AVA, AN AVID NEWS-WATCHER, KNEW of many terrible places in the world, all of them terrible because of humans: the stinking rubble of Beirut; the ash-caked soil of Chelmno. But the worst place in this moment, the emotional ground-zero, had to be the Sheltons’ home. Ava couldn’t begin to imagine their utter despair and its crippling annihilation. She was glad to be here and not there, glad to be her and not them.
Ava turned on her side and saw Rita shaking with sobs in the top bunk and, in concert beneath her, she heard Veronica doing the same. Ava, however, was tearless – she’d done all her crying after seeing John to his granddad’s house. She had run home, sobbed, then washed her face, ready to blame her sore red eyes on hay fever.
By the time her family had returned home, she had been sitting composed in front of the telly, pretending to be shocked by Bry’s death on the news. They’d all loved little Bry. It was so terrible that Colleen even refused comfort from Trevor, who slunk back to his own flat without complaint.
Rita slid out of her bed, climbed in beside Ava and hugged her, face blotched from crying. Then Veronica joined her sisters, cramped but united. The younger girls swapped memories, all of which began with ‘Remember when Bry . . . ?’
Ava shared nothing. Instead, she stroked their smooth cheeks in slow, hypnotic circles, their bodies becoming heavier as they drowsed.
‘Is Bry really gone, Ava?’ Rita murmured.
‘Yes,’ said Ava, before falling asleep between her sisters.