Page 38 of Never Tear Us Apart

Chapter Thirty-Six

‘You’re back!’ Kathryn grabs hold of me as I sit up, gasping in air.

My heart is pounding against my ribcage. I cling to her as pain throbs through me in waves. It feels as if I am reinhabiting this body atom by atom.

I fall back against the pillows.

‘How long since last time?’ I ask.

‘An hour? I couldn’t leave. I just stayed here with you. We need to get you to the doctor.’

‘An hour.’ Hot tears start to flow down my face, and it feels as if they belong to someone else. All I can think about is the place I just left, the people I left behind, in a version of my life that feels a thousand times more vital and real than this one.

‘Do you feel strong enough to get dressed?’ Kathryn asks. ‘I’m taking you to the hospital right away.’

‘I don’t think they can help with this, Kathryn.’

‘What do you mean?’ She grasps my hands, her face full of concern. ‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘You could have called an ambulance to take me to the hospital while I was out, but you didn’t. Why?’

‘I was going to,’ she says, lowering her eyes briefly. ‘Another thirty minutes and I would have.’

‘You know something,’ I insist. ‘Something you’re not telling me.’

‘No.’ She shakes her head. ‘Not really. Nothing based on fact. Just stories – old and forgotten stories, nothing but whispers now.’

‘I’m not so sure about that,’ I tell her.

Looking around the room, I see the book she gave me. Snatching it up, I open it to the photograph I looked at before.

It’s a row of smiling people standing in front of the smoking wreck of a crumpled plane.

It’s not a great reproduction – the image is a little grained and blurred – but it’s good enough. Turning the book to face Kathryn, I point at the young man in the centre of the group of people.

‘That’s Danny Beauchamp,’ I say.

Kathryn looks perplexed. ‘Yes, it says so in the caption.’

I run my finger across the people. There, in front of Danny, is a little boy, holding out what I now know is a copy of Biggles .

And there, on the left of the frame, I can see a woman watching the photographer from amidst the crowd.

I didn’t even notice her last time I looked at this picture, but now I see the way she is standing on her left leg, right hip jutting.

I feel the ache in her feet in her flat and worn tennis shoes.

In the photograph, her dress looks white, but I know it’s bright yellow.

I point at a photograph of myself, taken more than eighty years ago.

‘That’s what I mean,’ I tell her.

Kathryn’s eyes widen. The book falls from her hands.

‘It’s real,’ she whispers. ‘All the stories are true.’