thirst. It never occurred to me that I might need to actually go shopping for food.
‘Jam sandwiches are fine,’ Justine laughs, a genuine sound of delight. ‘I like jam sandwiches.’
We leave the kitchen, go down the corridor towards Lela’s bedroom. ‘Let me show you where you’re going to sleep,’ I say.
‘It’s a beautiful house,’ Justine says as she pads after me in her Chinese pyjamas.
I give her a speaking look.
‘It would come up lovely with just a small tidy,’ she demurs, something like longing in her tone.
I clear a space on Lela’s desk for Justine’s bag, and tell her to make herself comfortable while I go out to the linen closet in the hall and bring in some new bedding, changing the bed efficiently while Justine looks around the room, runs her fingers along the old fireplace built into the wall, pulls back the curtains to look upon the neglected garden.
‘It’s lovely underneath,’ she whispers. ‘Just needs someone to give it a bit of attention.’
And that gives me an idea that I file away for thinking on later.
I tell Justine to help herself to whatever she needs, point the way to the icy bathroom with its 1950s fittings and 1950s concept of water pressure, and retire to Mrs Neill’s bedroom, to my usual seat.
I stay there late into the night while, before me, Mrs Neill slowly ebbs away.
Or maybe I imagine it, because I open my eyes and it’s morning.
Friday morning.
Ryan gets in in just a few hours, I think, suddenly wide awake, every nerve ending thrumming.
I say softly, ‘Mum?’
Mrs Neill doesn’t respond, and I touch one hand to the side of her face and realise that she’s gone beyond hearing, beyond speech. Her weightless soul has already begun cleaving away from the flesh. I know with certainty that there is only a little time left before Azraeil returns to complete the division of soul from body.
The first thing I do is call the palliative care team and tell them to send someone over.
‘I think it might be today,’ I say quietly.
‘I’ll send Zoe right away,’ the woman tells me kindly. She does not question the certainty in my voice. ‘Georgia will take over at her usual time. If she’s needed.’
Though it’s only 5.35 am, Justine’s already awake, and agrees to stay with Mrs Neill while I head out to the Green Lantern.
‘Ther s just something I need to do at work. I’ll be back around midday and you can head off,’ I say.
‘I’m in no hurry,’ she tells me. Wrapped tight in a woolly robe she’s brought from her damp-infested apartment, cartoon slippers on her feet, she looks younger, softer, a world away from the teary, edgy woman I accompanied home in the taxi. ‘I was planning to give in my notice at that dive anyway — I’ll just need to call in at some stage and pick up my share of the tips for yesterday and the pay they owe me. So I’ll be officially unemployed as of today. Might do what Mr Dymovsky suggested and get a regular job.’ She gives a soft laugh. ‘Might even take up his offer of some work at the Green Lantern.’
‘You mean it?’ I say, delighted. I give her a wide smile. ‘You couldn’t suck at it any worse than I do! And you’d soon show Reggie who’s boss.’
Justine giggles. ‘I’d be top dog in no time — Reggie’s a choirgirl compared to the broads I usually work with.’
Her smile disappears, and she’s probably unaware of how wistful her voice sounds. ‘Then maybe that Sulaiman guy will have to start taking notice of me, instead of looking away whenever I come near him . . .’
‘He wasn’t looking away yesterday,’ I point out.
She looks down, scuffs at the threadbare hallway rug. ‘No, he wasn’t, was he?’
She heads off to the shower while I prepare her something to eat. The act of making a toasted jam sandwich hardly calms my strange feeling of nerves. Every sense seems heightened this morning, everything seems brighter, more beautiful, as if newly minted just for me. Even the motes of dust that drift through the air in the sun-stained, cluttered, silent rooms of Lela’s house seem beautiful, like tiny winged creatures.
I am impatient to get away; almost leap out of my skin when the doorbell rings, signalling Nurse Zoe’s arrival.
I hear Justine answer the door and place the sandwich I’ve made for her carefully in the centre of the kitchen table. I catch myself wiping Lela’s palms on the ankle-length, black tiered skirt I’ve chosen for her to wear beneath a whisper-thin, black, empire- line, long-sleeved top. Nerves. Since when do I suffer from nerves? But I feel oddly fallible today, sure that my skittish inability to settle to anything is showing on Lela’s face.
I head through to Mrs Neill’s bedroom, and the nurse walks in wheeling a heavy medical kit. She takes one look at Lela’s mum and says quietly, ‘Do you want the dosage . . . adjusted today?’
I place my hand on Mrs Neill’s brow and shake my head. ‘She’s not in any pain,’ I say, wondering if my own inner turmoil is obvious in Lela’s voice. ‘She’s gone beyond pain.’
Zoe searches Mrs Neill’s features, places the wrist she’s been holding back down gently on the bed. ‘I think you might be right.’
Justine, in an oversized purple tee-sirt, peers in through the doorway, her wet hair down around her face, cartoon slippers still on her feet, munching on the sandwich I made her.
I step away, give her and Zoe a searching look. ‘Just stay with her, will you? Stay with her until I get back, and I’ll be back as soon as I can. I don’t want her to be alone. Not for a second.’
They nod, and I head down the corridor after one last lingering look at the still figure on the bed. I’m unable to rid myself of the strange sense that it is the last time I will ever see Mrs Neill. Well, in this life anyway.
I hear Zoe snap open the lid of her medical kit and Justine ask shyly, ‘Do you want me to help you prop her up?’, and close the door behind me with a sense of finality, with the certainty coursing through me that everything is about to change.
Chapter 17
The bus ride into town seems to take forever.
I sit behind the driver and bid a silent farewell to Bright Meadows, to Green Hill, to the straggly, fragrant trees, to the powerlines and car-wrecking yards, the gambling dens disguised as family-friendly restaurants, the pharmacies, the bakeries, the banks, petrol stations and supermarkets, as if I will never see them again.
When we finally reach the stop across the road from the cafe, it’s as if I am crossing those four lanes of murderous traffic borne by wings.
He’s coming today.
He’s in the air right now.
He’ll be here in a few hours.
Mr Dymovsky smiles at me over the till when I explode through the plastic curtain smiling broadly.
‘Somebody is in the good mood today!’ he cries.
He doesn’t comment on the fact that the clock’s showing it to be 6.50 am. That I’m almost an hour early for work.
Tempus fugit, they say. Time flies. Of all days, let it be true of today, I think, because it hasn’t been doing that so far.
I grab an apron and tie it on. Sulaiman suddenly looms up beside me in that silent way he has of moving around. I take from him the gigantic tray of bacon strips and fried eggs he is holding in his big hands, slide it onto the bench. He doesn’t head back to the kitchen immediately. Just stands there watching me cut the crusts off a couple of orders, butter slice after slice of bread.
After a minute or so of his silent scrutiny, I stop doing what I’m doing, turn my head to look him full in the face.
‘What?’ I say, refusing to let anything bring me down today. Today he can be as cutting, as dismissive, as disapproving, as he wants to be. I will meet all of it with a wreath of girlish smiles. ‘What am I doing wrong?’
A small frown creases the space between his strong, dark brows.
‘You should go home to your mother,’ he says in his deep voice, his words uncharacteristically urgent and
