in her head as she let it dissolve while the kettle came to a boil and the laptop cranked itself to life. When it did, she broke off another square, feeling glucose seep into her system.
She flicked on the old Roberts radio she’d tracked down to one of the unused bedrooms, and stopped on the first station she found, surprised to discover it was noon, but at least she hadn’t lost a day. The sky outside made it seem earlier; overcast but not jaundiced, not the yellow that polluted so many migraine hungover days. And the rain had stopped again. For once the lychgate and the woods beyond weren’t obscured by drizzle.
Filling the teapot to the brim, Helen spread a thick layer of jam on hot toast and logged on to the VPN. Her fingers hovered over the icon for her real email. What had Fran’s email said? You called Tom … he asked if you still had the same email address … something like that.
Why Tom, of all people?
One last time, she promised herself, then she wouldn’t look again.
It had been years since she’d last emailed him but she knew the email address by heart, just as she did the phone number. [email protected]. There were three emails that she could see, the first sent two weeks ago.
Licking jam from her fingers, she savoured its sweetness and counted back in her head. Yes, the day after the fire. The day after, if what Fran said was true, Helen had called him.
The email was short and to the point. More like a text.
Helen,
Are you all right? Stupid question, obviously you’re not. I’m worried about you. Call me.
Txxx
She read it over again, hand hovering on the reply arrow. What harm would it do? He knew she was alive anyway and ten to one her sister would tell him she’d called.
Just one line: I’m OK, don’t worry. Thank you. xxx
She ached to do it.
But no. She couldn’t. It wasn’t fair. On either of them.
His second email, sent a week later, was much the same. I’m worried. Call me. Just one kiss this time.
The third had been sent the day before. About an hour after she’d called her sister. ‘Bloody hell, Fran,’ she muttered under her breath.
Helen,
Fran called. She told me about the police. And other things. She doesn’t know what to do. If you’re reading this, you have to call me. Let me help you, Helen. Please.
Tom
Tom. Just Tom.
Helen logged off.
No more Gmail. That was the last time. Someone, somewhere would be able to tell she was opening her email, she was sure of it. It was too risky.
Fran was right. She was good at being alone. Just as well.
Half a loaf of bread, half a bar of chocolate and two pots of tea later the last shadows had lifted. This attack had been different. Shorter, sharper, wreaking havoc with little warning. Moving away as quickly as it had come, like a tropical storm. She hoped it wasn’t going to set a pattern. Too many more like that would finish her, even with her medication. Her eyes skipped over the empty pill packet lying on the worktop and she groaned. There was another problem that hadn’t gone away in the night.
She could sign on at the local surgery, but they’d want a passport or proof of address and she didn’t have one, at least not in a name she was willing to use. Even if they didn’t, and her local infamy was enough, could she persuade an unknown GP to prescribe Clonidine for a simple migraine? They’d want her to see a consultant, have tests. Caroline was her only option; and that meant going to London. It wasn’t the expense that bothered Helen – not that she could really afford it – it was the risk. Helen trusted Caroline, she’d had to over the years, but she had no idea how far medical confidentiality stretched when it came to this.
Back upstairs, Helen dumped yesterday’s clothes, fuggy with the sweat of sleep and the aura of vomit, on her impromptu washing pile on the bathroom floor and slipped into her running kit, point-and-shoot in one pocket, second-hand iPhone in the other. She’d been
She flicked on the old Roberts radio she’d tracked down to one of the unused bedrooms, and stopped on the first station she found, surprised to discover it was noon, but at least she hadn’t lost a day. The sky outside made it seem earlier; overcast but not jaundiced, not the yellow that polluted so many migraine hungover days. And the rain had stopped again. For once the lychgate and the woods beyond weren’t obscured by drizzle.
Filling the teapot to the brim, Helen spread a thick layer of jam on hot toast and logged on to the VPN. Her fingers hovered over the icon for her real email. What had Fran’s email said? You called Tom … he asked if you still had the same email address … something like that.
Why Tom, of all people?
One last time, she promised herself, then she wouldn’t look again.
It had been years since she’d last emailed him but she knew the email address by heart, just as she did the phone number. [email protected]. There were three emails that she could see, the first sent two weeks ago.
Licking jam from her fingers, she savoured its sweetness and counted back in her head. Yes, the day after the fire. The day after, if what Fran said was true, Helen had called him.
The email was short and to the point. More like a text.
Helen,
Are you all right? Stupid question, obviously you’re not. I’m worried about you. Call me.
Txxx
She read it over again, hand hovering on the reply arrow. What harm would it do? He knew she was alive anyway and ten to one her sister would tell him she’d called.
Just one line: I’m OK, don’t worry. Thank you. xxx
She ached to do it.
But no. She couldn’t. It wasn’t fair. On either of them.
His second email, sent a week later, was much the same. I’m worried. Call me. Just one kiss this time.
The third had been sent the day before. About an hour after she’d called her sister. ‘Bloody hell, Fran,’ she muttered under her breath.
Helen,
Fran called. She told me about the police. And other things. She doesn’t know what to do. If you’re reading this, you have to call me. Let me help you, Helen. Please.
Tom
Tom. Just Tom.
Helen logged off.
No more Gmail. That was the last time. Someone, somewhere would be able to tell she was opening her email, she was sure of it. It was too risky.
Fran was right. She was good at being alone. Just as well.
Half a loaf of bread, half a bar of chocolate and two pots of tea later the last shadows had lifted. This attack had been different. Shorter, sharper, wreaking havoc with little warning. Moving away as quickly as it had come, like a tropical storm. She hoped it wasn’t going to set a pattern. Too many more like that would finish her, even with her medication. Her eyes skipped over the empty pill packet lying on the worktop and she groaned. There was another problem that hadn’t gone away in the night.
She could sign on at the local surgery, but they’d want a passport or proof of address and she didn’t have one, at least not in a name she was willing to use. Even if they didn’t, and her local infamy was enough, could she persuade an unknown GP to prescribe Clonidine for a simple migraine? They’d want her to see a consultant, have tests. Caroline was her only option; and that meant going to London. It wasn’t the expense that bothered Helen – not that she could really afford it – it was the risk. Helen trusted Caroline, she’d had to over the years, but she had no idea how far medical confidentiality stretched when it came to this.
Back upstairs, Helen dumped yesterday’s clothes, fuggy with the sweat of sleep and the aura of vomit, on her impromptu washing pile on the bathroom floor and slipped into her running kit, point-and-shoot in one pocket, second-hand iPhone in the other. She’d been
Similar Books
