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‘But wait, so you still don’t know why . . .’

‘Dr Elliott-Lewis. She’s a little girl. This should not be happening. I’m ordering more tests; there’ll be blood tests. We will be keeping a very close eye on her, you can be assured of that.’ He moved off, flanked by an array of younger doctors – a mother swan and her cygnets – and left her standing there, an uneasy feeling in her stomach.

The teenagers were shouting. Imogen turned her head towards the sound. Were they arguing? Or laughing? So hard to tell these days, when anger seemed to sound just like joy. She shook her head, looking back down at her feet. Could barely make them out now, but still swirled them in uneven circles.

Amy would be okay. She would be okay. Was basing that on the simple premise that anything else was unconscionable. But then, she allowed, the unconscionable happened every day. Thought of Steve. He hadn’t wanted to come and see her, had made that abundantly clear. Had been appropriately guided by one of the nurses, after she had walked in on Steve and Carla screaming at each other in the middle of the ward. She had called Imogen, ostensibly to set up an appointment for him, but in truth to offer a courtesy warning. He’s tightly wound. We don’t see him here very often and, to be honest, I don’t think he’s coping with what’s happened to his son. I told him he needs to see you. Made it sound like it was policy, cos you know what men are. That’s okay, isn’t it?

He had come into her office, a man before the firing squad, and one who was willing to go down fighting. Had sat in the comfy chair, had folded his arms, glared at her, daring her to attempt to dabble in his psyche.

He can’t seem to accept it, the nurse had said on the phone. Refuses to accept his son’s condition.

‘Would you like to talk about your son?’

Steve had fixed her with a look, a Rottweiler baring its teeth. ‘You know what happened then? You know what those murdering bastards did?’

Murdering bastards. But that was the crux of it, wasn’t it? We tell ourselves the stories that we can handle, the ones that turn our world from what it is into what we need it to be to survive. These jeans shrunk in the wash. My fiancée is working late. My niece will be fine.

‘I was told that your son has been diagnosed with a persistent vegetative state. That must be incredibly difficult for you and your wife.’

‘You know they’re back on the job, don’t you? The pigs. Like nothing ever happened. Killed my kid and then, nothing. All right for some, isn’t it?’

Stories were fine. But sometimes you needed someone to pull the curtain down, reveal the great and powerful Oz for the scared little man he is. ‘Dylan, he survived, though, didn’t he?’

He had stared at her. ‘That’s not surviving. Have you been up there? You seen him? He’s gone. There’s nothing left of him. He’d have been better off if they’d finished the job. Leaving him like this – it’s worse than death. Fucking criminal, this is.’ He was pointing at her, sharp jabbing motions that cut through the air.

Imogen had wondered if he even realised he was crying.

There were voices, footsteps on the sea-front right above her, and Imogen started, looking up. An elderly couple dressed in thick wool coats, the man wearing a flat cap, a terrier tugging on a lead between them. Couldn’t make out what they were saying, just the gentle swaying of the conversation. She caught the woman’s eye. Smiled. Would have to be going home soon.

She had stayed with Mara. Had called her parents. She should let them know what had happened. It seemed the right thing to do. Had tried to ignore the knot in her stomach as she dialled. We’re on our way, her mother had said. I want to be there, when it happens again. Imogen had closed her eyes, had thought how clumsy her mother’s language was, how unconscious of the way in which it would settle upon a listener’s ear.

They had sat, waiting for their parents, the chaos they would inevitably bring; had listened to Amy sleep. The door was propped open, could hear the nurses’ voices, but not what they were saying. Imogen had rubbed her eyes, thought how much she missed her bed.

‘I called him.’ Mara’s voice was low, but seemed too loud against the quiet.

‘Who?’

‘Jack. I told him she’s got worse. He’s booked a flight. He’ll be here tomorrow.’

‘That’s good,’ said Imogen.

A long silence, and then Mara said, ‘I know what you’re thinking.’

‘I’m not thinking anything.’

‘You are. You’re thinking about him. The other one. You know. You’re thinking that I’m a slut.’

