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It was shifting, the shape of the room. The towering figure of him diminishing, slipping into nothing, Imogen growing taller.

She studied him. ‘You’re in love with Mara, aren’t you?’

Imogen waited for the lie, the prevarication, the looking from side to side, shifting from toe to toe. That would, if nothing else, suggest that he had not given up on them entirely.

He didn’t look at her. He bowed his head. ‘Yes.’

Imogen pulled in a deep breath, felt a blast of cold like a chill Siberian wind. The truth will set you free. How long had she known? Had she always known? She didn’t say anything, not for a long time, because what was there to say? And hadn’t she been complicit in her own downfall? Picking up her sister’s cast-offs because it was safer than trudging out on her own into unexplored territory. A feeling settled on her of karma coming home.

They stood there, a pair of mannequins. Steeped in silence. She should cry now. Surely? But inconveniently there were no tears, just a certain sense of inevitability and, perhaps, relief. ‘What was I? Was I the stand-in? The one that would do, because you couldn’t have the twin you wanted?’ The words came out sounding bitter, and Dave flinched, spiked by the barbs in them. But, in truth, all that she felt was tired. A certain sense of mile twenty-four in a marathon. You’re almost there. Might as well get to the finish line, even if you have to crawl there.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Dave. ‘I’m so sorry. I wanted . . . I really wanted us to work. I thought that, given time, it would change, it would get better. I thought that I would stop—’

‘Loving her?’

‘Yes.’

The world was unknitting itself, had begun to pool in a cottony puddle at Imogen’s feet. ‘Mara isn’t going to leave Jack. You know that, don’t you?’

Dave looked down. Nodded.

‘She values his status too much, his job, his money.’ Imogen felt something, the chill of crystal clarity. ‘That kind of thing – people looking up to her, paying attention to her – all of that kind of stuff is important to Mara. You know that’s why she broke it off with you, don’t you?’

She didn’t know now: was she trying to hurt him or warn him? Seemed like the two motives had knotted themselves together, one indistinguishable from the other.

But Dave was looking at her, frowning. ‘What?’

‘The affair. I know about the affair. And I know that she broke it off with you.’

Dave shook his head. ‘Im, I swear. Nothing has happened. Not since we were in uni. I’m not having an affair with Mara.’

THE DOORBELL RANG,
loud and insistent, and Aden hurried down the hallway, padding in bare feet. Pulled open the door without looking. The rain was coming down in sheets now, driving hard against the pavement outside, sweeping past the darkened figure on the front step into the hallway.

‘All right, mate? Pizza?’ The man was buried, face hidden by a hooded raincoat, drops running from the front of it in a waterfall.

‘Yeah, ta.’ Aden reached out, grabbed the box, suddenly very aware that he was wearing nothing but a T-shirt, boxers. He slipped the tip into the man’s damp fingers. ‘Good luck out there.’

‘Yeah.’ His voice was all but lost to the rain. ‘Cheers.’

Aden ducked back inside, pressing his back against the front door to close it. Clutched the pizza box tight, took the stairs two at a time.

Charlie was still in his bed. Had pulled a sweatshirt from the clean laundry pile, slipped it on, so big that it puddled around her wrists, her waist. Her hair stood up at odd angles, make-up barely there now.

She grinned. ‘Thank God, I’m starving.’

Aden set the box on the bed, leaned in, kissed her. Felt like he had done this a thousand times before, their lips already finding the groove of one another.

It had come to him in a moment of sparkling clarity. The knowledge that if he had felt like a coward before, there would be nothing more cowardly than letting Charlie slip through his fingers now. He had waited in the rain outside her office for an hour. Would have waited all day, if he had to.

Charlie was tugging at the box, pulling a slice of pizza free, the cheese sliding across the crust.

Aden had called the training sergeant, on his way to Charlie’s office. Had felt the anxiety chewing at his insides, but had done it anyway. I want the Tactical Unit spot. I want to apply. The sergeant hadn’t said much, but you could hear the grin. Assessment is next week. Pop by, we’ll chat about it.

