Читать книгу The Agatha Oddly Casebook Collection: The Secret Key, Murder at the Museum and The Silver Serpent - Lena Jones - Страница 19

London’s South Bank is a series of concrete buildings, underpasses and winding staircases. Some people think of it as an ugly growth on London’s historic silhouette, but it’s always been one of my favourite places. It almost seems that the Gatekeepers – whoever they are – know what I like. After all, they knew to find me at the Orangery. Tucked between the Waterloo and Hungerford railway bridges are table after table of secondhand books, laid out to lure me to spend more money than I have.

Liam didn’t want me to accept the invitation in the note. He said it was too dangerous. But when he realised that I was going and he couldn’t stop me, he said he’d come along.

‘Liam, it says “best to shop alone” – they don’t want anyone to accompany me.’

‘And that’s exactly what worries me!’ He adjusts his glasses in frustration. ‘Because if you’re on your own, they’re free to drag you off to who-knows-where!’

‘But if you’re there, they may not show themselves at all.’

‘And …’ He shrugs.

I sigh – he isn’t making this easy for me.

‘Do you think you can protect me from whatever happens, Liam?’

He thinks about this seriously for a moment. ‘Nope. Not at all, actually. But we’re mates and I want to do my best to look after you.’

I bristle – since when do I, Agatha Oddlow, need looking after?

He realises what he’s said almost immediately. ‘I mean … we can keep an eye out. Together. Can’t we?’

I give up. ‘Fine. You can come along. But try to blend in.’

‘Sure.’ He shrugs, pulling his arms and legs in as though trying to vanish behind a lamppost. I laugh before I can stop myself.

We walk. The Serpentine still has its floating islands of red algae. Hyde Park is much quieter than usual for a Saturday, almost deserted. We pass occasional walkers, all wearing masks against the algae’s noxious gases. Doctors in the seventeenth century wore masks filled with flowers, believing the sweet scent would protect them from the plague – I wonder if these masks really protect people from the fumes. There aren’t any joggers, as there usually would be, perhaps because there’s just not enough water to waste on having a shower afterwards.

I’m finding the going tough – it’s hot and I’ve inhaled a lot of fumes. I try not to picture my bedroom, with its sloping ceiling, my rows of books and my picture of Mum. Most of all, I try not to picture my bed, to imagine climbing back into it and letting my head slump against the pillow.

We walk through Knightsbridge, down the Mall and up past Buckingham Palace. I wonder how the Queen feels about the shortage of water, although I feel sure she’s probably not going without. After half an hour of walking, we cross the Thames by the Golden Jubilee footbridge. Often, the wind here is strong and cold, but today the breeze lifting off the Thames is a relief. The river has a spattering of the red slime here and there, which has escaped from the underground rivers. My throat feels dry and I’m desperately thirsty.

‘Nearly there,’ says Liam.

We both slow down as we cross the bridge. It’s impossible not to be struck by the London skyline – the magnificent dome of St Paul’s, the white filigree of the London Eye, the arches of Charing Cross Station … even the rocket-ship sheen of the Gherkin. In my eagerness to reach our destination and have something to drink I almost throw myself down the steps to the South Bank. I stumble at a bend in the staircase, and Liam grabs my elbow.

‘Steady!’

When I reach the lower level, I sink on to the nearest bench to the book stalls.

‘Must sit. Need drink,’ I admit. My lungs feel bruised.

‘Wait here.’ Liam runs into the Royal Festival Hall. Three brightly coloured slides have been installed outside, and families gather as children climb the steps and come down the slides over and over again, shouting, ‘Wheeeee!’ The children are the only ones who don’t seem to understand what’s going on. Everyone else in the capital wears a scared, what’s-going-to-happen-next look on their face.

At that moment, Liam reappears at a run, clutching an orange ice lolly.

‘They’re out of water.’

‘No surprises. Thanks, though.’

I take the lolly and rip off the paper, biting huge chunks out of the ice. It’s gone all too soon.

‘Ready to go?’ Liam asks.

‘Just about.’ I point to the book stalls. ‘I’ll look at the books, but I don’t want them to spot you.’

‘You think they might be watching us?’

‘I have no idea, but stay here just in case.’

‘OK … and you just stay where I can see you, OK?’

I go over to the first of the long book tables and look for anything that might be a clue. It’s an antiquarian stall – most of the books have hard covers in dark colours, with gilt lettering across the front and down the spine. I pick up Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. The edges of the pages are ragged where they were sliced apart by the first reader, in the days before books came with their pages already separated. I hold it to my nose and breathe in the old-book smell.

‘Are you going to buy that?’ The stall owner – a tall man with a pronounced Adam’s apple, is frowning at me.

I smile sweetly. ‘I’d love to, but I can’t possibly afford it.’

