Ana had been dreading that first night back at the centre, not knowing how she could possibly face Sergio after what her father had done to him. And so it was with a mixture of relief and disappointment that she discovered he was not there. Had not, in fact, been there for several weeks. She feared that perhaps her father had inflicted more serious injury than she had imagined and was filled with concern.
Every night she returned she hoped that he might be there. But he never was, and after a month she went to the administrator to ask for his contact details. The young woman had been very nice, but politely declined. Personal details, she said, were confidential. And, in any case, Sergio had deregistered with the centre, and she had no expectation that he would ever be back.
It was as if the bottom had simply dropped out of Ana’s world. And with the acceptance that in all probability she would never see Sergio again, came the realization that she had been in love with him. Deeply, hopelessly, in love. And that while he, in an unguarded moment, had inadvertently confessed his love for her, those words had never passed her lips. Now they never would, and he would never know. And all that lay ahead in the desert that defined her future was a world of darkness in which the only possible light had already been extinguished.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The little vibrator clipped to her blouse vibrates twice against her chest, alerting her to the presence of someone at the door downstairs. It is too soon to be Sergio, and she supposes it will be Nuri or Cristina. Since Nuri’s illness she is never sure which of them will turn up.
She feels for and finds the little panel of rocker switches on the tabletop in front of her, releasing the electronic catch on the door at the foot of the stairs. She sits perfectly still then, eyelids lightly closed, and senses the faintest of footfalls on the wooden staircase.
She is still aquiver with the excitement generated by the call from Sergio, but determines to say nothing about it. Neither Nuri nor Cristina knows anything of her history with Sergio. Both were just children at the time, absorbed in their own worlds, and Ana has not the heart to recount a story that still pains her. And, in any case, Sergio might lose courage and never come. If there is one thing that Ana has learned over all these years, it is that hope only ever brings disappointment.
She breathes deeply as the change of air in the room signals that the door has opened. She knows Cristina’s scent by heart, the distant sweetness of orange blossom carried by a single spray of her eau de cologne. But today the air brings her another, different scent. A masculine tone. Distinctive and musky, male hormones transmitted by the oil in perspiration. And she is confused.
‘Who have you brought to see me today, Cris?’
It is a moment before she feels the scrape of a chair on the far side of her computer, and the vibration of fingers on a keyboard raising braille on her screen. She scans the dots lightly with sensitive fingertips.
– It is a policeman from England, Ana. He has come to help us find the man who has threatened me.
‘And does he have a name, this man?’
– Mackenzie.
‘Ah. So he is Scottish, then.’ Ana smiles
– How do you know?
‘It is a Scottish name, cariño.’ And she senses Cristina’s surprise.
– But how do you know that?
‘Tesoro, when you have all day every day to fill you read a lot. I know many things that I would not know if I wasn’t deaf and blind.’ And she smiles sadly at the irony of it.
*
Mackenzie stood a pace or two back. Listening to Ana’s soft cadences, little more than a whisper at times. And reading the text produced onscreen by Cristina’s quick fingers on the keyboard. It gave him a moment or two to cast curious eyes over the woman seated on the far side of the screens. Ana’s black hair was cut short, and fell in a fringe over well-defined eyebrows. Her face was plain, unremarkable. Had he passed her in the street she would not have drawn his eye. But there was a strange serenity in it. In the soft set of her full lips, the almost drowsily half-closed eyes. He tried to guess her age, but she might have been anything between thirty and fifty. He settled on forty as a compromise, and was not so far out.
She wore a black blouse over black jog pants, and a pair of pristine white sneakers. Her frame was petite, although it carried a little more weight than it should. She could not yet be described as plump, but was inclined in that direction, and Mackenzie guessed that so many hours spent trapped each day in a chair would both waste muscle and accumulate fat.
Cristina had warned him in advance that her aunt was deaf and blind, and now as he stood before her he tried to imagine what that must be like. He glanced around the room where she spent her life. Like a cell. No pictures on the walls. No ornaments on the dresser. A table set for one. A corner kitchen with a small breakfast bar. How did she do the simplest things? Make tea or coffee. Or cook a meal. Dress, undress, do her laundry. Obviously she would have help. Family, the State. His eye fell on Sandro eyeing him cautiously from his bed on the far side of the room. Companion, guide, friend.
But for most of her life, she would have only herself to fall back on. Her courage and resilience, her will to be.
And the real prison was not this room. It was