Aden picked up a slice of pizza, the heat of it burning his hands; thought about looking forward instead of looking back. After all, what did it all matter, when you came right down to it? The shooting had happened. He couldn’t make it unhappen. All he could control was where he went from here on out. He watched Charlie, carefully balancing a slice of pepperoni on a corner of pizza, felt himself grin. ‘So . . .’ he said. ‘Maybe tomorrow night we could, I don’t know, do something?’

Charlie didn’t look at him, took a bite of pizza. ‘Yes. Tomorrow night would be good.’ Then she glanced up with a smile and a wink.

Aden felt something stir.

Then a ringing, breaking from inside Charlie’s bag.

‘Dammit.’ Charlie pushed back the covers, padded with bare feet across to where her stuff lay abandoned on the floor. Her shirt there, her trousers there, her bra.

Aden took another bite of pizza. Smiling.

‘Oh God, not again.’ Charlie sighed.

‘Who is it?’

She pulled a face. ‘Steve Lowe.’

She made no move to answer, just waited until the ringing stopped, until the voicemail message had beeped, then had hit a button, dialling up her voicemail. Hit the speaker. ‘It’s constant with him now. He’s just calling me all the damn time.’

A disembodied voice filled the room. ‘It’s Steve Lowe. I’ve been trying you. I need you to get back to me, all right? The doctors, we’ve been up the hospital. They’ve done tests and stuff, on my boy, and they said . . . they’re now saying it’s permanent. Permanent vegetative state. They’re saying there’s nothing they can do for him. There’s no hope.’ His rough-edged voice cracked.

Aden laid down his pizza again. Rubbed at his eyes. Thinking of Carla Lowe, her thin arms, her tired eyes. Dammit.

‘I think we have to let Dylan go. He’d be better off. Carla, she’s not . . . she won’t listen.’

Charlie was standing, biting her thumbnail, her face pale.

‘But, anyway, at least I’m going to get those murdering bastards this time. They’re going to pay for murdering my son.’ A sob, crinkled and static-filled. ‘I thought you’d want to know, anyway. Thanks.’

Aden dipped his head. Could feel heat building up behind his eyes.

‘Shit!’ said Charlie.

‘Yeah.’

She climbed back onto the bed, slotted herself alongside him, her head sliding into the angle of his neck, hands snaking their way through to grip his. A long silence where there was nothing but the sound of the rain. Then she said, ‘You still think there’s a problem with the shooting?’

Aden half-turned, kissed her on the forehead. ‘I really don’t know. I mean, Tony flipping out the way he did . . . I don’t know. Or maybe that’s just what I want to think. You know, to justify the fact that I didn’t shoot.’ He thought for a moment. ‘You know, the thing is, I just can’t do this any more. I can’t keep looking back. I want to look forward now. What about your friend? Emily. What are you thinking now?’

Charlie shrugged, her hair brushing against his chin. ‘I don’t know. I went to the bar, but to be honest, I didn’t find anything that Traffic hadn’t already found. I don’t know what I was expecting. The bartender said Emily met someone, that she left with him. She seemed to be drunk, the bartender said she could barely stand. I’m going to go in tomorrow, take a look at their CCTV.’

Aden glanced at her, and Charlie rolled her eyes.

‘I know, I know. I’m like Nancy friggin’ Drew.’

‘Did the Traffic boys go over the CCTV?’

‘Apparently not. The camera system is in the manager’s office, manager’s been on holiday, someone lost the spare key . . . you know the song. I guess Traffic were satisfied with what they had. I mean, it all seems to hang together – the fact that she was drinking, could barely stand when she left the bar. Makes sense that she wouldn’t be thinking, could have wandered onto the M4 by accident.’

‘But you don’t think so?’

Charlie sighed. ‘I don’t know, maybe it was an accident. But I just can’t make it fit in my head, you know? And her necklace – the one she always wore – what the hell happened to that?’

More silence. A breeze had picked up now, clambering its way in through the open window, wrapping itself around them. Aden glanced towards the window, catching sight of his mobile phone lying between them on the bed. He picked it up. Studied it for a moment and then, with a quick movement, switched it off. If there was going to be trouble from Steve Lowe, he didn’t want to hear about it tonight.

