up, Kate closed her mind off. Nicky was in front of her, a fact which she’d thought would make this easier. On the landing, she headed left to the first of the two spare rooms, although her original plan had been to turn right. Nicky turned back and followed her.
‘I’ve never quite decided what to do with this one, have I?’ she said, gazing round at what would have been known in another era as a boxroom. The name was fitting in that one wall was lined with black, plastic crates filled with papers and objects Kate couldn’t bring herself to destroy: old course notes; essays; a 1950s’ tea-set given to her by her mother when she’d turned eighteen. The air smelled of memories.
‘Everyone needs a storage space,’ Nicky said. ‘And you don’t have much of a loft.’
Ten seconds later, the lemon softness of the guest room spun Kate into a deeper comfort. She smiled round at the pale walls, the yellow duvet with its daffodil motif, the Van Gogh sunflowers print on the wall above the bed. A sunshine room, for early morning. And only one more room to go.
She took one shaky breath. Then she turned her steps towards the main bedroom, her bedroom, and the scene of her last experience here. When she arrived there, she was almost running. Under her fingers, the door handle was cold. She pushed the door open and strode inside.
Nothing.
She felt nothing.
‘Kate?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m all right. I don’t feel anything.’
And it was true. She gazed around and saw only the plush carpet, the plain light green duvet, her wardrobe, her dressing table, the open door to the ensuite bathroom, itself a lighter shade of green. On the wall next to her bed was a slight rust-brown stain, missed even by the kindness of Nicky. In wonder, she walked the length of the room, reached out and touched it. It must be my blood, she thought. How odd it is that I feel nothing.
‘I’m sorry, Kate, I didn’t think to …’
Nicky was beside her. Kate hadn’t even heard her approach.
‘It’s all right,’ she said again, drawing her finger away and feeling the strange roughness against her skin. ‘It’s as if it happened to someone else, not to me. I can’t see what took place here.’
Nicky didn’t reply but gripped her shoulder.
Downstairs in the kitchen, her friend made tea. For herself only. Kate drank water, chilled straight from the fridge.
‘You’ll stay, Nicky, won’t you? Just for tonight?’
‘Of course. Try to stop me.’
In the morning, when her friend waved goodbye at the bottom of the path, Kate felt as if something inside her had been twisted into an impossible emptiness.
She shook the feeling away. It was irrelevant. She was back where she lived again, by herself in the place she couldn’t quite call home. If she was in danger, and there was nothing to tell her she wasn’t, then at least Nicky and her family would be safe.
For now, she had other matters to attend to, with completely different layers of importance.
Chapter Seven
It took her two more days to make the call and, when at last she did, the phone felt clammy and hot against her fingers.
The conversation with her departmental professor lasted five minutes and was filled with expressions of concern on his part, and words of determination on hers. All the while they were speaking, Kate held his card in her hand, turning round and round its picture of two blue and white boats on the sea with, in the distance, a haze of shoreline.
When at last she ended the call, she’d arranged to return to her post the following Monday, when she’d already scheduled two post-exam seminars with some of her final year students. Professor Dickinson’s secretary would notify them of her return and, not for the first time, she acknowledged her gratitude that this semester, because of the exams, she had no planned lectures.
After next Monday, she and the professor would assess how it was going, how, she supposed, she was handling it, whatever “it”
‘I’ve never quite decided what to do with this one, have I?’ she said, gazing round at what would have been known in another era as a boxroom. The name was fitting in that one wall was lined with black, plastic crates filled with papers and objects Kate couldn’t bring herself to destroy: old course notes; essays; a 1950s’ tea-set given to her by her mother when she’d turned eighteen. The air smelled of memories.
‘Everyone needs a storage space,’ Nicky said. ‘And you don’t have much of a loft.’
Ten seconds later, the lemon softness of the guest room spun Kate into a deeper comfort. She smiled round at the pale walls, the yellow duvet with its daffodil motif, the Van Gogh sunflowers print on the wall above the bed. A sunshine room, for early morning. And only one more room to go.
She took one shaky breath. Then she turned her steps towards the main bedroom, her bedroom, and the scene of her last experience here. When she arrived there, she was almost running. Under her fingers, the door handle was cold. She pushed the door open and strode inside.
Nothing.
She felt nothing.
‘Kate?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m all right. I don’t feel anything.’
And it was true. She gazed around and saw only the plush carpet, the plain light green duvet, her wardrobe, her dressing table, the open door to the ensuite bathroom, itself a lighter shade of green. On the wall next to her bed was a slight rust-brown stain, missed even by the kindness of Nicky. In wonder, she walked the length of the room, reached out and touched it. It must be my blood, she thought. How odd it is that I feel nothing.
‘I’m sorry, Kate, I didn’t think to …’
Nicky was beside her. Kate hadn’t even heard her approach.
‘It’s all right,’ she said again, drawing her finger away and feeling the strange roughness against her skin. ‘It’s as if it happened to someone else, not to me. I can’t see what took place here.’
Nicky didn’t reply but gripped her shoulder.
Downstairs in the kitchen, her friend made tea. For herself only. Kate drank water, chilled straight from the fridge.
‘You’ll stay, Nicky, won’t you? Just for tonight?’
‘Of course. Try to stop me.’
In the morning, when her friend waved goodbye at the bottom of the path, Kate felt as if something inside her had been twisted into an impossible emptiness.
She shook the feeling away. It was irrelevant. She was back where she lived again, by herself in the place she couldn’t quite call home. If she was in danger, and there was nothing to tell her she wasn’t, then at least Nicky and her family would be safe.
For now, she had other matters to attend to, with completely different layers of importance.
Chapter Seven
It took her two more days to make the call and, when at last she did, the phone felt clammy and hot against her fingers.
The conversation with her departmental professor lasted five minutes and was filled with expressions of concern on his part, and words of determination on hers. All the while they were speaking, Kate held his card in her hand, turning round and round its picture of two blue and white boats on the sea with, in the distance, a haze of shoreline.
When at last she ended the call, she’d arranged to return to her post the following Monday, when she’d already scheduled two post-exam seminars with some of her final year students. Professor Dickinson’s secretary would notify them of her return and, not for the first time, she acknowledged her gratitude that this semester, because of the exams, she had no planned lectures.
After next Monday, she and the professor would assess how it was going, how, she supposed, she was handling it, whatever “it”
Similar Books