‘Then put it down,’ he says without humour. ‘These are precious – not to be sniffed at by random passersby.’

I move on. Every so often I glance across at Liam, who’s watching me like a hawk (while trying to look like he’s not watching me) from the bench. Any of the people around us could be one of the mysterious Gatekeepers.

I’m so distracted that I hardly notice the book at first. But then the name catches my attention. I pick it up and gasp.

In my hands is a hardback copy of Agatha Christie’s Poirot Investigates. If this is a first edition, then it’s worth a fortune.

Liam must see my excitement, because he carefully makes his way over. I’m so shocked I forget that we’re supposed to be staying separate.

‘What is it?’

‘This …’ I begin, barely able to get the words out. My hands are trembling as I open it up to see that I am right. My voice is low and reverent. ‘This is the rare 1924 edition of Poirot Investigates, with the first ever picture of Hercule Poirot on the dust jacket.’

He glances at the book, then back to me. ‘That’s … nice?’

‘Nice? Nice, Liam? A copy was sold at auction recently, and it fetched –’ I lower my voice to a whisper – ‘more than £40,000!’

Liam’s eyes bulge and his mouth falls open. The book is among the faded old paperbacks and celebrity memoirs, almost as though it has been placed there. I have so many questions I don’t know where to start.

‘You should look inside,’ Liam says.

I gently turn the pages of the book, searching. There’s a scrap of paper and two tickets just inside the back cover. ‘This is it!’

The slip of paper has two things on it – the number 33 and the words ‘You might as well bring your friend, now he’s here’.

‘Well, so much for blending in.’ Liam grins. ‘What’s that number all about?’

It would mean nothing to me, except that the two tickets that are with it are for the London Eye.

‘I think I know,’ I say. ‘Follow me.’

‘But what about the book—’

Liam is cut short by a voice close by and we both jump.

‘I’ll make sure it gets back to its rightful owner.’ It’s the stallholder, a woman with blue hair and a nose piercing. She winks at me as reluctantly I hand back the book.

‘Quite something, isn’t it?’ she says, gently stroking the cover before placing the book in a velvet-lined box.

‘It certainly is.’ I turn to Liam. ‘Now, come on, let’s go.’

We don’t queue when we reach the wheel; I just produce the tickets and we are ushered through the express lane and soon find ourselves standing at the base of the giant structure. I watch the transparent capsules travel slowly round on the wheel’s axis, forgetting my exhaustion. But when the first pod empties of passengers and the steward nods for us to embark, I shake my head.

‘We’ll wait, if that’s all right.’

The steward seems unsure, but after a moment’s hesitation he shrugs, turning his attention to the long queue of tourists.

‘What are we waiting for?’ asks Liam.

‘Pod number thirty-three, of course.’

Finally, pod thirty-three comes round. I grab Liam and walk in. The Eye doesn’t stop to let people on. Rather, it moves slowly enough that you can just hop on. The pod is empty. I sit down on the bench in the centre and examine the capsule. There’s nothing unusual about it – like all the pods, it’s an ovoid glass room, with a pale, polished floor and an oval wooden bench in the centre.

‘Hang on …’ Liam says. ‘Aren’t there only thirty-two pods? I read about it – thirty-two pods for the thirty-two boroughs of London.’

‘Yeah, but there’s no number thirteen. So there’s a number thirty-three to make up for the missing pod,’ I say.

‘That’s right,’ says a woman’s voice, and I turn in surprise.

There’s no one there, of course, but a screen fixed to the side rail of the pod has lit up. But instead of telling us about the London skyline, or the ride we’re on, it just shows a woman.

Dorothy D’Oliveira.

She’s leaning slightly on a wooden stick. ‘So, number thirteen is unlucky,’ she snorts, ‘if you believe in such nonsense.’

‘What …?’ I turn in confusion to Liam, but he’s looking just as baffled.

‘You found the book, then,’ she says, her voice tinny over the intercom. She chuckles. ‘Just a little joke of mine. I know how much you enjoy the works of your namesake. And that was an extra-special edition, wasn’t it?’

‘I didn’t want to give it back,’ I admit, trying to understand what is going on. I can’t tell where the professor is – she’s standing against a black background that gives nothing away.

‘I trust you did give it back, though?’ she asks.

I nod.

‘Good,’ she continues, ‘or that would have been a rather large claim on my expense account.’ She looks Liam up and down. ‘I did ask you to come alone, didn’t I, Agatha?’

‘You did.’ Liam is sheepish. ‘But I insisted on coming too,’ he says. ‘I was worried …’

Professor D’Oliveira nods. ‘Good friend. Well, Liam, my name is Dorothy D’Oliveira. Agatha may have mentioned me.’ The professor smiles, but I don’t smile back. From this meeting, it’s clear that there is a lot the professor hasn’t been telling me. I have no reason to trust her, to give away what I know. Liam is silent.

