‘I don’t know,’ he says, after thinking a while. ‘I’m not sure she knew herself. I think she felt bad that she abandoned her religion. She was brought up a Baptist. Her family were religious. I suppose you know that?’
I nod impatiently.
‘But then after her mother died, she stopped going to church, stopped believing in God. It wasn’t until she found out she had cancer that she discovered God again. She used to go and pray with Meg, next door.’
‘With Meg?’
‘Yes, Meg was fantastic when Charlie got her diagnosis. She helped her come to terms with dying and helped her keep a positive outlook right up until the end. Charlie said that if Meg could stay positive despite everything she had gone through, then so could she.’ His eyes well up again. ‘She was very brave, my Charlie.’
‘Yes,’ I agree absent-mindedly. I stand up. I’m trying to work out how to wind the conversation up so that I can move on. Dylan clearly isn’t here, and this is a waste of precious time.
But Adam seems eager to talk now he’s started. ‘She’s an amazing woman, Meg,’ he’s saying. ‘I mean, imagine what it would be like to be a world-class athlete one day and in a wheelchair the next. But she’s always upbeat. She never complains.’
‘An athlete?’ I stop by the door, my hand frozen on the knob. ‘What kind of athlete?’
‘She was an ice-skater, believe it or not. She won the British ice-skating championship.’ He frowns, trying to remember. ‘Something like that, anyway. She doesn’t like talking about it, but Sophia, her care worker, told me once.’
There is a buzzing in my ears that’s getting steadily louder. I’m back in Doug Foster’s dingy bedroom, the photograph of his wife, dressed in a frilled leotard, spinning on the ice.
I’d assumed she was dead, but had he actually said that? I try to remember his exact words. ‘She’s gone. Gone to a better place,’ is what he said. Perhaps he didn’t mean she had died but that she had literally gone to a better place – a place set up for someone with a disability, a flat which Charlie had had converted specifically for her. And if Meg is Doug Foster’s wife . . .
‘Thank you very much for the tea. I’ll let you know about the flat,’ I say hurriedly, heading for the door.
Dr Blake says I’m lucky. Ha! What does she know? She’s young and strong and goes running every morning. I know that because I heard her talking to one of the nurses about how she ran her personal best only the other day. She didn’t mean me to hear. She’s not that insensitive. But I heard her all the same. So how can she know what it’s like? She hasn’t a clue how it feels to be trapped in this useless body, day after day. She can’t imagine what it’s like to have to rely on other people for simple tasks that you used to take for granted: getting dressed, washing, even going to the toilet. She doesn’t know what it’s like to dream that you’re dancing and to wake up unable to move out of bed – to be left alone with your bitter thoughts and memories and only daytime TV to distract you. People are full of advice on topics they know nothing about, aren’t they? My mother, for instance, is always telling me I should forgive and forget. ‘Let bygones be bygones,’ she says. The past is the past. She doesn’t know that the past bleeds into the present and that I will never be able to forget and I will never be able to forgive . . .
Thirty-four
The door to Meg’s flat is ajar and I can hear the low hum of the hoover from inside. I push my way through the narrow hallway without bothering to knock and burst into the living room. Meg is sitting by herself in her chair by the window, gazing out at the road. She has her back to me, her neatly bobbed grey hair curling at the nape of her long, stringy neck. She doesn’t turn the chair. Maybe she’s asleep. But something about the angle of her head tells me she’s not.
‘Where’s my son?’ I demand loudly.
The chair turns slowly until she’s facing me, and she regards me steadily with pale blue eyes. Her expression is hard to read.
‘What have you done with my son?’ I repeat.
I wait impatiently as her eyes flick over the monitor.
‘Catherine, hi. I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ says the friendly, robotic American voice.
‘My son, Dylan. Where is he? I know you’ve got him.’ I clench my fists, digging my nails into my palms. I’m tempted to grab her by her scrawny neck and strangle it out of her. It would be so easy, I realise. What could she do? She is completely defenceless.
There’s a long silence and then the machine speaks again.
‘I have no idea. I don’t know your son.’
‘Yes, you fucking do. Don’t lie to me!’ My voice rises, rage and fear choking me. I’m shouting now so that Sophia hears me in the other room, switches off the vacuum cleaner and comes rushing in.
‘What the hell?’ She glares at me, bristling like a guard dog. ‘How did you get in?’
I ignore her, stepping closer to Meg. ‘Where’s Dylan?’ I say.
Sophia grabs me by the arm. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? Do you want her to go, Meg? I can kick her out, if you like.’
I turn on Sophia. I’m hysterical now, gibbering like a mad woman. ‘You don’t understand. She’s got my son. She took him from school. She’s going to kill him.’
Sophia looks startled. Then concerned, as if I might be a dangerous lunatic.
‘You need to calm down,’ she says, taking a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry, if it’s true that your son is
