She looked across at Dana, who had chosen the baked fish instead of the vegetables.
“I think you may have made a better choice than me,” she said, not meaning it.
“Take it,” said Dana.
Dana didn’t eat more than a couple of forkfuls of her meal. But it was something. She was sitting up. She had spoken a few words. She wasn’t just lying under her blanket.
Tabitha took the two trays and returned with two mugs of tea.
“I didn’t make you eat the food,” she said, “but I am going to make you drink the tea. It’s about hydration. You should probably have about three liters but you’re definitely going to have this mug.”
Was there the tiniest hint of a smile on Dana’s lips? Tabitha thought that there probably wasn’t. But she did start to sip at her tea. Tabitha put her own mug down. She laid a fresh sheet of paper on her desk and started to write. She quickly filled two sheets. Then she looked across at Dana, who was staring at the wall.
“I’ve written a letter,” she said. She placed it in front of Dana. “What do you think?”
Dana gazed blankly at it and then shook her head. “Don’t know.”
“You mean, you think it’s not right?”
“I can’t make it out.”
Tabitha hesitated for a moment. “Dana,” she said slowly. “Can you read?”
Dana shrugged. “A bit. You know. When I need to.”
Tabitha pulled her chair closer and picked up her piece of paper and looked at it.
“I’ve written two letters,” she said. “I’m not sure if I’ve found the right tone. Pull your chair over here.”
Dana looked suspicious.
“We could go over the letter, spell it out, word by word.” Tabitha paused. Dana still seemed reluctant. “Well, what else have you got to do? Crawl back under your blanket?”
With a scraping sound, Dana eased her chair closer to Tabitha’s table.
Twenty-Seven
Andy came into the room slowly and heavily; she could hear his shoes on the floor as he approached. She had made an effort for his visit, washed her hair and put on jeans rather than her shapeless tracksuit trousers, but still she saw he was shocked by her appearance.
He had made an effort too. She was used to seeing him in his working clothes, at ease in old trousers covered in paint and oil that had multiple pockets for tools; rough, often ripped shirts and boots without laces. But today he wore jeans, a round-necked gray sweater that was one size too small, shoes he might even have polished, and he had shaved, which made him look younger and less good-looking.
He raised his hand to her from across the room and kept it awkwardly raised as he made his way toward her. He was tall and solid. She had always looked ridiculously little standing beside him.
“Thank you for coming,” she said as he lowered himself onto the chair.
“Oh.” He flushed. “No worries.”
He didn’t like talking very much; he communicated with his hands, with the way he used a saw, or measured up a space just with his eyes, or laid licks of fresh paint over plaster.
He shifted in his chair, nodded. His blue eyes were uneasy and there were purple rings of exhaustion under them. His long dark hair was wet from the rain. The nail on his left thumb was dark purple. He was always picking up bruises.
“I’m sorry about everything you had to go through,” she said.
“It wasn’t great.”
“Are you OK?”
“I guess.”
“I’d like you to go on working on the house while I’m in here. I’ll pay you, of course. It just might take a bit more time. I’ll be able to picture you standing in the kitchen with a mouthful of nails and your radio playing. First of all, we need—that is, you need—to lay the floorboards.” She saw the tiny flinch and knew he was thinking of going out to the shed. “And after that, there are the skirting boards and the shelves in that old pantry.”
“OK.”
“And the window frames need repairing, of course,” she continued.
“And the porch.”
“Yes, but you can wait till the weather gets better for the outside stuff. I used to walk past it,” she continued, “and think it looked so neglected and unloved. Houses need love.” Her voice was dusty and her eyes throbbed. “But that’s not what I wanted to talk about.”
“What then?”
“Did you tell the police I had tried to stop you going out into the shed?”
“Yes,” he said slowly. “Yes, I did. He asked me.”
“Who?”
He shrugged. “The man in the suit, face like an ax. I had to tell him.”
“But I don’t understand,” said Tabitha. “I don’t remember that at all.”
Andy stared at her helplessly. “You were pretty out of it. You couldn’t really speak.”
“I was having a bad day.”
He nodded.
“I get them every so often. I just have to weather them. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Of course not,” he replied, too quickly.
“You know I’m defending myself?”
He nodded.
“So I need to know everything. Help me remember. From when you arrived.”
Andy cleared his throat. “I knocked and then knocked again. I knew you were in because a light was on.”
“What time?”
“Four-thirty or near enough.”
“Go on.”
“You opened the door but it was like you weren’t really seeing me. Your eyes had a kind of—” He stopped.
“Go on.”
“A glazed look. Like you were on drugs.”
“What did you think?”
“I thought you had taken something. And that you were unhappy. I
