total confidence in. Let’s just get this over with, shall we?’
Emma bends down and picks Ollie up. She holds him tightly to her and whispers against his sparse hair, kissing his little pink cheeks. All I can hear is ‘I love you, little man – and I’ll see you very soon.’
With that, she walks over to Tom.
‘Your godson, I believe.’ Emma turns to pug-face. ‘Is a detective chief inspector, who happens to be on leave this week and who is also Ollie’s godfather, good enough for you, Elizabeth?’
I can’t believe she’s doing this. And she’s doing it for me.
17
After Tom had gone home with Ollie and pug-face had sucked in her lips and left, clearly not at all happy with the outcome, Emma and I had spent the evening in silence. She tried to make conversation, but I was too upset. Not for me – I was hurting for her. What had she done?
I told her over and over that I would go, but she wouldn’t let me talk about it. She found something on the television that neither of us wanted to watch, but it filled the silence – the emptiness of the house without Ollie. We sat cuddled together on the sofa and pretended we were interested in a diving expedition in Antarctica.
In the end, we went to bed early: Emma because I am sure she thought the sooner she was asleep, the sooner it would be tomorrow, when Tom could bring Ollie for a visit; me because I couldn’t stand the pain I seem to cause to everybody I touch. But I couldn’t sleep. My head was spinning, my thoughts hopping from one thing to another – never settling before racing off to somewhere else. I couldn’t quite grasp them as they flew by.
Emma loves me. Emma kept me instead of Ollie. I’ve got a home. I should leave for their sakes. What’s happening to Andy? It’s my fault Emma has lost Ollie again. I never want to leave here. Finn McGuinness – he’ll stare at me in court with those glassy, black eyes, and I’ll freeze .
I had never been so comfortable in a bed before. Even when I was here last time I didn’t have a new, soft mattress like this one – just the old one that had been there for years. When Emma redecorated this room, she bought a brand new bed – just for me. I’m so used to hard, cold floors that to start with it felt as if the mattress was going to swallow me whole. But I fidgeted around for a bit and settled in, burrowing down beneath the big, soft duvet.
It made no difference, though. My head was spinning, and each time I drifted off, I jerked awake again.
At some point during the night I must have finally dropped off to sleep, and I woke needing the bathroom. I had drunk more water, milk and juice in the past few hours than I had in weeks, and I crept silently from my bedroom – scared of waking Emma.
I needn’t have worried.
Her door was ajar, as was Ollie’s, and I remembered that she always left them like this so she could hear her little boy if he cried in the night.
But she wouldn’t be hearing him tonight.
From Emma’s room there was a sound, muffled by pillows, but it was a sound I knew well.
Emma was crying, weeping for her lovely baby, who should have been there with her. He should be here, not me, I thought. I bet she can’t help being reminded of that time just a few months ago when she thought she had lost Ollie for good – because of me.
I stood on the landing for minutes, listening to her sobs. More than anything I wanted to go into her room and climb into bed, put my arms round her and offer her some comfort. But she might push me away.
I waited, trying to decide what to do, but I couldn’t go in. It wasn’t me she wanted.
I thought again about leaving – running away, back to a life underground. I thought about the cold, the hunger, the odd bite of food on a good day. But if I went, Emma’s life could get back to normal. It would be the right thing to do.
My body felt heavy, as if a weight was pressing down on me, on my chest, on my head, and I went back into my bedroom and
Emma bends down and picks Ollie up. She holds him tightly to her and whispers against his sparse hair, kissing his little pink cheeks. All I can hear is ‘I love you, little man – and I’ll see you very soon.’
With that, she walks over to Tom.
‘Your godson, I believe.’ Emma turns to pug-face. ‘Is a detective chief inspector, who happens to be on leave this week and who is also Ollie’s godfather, good enough for you, Elizabeth?’
I can’t believe she’s doing this. And she’s doing it for me.
17
After Tom had gone home with Ollie and pug-face had sucked in her lips and left, clearly not at all happy with the outcome, Emma and I had spent the evening in silence. She tried to make conversation, but I was too upset. Not for me – I was hurting for her. What had she done?
I told her over and over that I would go, but she wouldn’t let me talk about it. She found something on the television that neither of us wanted to watch, but it filled the silence – the emptiness of the house without Ollie. We sat cuddled together on the sofa and pretended we were interested in a diving expedition in Antarctica.
In the end, we went to bed early: Emma because I am sure she thought the sooner she was asleep, the sooner it would be tomorrow, when Tom could bring Ollie for a visit; me because I couldn’t stand the pain I seem to cause to everybody I touch. But I couldn’t sleep. My head was spinning, my thoughts hopping from one thing to another – never settling before racing off to somewhere else. I couldn’t quite grasp them as they flew by.
Emma loves me. Emma kept me instead of Ollie. I’ve got a home. I should leave for their sakes. What’s happening to Andy? It’s my fault Emma has lost Ollie again. I never want to leave here. Finn McGuinness – he’ll stare at me in court with those glassy, black eyes, and I’ll freeze .
I had never been so comfortable in a bed before. Even when I was here last time I didn’t have a new, soft mattress like this one – just the old one that had been there for years. When Emma redecorated this room, she bought a brand new bed – just for me. I’m so used to hard, cold floors that to start with it felt as if the mattress was going to swallow me whole. But I fidgeted around for a bit and settled in, burrowing down beneath the big, soft duvet.
It made no difference, though. My head was spinning, and each time I drifted off, I jerked awake again.
At some point during the night I must have finally dropped off to sleep, and I woke needing the bathroom. I had drunk more water, milk and juice in the past few hours than I had in weeks, and I crept silently from my bedroom – scared of waking Emma.
I needn’t have worried.
Her door was ajar, as was Ollie’s, and I remembered that she always left them like this so she could hear her little boy if he cried in the night.
But she wouldn’t be hearing him tonight.
From Emma’s room there was a sound, muffled by pillows, but it was a sound I knew well.
Emma was crying, weeping for her lovely baby, who should have been there with her. He should be here, not me, I thought. I bet she can’t help being reminded of that time just a few months ago when she thought she had lost Ollie for good – because of me.
I stood on the landing for minutes, listening to her sobs. More than anything I wanted to go into her room and climb into bed, put my arms round her and offer her some comfort. But she might push me away.
I waited, trying to decide what to do, but I couldn’t go in. It wasn’t me she wanted.
I thought again about leaving – running away, back to a life underground. I thought about the cold, the hunger, the odd bite of food on a good day. But if I went, Emma’s life could get back to normal. It would be the right thing to do.
My body felt heavy, as if a weight was pressing down on me, on my chest, on my head, and I went back into my bedroom and
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