Imogen had, in fact, been thinking about her sister’s affair. About the jacket thrown so carelessly in a house where it didn’t belong. The shoes, slotted into a life that wasn’t theirs. Had thought, time and time again, how lucky her sister was. It had been plain, from the very beginning, that Jack adored her, had looked at her in a kind of wonderment, stunned that his own meagre presence could bring towards it this gem. Imogen got that, had often felt the same around her twin. It was tempting to be angry with Mara, to unleash the wellspring of frustration that had remained stoppered up for as long as she could remember. To shout at Mara for throwing away what she had, when it was all that Imogen had ever wanted.

But that wasn’t fair.

Everyone’s lives are different, everyone’s relationship playing out to a slightly different tune.

And still, it was hardly surprising that Mara and Jack had hit troubled waters, when you really thought about it. He had idolised her, had adored her. But that, surely, is unsustainable? One cannot last for ever in a relationship believing that one’s spouse hung the moon. There are irritations, mundanities that have to be fulfilled, in any relationship. And you could see it happening – the soft warping of their relationship as they settled into a marriage, a family. You could see that Jack got busier as he moved up through the ranks, from sergeant to inspector to chief inspector, more and more of his time taken up with his job, completing those portions of the adult life that were his to complete. And you could see Mara begin to wilt, a flower that had been moved into the shade for too long. And then, of course, Dubai.

‘I don’t think you’re a slut,’ Imogen said, quietly.

Mara nodded, chewed slowly on the words. ‘He’s been calling me. The other one.’

Imogen had studied her sister. ‘What does he want?’

‘He says that he wants me back. That he loves me.’

‘What are you going to do?’ Imogen could feel the irritation, a swirl of it beginning to rise in her insides.

Mara folded her hands across her stomach, gave a small wince. ‘I don’t know, Im.’

Then it erupted. Quietly, because they were in a hospital room and Amy was sleeping, but an eruption nonetheless. ‘Mara, for God’s sake. You’re married. You can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep being so selfish. This isn’t just about you and Jack, and whatever the hell his name is. This is Amy’s family. You have to stop thinking about yourself and put her first. You owe her that.’

The tears began then, big and fat, rolling down Mara’s cheeks. ‘But, Im . . .’

‘No. No “But, Im . . . ” anything. You are being selfish.’ What a relief the words seemed. So long of hardly thinking them, let alone saying them, only to have them tumble free of her, glowing in the twilight air. ‘You have to stop this, Mara. For Amy’s sake, if for no one else’s.’

Her sister didn’t look at her, stared ahead, the tears coursing over her cheeks. Then a shift, a slight nod of the head. ‘Okay. Okay, I will.’

A wash of water slapped against Imogen’s legs now, a surprise wave, bigger than those that had come before it, the cold of it jarring her. She pulled her legs up. Pushed herself up to standing. It was time to be going home. To Dave. She suppressed a sigh, praying to herself that his anger of yesterday would have abated, that the argument had blown itself out.

Imogen had studied her sister’s face, Mara’s hair loose, swathed around her shoulders, her eyes downturned. Had thought that she would love to be as effortless as her twin. ‘Mara?’

‘Yes?’

‘Who is he?’ Imogen had been surprised by the sudden need she felt, the desperate thirst to know. She had watched her sister, the quick, fleet-footed flight of emotions across her face. Imogen’s heart beating a little faster as she recognised one of them. Was it guilt?

Mara had shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter now. Like I said, it’s over.’

IT IS LATE
now. The road around is silent and dark, the rain bouncing from the road top. Puddles of orange street lights puncturing the blackness. I stare into the darkness, am fooling myself that I can see Mara’s house, that the shaped shadows mean something to me. I don’t know what it is I am waiting for.

I loved Mara. I can say that now. I felt something for her that, in spite of everything, I had never felt before.

I trod carefully, afraid to make a move in case it was the wrong one. But it seemed that was okay, that she was prepared to lead so that I might follow. We moved quickly, perhaps too quickly. But we left the waiting room together – Imogen forgotten now – got into my car and drove to her home. I steered the car, barely noticed the road, watching instead the trickle of rain that snaked its way down Mara’s neck, slipping between her breasts.