‘Why have you called me here? Do you have information?’

‘Not exactly,’ Professor D’Oliveira says. ‘And, actually, I wouldn’t usually do this, Miss Oddlow. But you’ve seen my face, and you’ve made some … connections.’ She looks away from the camera, staring off at whatever view is behind her. ‘A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, so I want to give you a few more facts to think about.’

‘Now you want to tell me the facts?’ I say. ‘You didn’t seem overly keen to talk to me the last time we met.’

She laughs and looks at Liam, who is at the edge of the pod. ‘I like this girl,’ she says to him. ‘She tells it like it is.’

I sigh impatiently. We are nearing the top of the ride, and will soon start our descent. We don’t have a lot of time. ‘Who is “we”, anyway? And where did you get your tattoo?’ I ask.

‘That’s a whole lot of questions, Agatha.’ A long pause follows.

I huff. ‘I thought you were going to start giving me answers.’

She smiles. ‘I was, but Liam being here as well has … Well, it’s thrown me a bit.’

‘Whatever you want to say, you can say in front of my friend.’

‘I’ll have to take your word for that …’ She takes a deep breath, as if thinking it all through, and then she seems to come to a decision. ‘The tattoo,’ she starts, ‘is a symbol for an organisation – a secret organisation – called the Gatekeepers’ Guild.’

I force my face to remain expressionless but an electric tingle shoots down my spine at the mention of that name – the name from the secret tunnel.

‘Some people carry the symbol in their wallet, or have it sewn into the lining of their blazer. Wherever they feel it’s discreet.’ She arches her eyebrow at me. ‘Personally, I wanted something more permanent, and since I wear long sleeves …’ She pushes her sleeve back to reveal the silvery tattoo – the one I first saw in the park that day.

‘Why now?’ I ask. ‘Why are you telling me all this? What’s changed since the hospital, when you pressed the emergency buzzer to have me evicted?’

‘Don’t you know?’ she asks.

‘No idea,’ I say, trying to reach deep into the recesses of my brain for something that seems to just be lingering there, struggling to make its way to the surface.

‘Well, you stumbled a little too close for comfort …’ The professor folds her hands neatly. ‘So, to keep it brief – the Guild has members all over London. Gatekeepers, both literally and figuratively. The majority of our members, in their roles as caretakers, housekeepers, butlers and so on, hold keys to the ancient buildings that are an integral part of London.’

‘Waiters too?’ I raise an eyebrow, thinking how Mr Worth had handed me that letter at the Orangery.

‘Perhaps,’ Professor D’Oliveira says. ‘Anyway, these buildings, and their grounds, offer access to the tunnels that run all over the city beneath its inhabitants’ feet.’

I think about Dad’s rack of keys that open all the grilles and gates in the park. ‘So … Dad? Is that why he has so many keys?’

She shakes her head. ‘Not your father. He was never a member.’

I open my mouth to ask ‘then who?’, but she holds up a hand to silence me.

‘I don’t have time for all of your questions right now, but let me at least explain a bit more, and then you can ask later.’

I nod as Professor D’Oliveira starts again. ‘The Gatekeepers are custodians of this country,’ she says, ‘and have been for centuries. We’re secret agents. We get the cases that MI5 can’t solve. When everyone else is stuck, we step in.’

I suck in a deep breath as she looks me in the eye. ‘What you saw – the assault on my person in Hyde Park – has put you in danger. Now, I need you to listen to me, and do as I say.’

‘And why should I trust you? How do I know that you’re on the right side in whatever’s going on?’

She laughs. ‘Because there’s no one else you can trust to help you.’ She leans in more closely to the camera. ‘The truth is, you can walk out of here and pretend that this chat never happened, but then you’d be on your own. And believe me, the people who are coming after you are a whole lot tougher than me. What you saw – well, that’s just the start.’

‘Why are you telling me all this?’ I ask. ‘Why would your secret organisation bother itself with a thirteen-year-old girl?’

The professor doesn’t say anything. She just stares at me. She isn’t telling me something, but I feel like I already know what it is. The key stashed in my room, the clues left for me to find – all from Mum. She wouldn’t have left them for me if she thought they would lead me into danger. She left them because she wanted me to find out about the Guild.

‘My mum,’ I say. ‘My mum was a member, wasn’t she? She was a member of the Gatekeepers’ Guild!’

The professor has closed her eyes. Even over the scratchy intercom, I can hear her take a deep breath.

‘Your mother was one of our agents, yes,’ she says quietly. ‘One of my agents. The best.’

The pod seems to contract around me. The view of Parliament and the river swims dizzyingly. There’s a roaring sound in my ears.

