Sun at Midnight by Rosie Thomas Page B

changed, 23, 24. Then she realised from Pete’s slow breathing that he had fallen asleep.

CHAPTER FOUR
    ‘Your mother’s not very well,’ Trevor said.
    Alice was sitting at her desk in the Department of Geology. She had been trying to concentrate on her work but her eyes kept sliding to the square of sky visible from her window. Now as she pressed the phone to her ear the maps she had been studying lost their definition and ran together in a grey blur. ‘What? What’s wrong?’
    ‘She’s picked up a chest infection. The hotel doctor’s a bit worried about her.’
    ‘Can I talk to her?’
    ‘She’s asleep at the moment.’
    ‘How long has she been ill?’
    ‘A couple of days.’
    ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
    Trevor sighed. ‘You know what she’s like.’
    Small, fierce, unfaltering, impatient with weakness. As stubborn as a rock formation. Yes, Alice knew what her mother was like.
    ‘Are you going to bring her home? Shall I come out there?’
    ‘There’s no need for that. Rest and antibiotics is what she needs.’
    ‘Are you sure? I’ll call you later and see how she is. Give her a kiss from me when she wakes up.’
    After Trevor had rung off Alice tried to turn back to her work, but anxiety nudged at her and in the end she gave up. It was almost lunchtime. Jo’s house was nearby and Jo would have constructive advice to offer. But it was Pete she wanted to talk to. She would call in at his studio and tell him about Margaret. They could have a sandwich and a cup of coffee together. Alice left her desk at once and rode her bicycle through the traffic.
    The studio was in an old warehouse at the end of a cul-de-sac. Mark’s side was closed up, but the heavy door to Pete’s hung narrowly ajar, sagging slightly on its hinges. Alice padlocked her bike to a street sign advising that there was no parking. A smart new Mini was parked right alongside.
    She edged round the door and slipped into the studio. It was dim inside after the bright daylight. Pete wasn’t working, then. The blinds at the big windows were all drawn. The concrete-floored space smelled of dust and resin, and something familiar scraped at her subconscious in the split second before she identified it and the association. It was music, the same song that had been playing in the punt on the afternoon when Pete jumped into the water.
    His latest work in progress loomed above Alice’s head. It was a bird’s nest of twisted metal and within the lattice cage some of his found objects were suspended on thin wires – a buckled bicycle wheel, a polystyrene wig block like a blanched head that revolved very slowly as the studio air stirred. The hair at the nape of Alice’s neck prickled as she looked around for the source of the music. Peter’s welding torch lay on the ground, with the black welding mask that made him look like Darth Vader discarded beside it. She took three quick steps to the inner door, past more accumulated debris.
    The door led into a boxed-off cubicle with a metalworker’sbench at which Pete did his smaller-scale work. There was a grey filing cabinet, a kettle and a clutch of mugs stained with rings of tannin. The CD player was balanced on the broken typist’s chair from the skip outside the Parks. A girl’s handbag, an expensive-looking fringed suede affair, spilled its contents on the floor. The girl herself was perched on the edge of the cluttered bench, steadying herself with her hands. Her denim legs stretched out on either side of Pete’s head.
    Pete hadn’t heard Alice come in. Just above and to the side of his right ear Alice could see the butterfly tattoo.
    The girl looked straight into Alice’s eyes as the song finished.
    ‘Oh, shit,’ the girl said.
    Alice didn’t move. There was a scramble of movements from the other two as Peter leaped to his feet and the girl pulled up and zipped her jeans. She bent down sideways and picked up her bag, briefly holding it in front of her chest as if it were a piece of