‘It’s Carla I feel sorry for.’ Charlie’s voice was quiet, heavy.

‘Me too.’

Would she be at the hospital now? Sitting by her son, watching him, trying to make herself believe that he was only sleeping, that at any minute he would wake up, come back to them. Knowing that he never would.

Charlie shivered.

‘You cold?’

‘A little.’

Aden pushed himself up, crossed the room in three long strides. The rain was thundering, had formed rivers in the gutters. They were building up, lapping at the kerb stones. It would be a tough day tomorrow, if the weather stayed like this. All of this water, it would bring who knew what kind of debris to the surface. He reached out, pulled at the window. Barely paid any attention at all to the car parked across the street.

I HOLD THE
gun, cradle it in my fingers, its weight reassuring. It feels now like an extension of my hand, like it was always meant to be there. I am tired. I am so tired. I have nothing left. I cannot fight any more. I simply want to sleep.

I sit on the bed still. It has occurred to me that the bullet will blow my brains across the bedroom, will spatter blood across the wall, that at the end of this no one will want to live here ever again. There is some small satisfaction that comes from that – having made that much of an impact at least.

I sit, my finger on the trigger.

The window is open. I can hear voices on the street, mingled in amongst the drumming of the rain; can smell the salt from the sea. There are footsteps, quick, almost a run, a burst of laughter that sounds like it comes from those who are young, for whom life is an adventure, who haven’t yet learned just how much damage it can do. I wonder if they will hear the gunshot. If they will stop, frozen in fear. If they will call the police. Or will my death be lost amongst the roar of their laughter?

I sit. Listen.

The footsteps move further away, the voices quieter, until they are gone and I am alone again. I look down at the gun. I don’t know why I haven’t done it yet. I mean, I have waited for this, survived only because of the promise of this. And now it is here. So why haven’t I done it?

A feeling shifts in me, old and familiar. Anger. I look at the gun. I get it, why people love them. They give you power. They give you control. You see these shootings on TV – Columbine, Virginia Tech, Hungerford – and no one understands who they are, why they did what they did. With their trench coats and their army fatigues, and their hanging heads, their pulsing anger. But I understand them. I understand what drives them, the anger that rolls inside them, which they just can’t find a way to let out, and so they storm a school, a village, a mall, and people fall like trees before them. I understand that need, as intense as the need for oxygen, to finally be noticed, to finally matter. What’s that they say about kids? It doesn’t matter if it’s good attention or bad attention. All they want is attention.

I think about the hospital, about the insatiable pull of it that drags me back, again and again like an unexpected ocean current. You can see it from here. I stand, pull the curtain aside. It glows on the skyline like a beacon, each window a tiny burst of light. It seems to me now that my entire life has been about this hospital, that it has formed the heart of my very existence – whatever that is worth. And I study it, saying my goodbyes.

Yet still I can’t do it. I can’t pull the trigger.

I cradle the gun. Let my fingers run across its shape, its form. And, as I stand there, gazing out over the lights of life being lived, I realise that it will not happen. That my finger will not move for me, because something is off. This is not as it should be.

I look back to the hospital again. Find the dot of light: second floor, third window across. Feel the tug of that ocean current.

Then I catch sight of my phone. It lies on the bedside table now. I stare at it, even though I know no one will call, and for a moment my mind plays tricks on me, and I think that I see the screen light up, a burst of sound. And I think that it is Mara. That she has sensed something, that somehow the universe has delivered her the message that I simply cannot live any more, that the burden is too heavy, and that she is reaching out to me, to save me. I lunge for the phone, movement so fast that I make myself dizzy. But there is nothing. Just an empty screen.

My insides plummet. What was I looking for? A reprieve?

I hold the phone in one hand, gun in the other, and before I am fully aware of what I am doing, my fingers are moving across the keypad, dialling. I don’t know why. I hit Call.

I do know why. I don’t want to die this way. I don’t want to be alone.

I raise the phone to my ear, and I pray. Please pick up. Please pick up. I don’t know what it is that I will say. My tongue has long since forgotten how to form words. I listen as the network races to make a connection, and I think it instead. Help me.

Then a click and an answerphone.