that now. She hated feeling like this, as if she were being followed, watched. If she could find out more, it might stop.

She sent another email to her client, a snippier message than before, bashed out on her mobile as she squinted at the screen. She knew he was probably out of the country on business, but she insisted he get in touch. It was urgent and she never used that word. The same out-of-office response was sent back and she puffed in frustration, her teeth gritting together to stop herself from crying out. She drove, with questions flying around the car, unthinking, into the hospital car park.

She was there when her mother stirred. It was mid-morning and Irina had been about to get coffee, her eyes red-rimmed from the lack of sleep. Seeing her mother again had made Irina feel guilty for worrying over absurd sounds and things that weren’t there when her own mother was lying ill in bed. She felt more objective away from the apartment.

The machines were still there, blinking and bleeping, lines moving, numbers changing, up and down. Her mother was propped up on another pillow and the blanket had come loose along one edge, so Irina reached out to tuck it in. She was stretching across, her hair falling over her face, when she heard her mother say his name. She started, shocked.

‘Joshua.’

Irina bent over the bed again, eyes darting from her mother’s closed eyes to her mouth. Her lips were cracked. Had she heard her correctly?

‘Joshua.’

Irina sucked in her breath, frozen over her mother’s face as she watched her lips form the letters.

‘I’m sorry, Joshua. I’m…’

Irina leant in closer, her hair tickling her mum’s face, knowing what she had heard and desperate to hear the name spoken again. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard her mother say it, it was a forbidden topic.

Her mother was shaking her head a fraction and Irina rested her hand on her forehead. ‘It’s OK, Mum. It’s OK.’

Her head moved more violently, her eyes screwed up tight as if she were in pain. ‘No, I need… I’m sorry, I can’t…’

Irina looked on in horror as a small tear sloped down her mother’s cheek and around her ear, hanging there like the saddest earring. Her eyelids fluttered and another tear fell, dripping onto the pillow.

‘Mum,’ Irina said in a low voice, circling her mother’s hand with a thumb, ‘I’m here. It’s OK, you’re OK.’

Her mother seemed to settle down at that, exhaling in one long breath as if she were at a yoga class and they were doing relaxation exercises. Her head stopped, her eyes remained still and then, in the tiniest voice, she whispered Irina’s name.

Irina leant over again. ‘Yes, Mum?’

‘I’m sorry.’

Irina didn’t want to leave her, but an hour passed and her mother was sleeping and Irina had to resist the urge to shake her shoulders, to wake her up, to force her to say his name again. She wanted something, needed to feel that her mother would talk about it. Was this the moment? She had to confess, to hold her mother’s hand as she told her the truth that had festered inside her all these years.

She needed to get out. Looking back at the bed, she shrugged her handbag up on one shoulder. She bought a coffee from the café inside the hospital, moved down peppermint corridors hung with jaunty pictures, past signs heading every which way, to the double doors and the outside world beyond, surprised to see cars driving by, people going about their day. She finished her coffee, lingering as she stood by the entrance, making the automatic doors open and close, a nurse looking up at her from the reception desk inside.

She pulled her mobile out of her pocket before she could change her mind, wanting to hear his voice. ‘Hi, it’s me,’ she said, knowing her name would have flashed up on his mobile.

‘Hey.’ He sounded weary. Those three letters dragged out of his mouth.

She cupped one hand over the mobile as the wind whistled round her. She swallowed, knowing he wouldn’t make this easy for her. She didn’t blame him. ‘I’m sorry. I was rude.’

‘Your mum was ill, you were worried.’ He sounded robotic. It wasn’t in his nature to be cruel, but she could hear that he was reciting something, as if he knew she would ring and had his script prepared.

She closed her eyes. ‘Yes, but I didn’t need to be such a bitch.’ She hoped that last sentence might make him laugh; he was always the first to break into a low chuckle, a grin spreading across his face when he was amused.

‘You weren’t. Look…’

He sighed and the sound made her stomach plunge. She had lost him again, he wasn’t going to play her game, back and forwards, lend her a hand. She was desperate to break this tense exchange, to bring him back. ‘Something happened in the flat last night. It was bizarre, a huge crash…’

‘Are you OK?’ he said.

She felt a sudden flare of hope. He cared. ‘I’m fine, there was nothing there, but the sound was… enormous. Like the house was being torn apart.’

He had wanted to find things out, believed her when she’d told him things before. Would this pique his interest? She tucked her hair behind her ear and waited for him to reply. Perhaps he would agree to come over there? Perhaps he would invite her to stay with him again? ‘It was scary,’ she said, ‘hearing it.’ She knew she’d put on a too-high voice, a little girl needing to be cared for; his frosty silence was prompting her.

‘Look, Irina—’ he said. That sigh again.

She didn’t let him finish. ‘Will you come back with me? To Devon? I know Bill was going to tell us about the postcard and, well, I hoped—’

‘There’s no point,’ he said quietly, cutting off whatever she was about to say next. ‘I can’t.’

‘You can!’ She laughed, it sounded forced. ‘Please, I—’

‘Will you talk to me about your past, what happened?’ He asked the question in a firm voice. She’d heard him use that tone once before, on that beach in Brighton.

She thought of her mother in the bed upstairs, the name on her tongue. For years they had danced around each other, Irina not able to say the things she should have said all those years ago, not wanting to cause her mother more hurt. ‘I… It’s not as simple as… I can’t…’

‘I thought so,’ he said in that low, steady voice.

She didn’t continue; they had been there before, the same circular conversation. She knew she wouldn’t tell him anything and he would get frustrated and keep probing. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to, a large part of her did want to, craved having someone to listen, but the moment she thought about it, actually thought about telling him, she knew she couldn’t. She would have to tell him the whole truth and she couldn’t let anyone know that. He would never think of her the same way again, he would hate her and she couldn’t face him hating her.

‘I’m sorry you feel like that,’ she said, aware she was sounding sniffy, as if he’d rejected her choice of wallpaper. She sounded absurd and stiff. ‘Take care,’ she said, wanting now to end the phone call on her terms, lick her wounds.

He sighed slowly. ‘You too, Reena.’

She felt tears thicken her throat and she swallowed, hanging up so she didn’t have to reply. She blinked at the phone. Familiar feelings threatened to choke her; they had been here before.

Staring out at the car park of the hospital, cars reversing slowly, people moving between vehicles, a man at the pay station, she felt hopelessness wash over her. Exhausted from carrying around all these memories, the guilt. She thought of her mother lying a few floors above her muttering the name they never said out loud. She thought of the times Andrew had asked her, pleaded with her to talk to him. She thought of the number of times she’d lain in bed running through the events of that day. She reached up automatically, putting a hand to her cheek, the skin rigid beneath her fingertips. Would she ever be free of it?