Mara let us in through the front door, stepping aside to let me through and then closing it softly behind us. I saw nothing. I only had eyes for her, the layers of clothes that she began to peel off almost before the front door had shut, the wool and the cotton that formed puddles at the bottom of the stairs. The look that she gave me, instructional and appraising. Me pawing at my own clothes, my hands useless and overlarge, like it was the first time I had ever been tasked with undressing. Stumbling at the stairs, Mara’s laughter like the shattering of glass, and suddenly she was standing above me, a higher step on the stairs, unzipping my jacket, allowing it to drift to the ground, pulling at my T-shirt. I remember the cold, burning against my skin, the sudden, startling realisation that she was wearing a bra, panties, nothing else, and that thought taking my breath away, so that then I was even more useless.

The memories of what came next are splotchy. All smooth skin, and hair that hangs like a curtain in my face, so that I can’t breathe, but knowing that if I’m going to die, this is the way I want to go. Her on top of me, beneath me, surrounding me so that I can’t see anything else apart from her. The taste of her, so sweet that it seems like chocolate, and knowing that no matter how much I have, it will never be enough.

A building and a building and then, just like that, it was over. And me flopping back and Mara rolling off me, reaching up, adjusting my arm so that it served as a pillow and snuggling into me so tight that I thought I must have died.

I knew then that I was in love.

I didn’t say it. You don’t do you? But I loved her.

Thoughts of my own demise receded into a dim and dark history, and were replaced by life, and softness and her. Something else – a presence that I’m not sure I’d ever felt before. Hope. That thought that life is not just out to screw with you, and that things could work out. We lay there, talked quietly. Well, Mara talked, a swell of words that washed over me, rocked me like a mother singing a lullaby to her child. I just listened. And hoped.

I knew it wouldn’t be easy. I knew that from the beginning. There would be obstacles. There would be things that must be overcome. But I also, for the most vapid of reasons, believed that they would be overcome. That here, with her, was where I was finally meant to be.

I look down at the phone where it rests on the passenger seat, picking it out in the darkness. Then I take a breath, hit Call. I raise the phone to my ear, listen as it connects, as the ringing starts. I am not expecting her to answer. I am expecting to be swept away on the wave of silence that will follow. But instead there is a click, a breath.

‘Hello.’

‘Hi.’ My heart sits in my throat, seems like it is stopping my voice.

‘Hi.’ She is whispering, so softly that I can hardly hear her above the sound of the rain.

‘I’ve really wanted to speak to you.’ I’m shaking, my hand vibrating the phone against my head. ‘I needed it.’

There is a long silence in which I think she has gone. Then, ‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t.’

Then I don’t know what to say. So I sit, listening to her breathe.

‘Listen, I have to—’

‘No, Mara. Please.’

I hear her sigh. ‘What is it?’

‘I love you.’ The words come out all in a rush. ‘I know what you said. About . . . everything. But I love you.’

Mara cuts across me, leaves my mouth hanging open, my words cut off at the source. ‘I’m sorry. I just can’t.’

‘HEY.’

‘Hi.’ Aden sounds surprised. Like he didn’t think he’d be hearing from me again. ‘How are you?’

I glance around the hospital car park, at the smokers and the sick, the visitors scurrying around them like rats in a maze. ‘Great. What about you?’

‘Oh, you know. Fine. Look, I’m—’

‘Don’t worry about it.’ I speak quickly, my words tumbling one after the other.

‘No, but . . .’

‘Listen, I shouldn’t have taken you there, I knew it at the time. I was just interfering, sticking my nose in where I shouldn’t. But then,’ I let out a laugh that comes out more like a squawk and grit my teeth slightly, ‘I’m a journalist, so you know how us hacks are.’

He doesn’t laugh. I console myself that it wasn’t that funny anyway.

‘You were just trying to help. Because you care.’ He phrases it oddly, with a little up-tick at the end, like it is a question, and I feel that old familiar sense of panic begin to build up.

‘Yeah, well. Anyway, it’s fine. I just wanted to call and say – well, I’m not sure what I wanted to say. Just thought, um . . . I’ll see you tomorrow? At the pool?’ I ask, sounding like a teenager.