Intrusion: A Novel by Mary McCluskey

Sarah did not begin to eat immediately but indicated the notepad she had pushed to one side and said, “You need a job you’ll like, Kat. In something you’re good at.”
    “I know. Something will turn up.”
    “Will you let me help? I know people everywhere. Newspapers, radio, television.”
    “That’s not necessary,” said Kat. “But thank you anyway.”
    Sarah reached for the wine and poured it into their glasses.
    “You prefer to stay in public relations? Or would you rather go back to journalism?”
    “Not sure right now.”
    “Remember when you were fourteen and you wanted to be a war correspondent?” Sarah asked.
    “At that age—well.”
    “You wanted to be a war correspondent and you wanted a house that was not a council house and lots of children.”
    Kat looked at her, surprised. How clearly she remembered.
    “Yes,” she said. “I did.”
    Kat could still visualize that fantasy home. It looked like one drawn with precise concentration by a child: a square frontage, symmetrical windows, and a central, brightly painted door. Behind the house she imagined a wild garden and three, sometimes four, laughing children, a leaping dog, an apple tree.
    The career dream changed slightly over the years: war correspondent, feature writer, columnist. The house and family dream never did.
    “That was then,” she said. “I don’t know what I want to do right now. I’m still in a bit of a fog.”
    “Well, of course you are,” Sarah said. “Now, try this. It actually melts in the mouth.”
    Kat spooned some of the chicken onto her plate and helped herself to salad and a rice dish that contained chopped celery and raisins and was flavored with a soft, scented herb. Sarah heaped food onto her plate, making little murmuring sounds of pleasure. Kat was reminded of how Sarah loved to eat, how jealous the other schoolgirls had been that she stayed so slim. She was slender still. Kat tasted the chicken.
    “This is good,” she said.
    “I hoped you would like it.”
    Sarah paused, studied Kat’s face.
    “Maggie’s still angry, then,” she said.
    “Why should Maggie be angry?”
    “About Sven.”
    “A long time ago. I don’t expect she ever thinks about it,” Kat said.
    “And you? Do you think about it?”
    “Twenty years ago, Sarah. Water under the bridge.”
    “Did you get back together eventually?”
    The question shocked Kat. She looked hard at Sarah, frowning.
    “What?”
    “I thought you might get back together.”
    “You . . . you know about the accident?”
    “I heard he’d tumbled down some stairs. I left the city, remember. I went straight to Sussex and then on to Antibes.”
    Kat knew that Sarah had left the apartment they shared and moved to France to stay with an aunt. She believed that Sarah never contacted Sven again. She had simply taken him and then discarded him. She had not returned to Birmingham. It was rumored, some months later, that she was studying in Montpellier. But Kat had always assumed that someone told Sarah how badly Sven was injured that day.
    “He fractured his skull,” Kat said. “He’d been drinking.”
    Sarah placed her knife and fork down slowly and stared at Kat. Her face had paled.
    “I thought it was just a minor thing. It was serious?” she asked.
    “Yes. Very. A fractured skull and damage to the spinal cord. He was unconscious when I saw him. His parents came from Denmark and eventually moved him back there.”
    “Didn’t Paul keep in touch with him?” Sarah asked. “And find out how he was?”
    “He tried,” Kat said. “But no. No, he couldn’t.”
    Sarah seemed at a loss.
    “I didn’t know the details,” she whispered eventually. “Nobody would talk to me. No wonder you both hate me.”
    Kat gave her a sharp look.
    “I don’t hate anyone. Nor does Maggie,” Kat said.
    Some of the old pain for Sven bubbled back to the surface. And some of the old anger, too. Had it not been for Sarah . . . well, who knew? A tragedy could occur