Page 31

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Morning light edges the curtains. My hand slides across the rumpled sheet. I’m alone. I wonder if I dreamed last night, but I can still feel the weight of Florence straddling my hips, her kisses on my eyelids, her hands on my body. I remember how she crossed her arms and lifted the T-shirt over her head, revealing herself.

We made love slowly, hesitantly, and when it was over, we lay together, her body aligned with mine, her arm across my chest.

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘You had this look.’

‘What sort of look?’

‘Like you needed reminding there are good things in life.’

‘You felt sorry for me.’

‘No. I’m attracted to you. And I wanted to be near you in case you had delayed concussion.’

‘Three reasons.’

‘I could think of more.’

Awake now, I swing my legs out of bed, feeling for the floor. In the bathroom, I splash water on my face. Gently, I unhook the butterfly clips and unfurl the bandage around my head. I examine the stitches, which are ugly and purple, set in a patch of my scalp that was shaved by the nurses at the hospital. You can barely see the stitches if I brush my hair the right way.

Downstairs, Florence is leaning over the bench, reading a battered copy of Psychology Today. She’s dressed in a pair of my track pants and the same T-shirt as last night.

‘Any news on Arben?’ she asks hopefully.

‘No word.’

I count the hours. Sixteen. He’ll need insulin by now, unless they’ve killed him already. Why else would they take him, if not to silence him? Then I think of Evie and feel a twinge of fear. By recognising Radford she has linked herself to this, although she can’t explain the connection. If her memories return she could become a target, but for now she’s safe because Radford showed no sign of recognising her and doesn’t know her name or where she lives.

I make a coffee and take a stool. Florence is still standing at the bench, flicking through the magazine.

‘How did you and Evie meet?’ she asks.

‘She was at a secure children’s home.’

‘What happened to her parents?’

‘Her father died when Evie was little. She fled Albania with her mother and sister, who died on the journey to England.’

‘On a small boat?’

‘I don’t know exactly. Evie can’t remember or won’t talk about it.’

‘That’s why she was triggered by the bodies in the water.’

‘Most likely, yes.’

Florence pours hot water over a herbal teabag and takes a seat next to me, sitting cross-legged with elegant efficiency. ‘How did she get here?’ she asks.

‘I fostered her for a while – until she turned eighteen. Then I offered her somewhere to stay.’

‘I think she might be in love with you.’

‘We’re working through that.’

She smiles and it makes her look even more beautiful. I like her quick wit and easy charm and the way I feel nervous around her. I like how she becomes the centre of any room she steps into and how her hands move as she talks and she tilts her head when she looks at me, as though puzzled, but also interested in what I have to say.

I hear the side gate open. Moments later, Poppy appears, drinking noisily from a bowl of water near the back steps. Evie isn’t far behind her. She kicks off her shoes and hangs Poppy’s lead in the laundry.

Florence goes upstairs to get changed.

Evie opens the fridge and takes out the orange juice, chugging straight from the bottle.

‘Get a glass,’ I say.

She ignores me and drinks again, spilling juice down her front. ‘Is she still here?’

‘Yes.’

‘I heard you last night. Making the beast with two backs.’ She’s quoting Shakespeare, Othello, which she studied for her English A level, and which made her an armchair expert on Elizabethan misogyny.

‘I’m sorry if we kept you awake. It wasn’t . . .’ I pause.

‘Wasn’t what?’ she asks.

‘Planned.’

Evie makes a scoffing sound. ‘You make it sound like a pregnancy.’

‘You told me I should find a girlfriend.’

‘Is that what she is – your girlfriend? I thought she was a hook-up. A one-night stand. A pity-fuck.’

‘That’s not fair.’

Evie goes quiet.

‘You and I are always going to be friends,’ I say.

‘How do you know? Maybe I’ll do something unforgivable.’

‘You won’t.’

‘Don’t tell me what I will or won’t do.’

With that, she leaves. Poppy has sensed the tension and puts her head into my lap, blinking at me with her sad brown eyes.

Evie’s voice, calling her name. The Labrador’s ears prick up.

‘Go, look after her,’ I say.