Page 25

TWENTY-FIVE FOUR YEARS EARLIER

She comes to the door very quickly. Her blond hair is fried with too much bleach—I used to tell her all the time to take it easy, that it was ruining her hair—and piled on top of her head.

She’s wearing yoga pants and a hoodie and is chewing the remains of something, suggesting I’ve caught her halfway through a meal.

It’s half past six, so that makes sense.

She always did like to eat her dinner early.

It’s clear she was expecting someone else, her posture is too easy, she seems as if she’d already decided what she was going to say to the person she’d assumed would be at the door, and when she sees me, it takes a split second for it to register—then she opens her mouth and I have to clamp my hand down firmly over it and push her back hard into her hallway.

I’m aware of the sound of the TV in the background, or is it someone on a phone?

I’m pretty sure she’s alone—I’ve been watching for a while from across the street—but at the suggestion of there being another person in there, I clamp my hand tighter around her mouth and manhandle her into the darkness of a room just to my left.

I click the door closed behind us both, and then I throw her into a chair, my hand still hard against her mouth.

I wait until her eyes are less wide, until her breathing is less ragged, and then I release it.

Her hands go to her face, moving spit-covered hair from her cheeks, then they rearrange her clothes, but her eyes stay on me all the while.

“Damian?” she whispers hoarsely.

I nod.

“What the fuck? What the… I don’t understand.”

“Just stay quiet,” I say. “Is there anyone here?”

“No! Just me. But… what is this? Is this some kind of sick joke?”

“It’s not a joke, Amanda. It’s very far from a joke. I need you to help me, OK? It’s very important.”

I see her eyes fill with tears; I see her bunch her hands up into small fists and bring them to her mouth. A convulsion passes through her then and suddenly her arms are around me and she is sobbing. “Is it really you, Damian?” she keeps asking. “Is it really you?”

“Yes,” I say, rubbing her bony back through the cheap cotton of her hoodie. “Yes, it’s me.”

“But we… Jesus Christ, Damian, we had a fucking funeral . Your kids were there, at your graveside, they did speeches, bought suits. Where have you been, Damian! Where the fuck have you been?”