Page 114 of No Safe Place

Tell me about Paige.

A simple request. One of the easiest things she’d asked so far.

He closed his eyes.

‘Paige was the youngest – two years younger than me, with a proper baby face. We all saw her as a little sister.’

Strange lights danced against his eyelids. He couldn’t picture Paige’s face anymore. He could summon the essence of her, how she threw her head back and laughed, the cadence of her voice, but her face was a blank, apart from the big, dark eyes and elfin Irish features. He’d never had a very visual memory – and he didn’t have a photograph of her.

He opened his eyes. Field was looking at him dispassionately. Not brimming with empathy, but not shooting daggers either.

‘What was her OCD like, Callum?’

‘Contamination,’ he said, mechanically. This was more solid ground. ‘Not so much bins and germs, although there wasthat. Specifically, she thought people she didn’t know very well were contaminated. So, we were safe, she could touch us – just. But the cleaners, new nurses, other visitors. Anything they touched, she couldn’t.’

‘That sounds hard.’

The blandness of the statement pissed him off. ‘It was. If her mum popped to the shops for a pint of milk, it’d take Paige two hours to “decontaminate” her, because she’d come into contact with things strangers had touched.’ His voice stuck in his throat. ‘There was one day, not long before Paige was discharged, when her mum and sister came to visit. When they got there, before they’d even used the hand sanitiser, Paige walked over and hugged them. Her mum was so happy, she couldn’t stop crying.’

Callum had envied Paige in that moment. Her enduring, enabling mother who only wanted the best for her. Her supportive little sister.

‘Paige was a better writer than me,’ he said, for something to distract himself. ‘I can tell you that for free.’

‘Did she write during the trial?’

‘Yeah. We were quite competitive.’ He laid his hands on the greasy table.

‘What did you both write about?’ Field asked. She seemed in no hurry to move the interview on.

He exhaled, staring at his hands. They felt useless, disconnected from him. ‘We wrote about our experience of OCD, illness, hospital.’ He looked up. ‘Have you read my book?’

‘Yes,’ Field said, without hesitation. She cleared her throat.

He nodded. ‘Then you’ll know. It’stiny. It’s a very small book, about small, sad people. It’sminuscule. I write horrible narcissistic characters who are different slices of me. I give them my flaws and I crank up the pressure and I try to make them crack.’

Field was frowning at him. If she was following his thread, it was only just.

He sighed. ‘Paige didn’t write like that. She was younger and less cynical and cleverer. She wrote in this big broad way. She wasn’t afraid to go deep, you know? She made you think about big themes, big issues.’

There was a gentle hum from behind the shutters. The staff would be prepping lunch, warming up the big oven for the trays of soft food.

‘People who claim they are “so OCD” have no idea what OCD is actually like.’ Callum sighed. ‘But Paige’s writing, she helped people to get it – to put into context what the worst possible experiences felt like.’

When Callum looked up, Field looked pale. He frowned. ‘Are you okay?’

Field gave him a bland smile. ‘Yes. Fine – you were saying? Did Paige want to be a writer?’

‘God no, she wanted to be anactress.’ He let out a hollow laugh. ‘For her RADA audition, they let her perform an extract of her own play. That’s unusual. It normally has to be something pre-approved, I think. When they offered her a place, she was the only person who was actually surprised. She texted me – sent me “RADA” and then about a thousand crying emojis.’

He’d got her text on the train and jumped out of his seat.

There’d been no one, before or since, whom he’d loved like Paige. Like a sister, fiercely protective but also scared for her. He wanted to push her to achieve big things but also keep her wrapped up in cotton wool.

‘Did you go to her funeral, Callum?’ Field asked, quietly.

He shook his head and wiped his hands on his jeans.

‘Why not?’ She prompted. ‘Couldn’t face it?’