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‘Looks like it.’
‘I thought we left fluffy dice in the eighties.’
‘Apparently not.’
‘I did not enjoy the eighties,’ Bibi says. ‘The Space Shuttle and the Rubik’s Cube were the high points. And that film, of course. The boy and the alien. I cried during the geranium scene.’
Abraham nods vaguely. If only he’d paid more attention to popular culture. Far too late, he’s begun to understand its value in finding common ground.
Bibi tilts her head. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you, Detective Inspector?’
Ask her.
Surprised by the thought, he looks around the room; at the trinkets on the sideboard; at Bibi’s sewing box by her chair. He listens to the pop and crackle of the fire, smells the woodsmoke, thinks of the disease eating through his lungs. A wave of desolation hits him, so shattering he can barely raise his head.
Ask her.
‘Abraham?’
He takes a deep breath. ‘I heard you playing, earlier.’
She smiles. ‘Fingers are still working, just about.’
‘It’s one of my favourite hymns.’
‘Mine too. Henry Francis Lyte wrote the words, just weeks before he died. A prayer for God to remain close as death approached.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘My father used to hum it when he was home from sea.’
Ask her.
He clears his throat. ‘Do you think you might … I mean, I’d understand if you … I was wondering—’
‘Would you like me to play it for you, Abraham?’
He’s too embarrassed to speak, but he just about manages a nod.
So, Billie …
We’ll talk about her when I see you. It wasn’t meant to happen the way it did. Certainly not then. I was devastated at the time. Less so now.
In hindsight maybe it’s a good thing. There’s a tragic poetry to it this way. Itdoesmark a turning point. Because you can’t deny this any more, Lucy. Self-deception no longer works.
I saw a newspaper this morning. A day old, but I picked it up and read that feature on Gethan Grierson and Adam Crowther from the Glenthorne Hostel for Boys. I wonder how much they got paid.
It’ll be emotional, I know, but I’m looking forward to our reunion. What happened with Billie was a tragedy that came far too early. But the third act will change everything.
THIRTY-ONE
1
Wednesday morning.
In her kitchen, Lucy sits at the breakfast bar beside a hamper wrapped in cellophane. Around her, lilies and white roses stand in vases or lie in unopened bouquets. Atlantic wind blows through a jagged hole in the windowpane. Broken glass lies scattered across the sill. Smaller fragments glitter on the drainer.
Five days ago, she watched her son eat breakfast in here as he talked to his sister. She remembers their banter and the question Fin asked: