Liars All by Jo Bannister Page A

events to take their course. It had been an uneven contest from the start. Now it was time to submit.
    Deacon saw them settled into a mother-and-baby room before heading back to Dimmock. He’d have stayed longer except that Brodie made it clear she’d rather be alone. ‘I’ll call you tonight.’
    â€˜It’s not necessary…’
    â€˜It is to me,’ he said firmly. ‘And tomorrow, if Jonathan’s OK, I’ll come and pick you up.’
    â€˜Yes.’ She managed another wan smile. ‘Thanks, Jack.’
    And his heart raged, because she’d got it wrong again and he hadn’t the words to tell her. That she didn’t need to thank him. That this was his son, and he was dying, and Deacon too was just doing the best he could.

Chapter Eleven
    Brodie spent the rest of the day beating herself up. Everyone had told her it was time to stop, that she was sacrificing the last good times for a faint hope of something better. Now Jonathan himself had told her. She’d exhausted and sickened him until he’d struck back with the only weapon he had – his frailty. He was in hospital tonight because of his mother’s obstinacy.
    No one at the hospital said that to her, although she believed they were thinking it. They were kind and considerate, and told her she’d have him home tomorrow and no harm done. But it was an end, just the same. The end of her hopes. The end of her efforts to turn the dice by sheer force of will. She was beaten. And she didn’t get enough practice to know what to do next.
    â€˜He’s settled now,’ said one of the nurses. ‘Why don’t you go for a walk? Get some fresh air before you go to bed.’
    â€˜Where?’
    â€˜There’s a garden…’ She glanced at the window, slick with rain. ‘Or how about the chapel? Even if you’re not religious, it’s a nice peaceful spot to sit for a bit.’

    Brodie listened to her directions mostly to be polite. She was never a churchgoer. But as she wandered aimlessly through the long corridors, trying not to think about what she was doing here, somehow she found herself looking at a carved sign on a wooden door. After a moment she put her hand out, half expecting the door to be locked; but it was open, so she went in.
    The chapel was quiet, the lighting subdued. In fact it was empty. Someone had left a card saying how the chaplain could be contacted, but Brodie didn’t need ministering to and didn’t want company. She sat down near the front and after a minute she closed her eyes. She didn’t cry. But, shorn at last of the stubborn conviction that there would be an answer and she would find it, she felt grief wash over her like a tide.
    She could not have said how long she’d been sitting there when she heard the door behind her open and the grate of a chair leg as someone sat down. Suddenly Brodie felt a fraud. If someone wanted to use this place as it was designed to be used, she had no business here. She stood up and, head bowed, walked out.
    While she was trying to remember the way back to the paediatric wing the chapel door opened again and there was a woman standing beside her. ‘I hope I didn’t chase you away.’ Her voice held the soft slur of an American accent.
    Brodie put on her brightest smile. ‘Of course not. It’s time I was getting back, that’s all.’
    â€˜Then I mustn’t keep you. Only…’ Brodie looked at her in surprise. The woman was embarrassed. ‘I wanted to ask if you need anything. If I can help.’

    â€˜No. Thank you.’ Brodie turned away and headed briskly towards the stairs.
    But she travelled only a few paces before slowing, and stopping, and turning back. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. I don’t need to rush back, my baby’s asleep. Do you fancy a coffee?’
    They found a machine, and sat by a window looking down on the