‘What?’ My voice has gone very small.

The professor nods. ‘Clara was incredible. Does that really surprise you?’

‘No, but …’ I remember the key round my neck. ‘Well, it’s a shock.’

‘I’m sure. But it’s the truth.’

‘So can I join and take her place?’ I ask, feeling a lump rise in my throat. Where did that come from? The words were out of my mouth before I had time to think about them.

Professor D’Oliveira’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘It’s not as simple as that – there isn’t anyone as young as you in the Guild, for starters, and, even if there was, there are tests to complete.’

‘Tests? What kind of tests?’

‘Enough for now …’ Professor D’Oliveira spoke. ‘We can’t just let anyone into the Guild.’

I cross my arms. ‘But I’m not “just anyone”.’

‘I can see that. And perhaps some day that will change, but in the meantime I’m asking you not to meddle – to leave it to the experts to deal with this crisis.’

‘You mean … the water? The red slime?’

She frowns, saying nothing, but for a secret agent she’s quite transparent.

‘I knew it! I knew it wasn’t just an accident!’

‘Agatha, listen to me – you need to forget what you know.’

Forget what I know? How can I do that?

‘Agatha, we have to get off in a moment,’ says Liam, eyeing the ground below as the capsule slowly approaches the end of its circuit.

‘Yes, and this is the end of our conversation for now,’ the professor says.

I feel as though I’m going to cry with frustration. I’ve learnt so much but at the same time, so little. I force the tears back.

‘One last thing, Agatha – look after your father. He is too trusting.’

The screen goes blank.

Then it switches on again. ‘Oh, and, Agatha?’

‘Yes?’

‘Stay out of our tunnels.’

The intercom shuts off for good. The pod draws level with the ground, and the steward asks us to step off. Liam and I move away from the wheel.

‘Well, that’s that,’ he says.

‘What’s what?’

‘The end of your investigation.’

‘What? What are you talking about?’ I spin round angrily.

‘This is serious, Agatha – you have to stop. You heard what she said – there are people who might come after you – people who could cause you serious harm.’

The blood is rising in my cheeks.

‘My mum was involved in all of this. I’m not going to stop! Not until I get some answers.’

Liam kicks hard at an empty drinks can, which skitters off into the crowds. ‘Don’t you care what I think?’ he says.

‘Of course I care what you think,’ I shout. ‘But look, Liam, this is important …’

Liam hangs his head. I’ve never seen him looking so hangdog or glum. He starts walking past the aquarium, heading for Westminster Bridge. ‘I’ll get us a cab then. Let’s go up to the road.’

‘I can make my own way, if you’d rather be on your own,’ I huff.

He reels to face me. ‘Did you not hear anything the professor said to you, about how much danger you’re in? Agatha, you’re so stubborn!’

Anger flares like a flame in my chest. ‘How can you talk to me like that? After everything I just found out?’

‘Somebody has to.’

‘You are so arrogant,’ I shout. ‘You think you’re in charge of me? That you can just boss me around?’

‘I’m arrogant? You’re the super-genius detective – I’m just some dopey sidekick to you. Oh, Agatha, how fascinating! Oh, Agatha, you’re sooo clever!’

‘Oh, yeah – I’m such a golden girl. Agatha Oddball, Oddity, Odd Socks … I’m a really difficult act to follow, aren’t I?’ I feel hot tears prickle at the back of my eyes.

‘That’s not who you are, Agatha.’ Liam stops and takes a deep breath. We’re blocking a group of tourists, who navigate around us. ‘Those names have nothing to do with the real you. I don’t mean to be so angry. It’s just …’

‘I know,’ I say. ‘I get it.’

‘Taxi home, then?’

‘Taxi home,’ I agree.

In the cab, I’m dying to discuss the revelations about the Guild – and my mother – to see if Liam thinks the professor is trustworthy. But I don’t want to make him feel even worse, so we sit in silence. The taxi is soon depositing me at the gates to Hyde Park.

‘Take care,’ he says.

‘Thanks,’ I say, climbing out. I watch the taxi drive off. Liam’s face is blank at the window. For the first time I feel a rift open between us. The tears I’ve been holding back spill out. Dumb, I think to myself, wiping my cheeks.

By the time I reach our cottage, I’ve stopped feeling so tearful, but I’m still miserable. Through the front door I call out to Dad, but there’s no answer. I don’t like the way the house echoes. I peer into the kitchen, where his algae samples are bubbling away, like a mad scientist’s lab. I hunt for Dad, the professor’s words ringing in my ears – Look after your father. He is too trusting.

To my relief, I find Dad in the living room, fast asleep on the sofa, fully dressed and snoring loudly. Oliver is curled up on his lap, purring like a lawnmower. I don’t want to wake him – he looks exhausted.

Apart from the ice lolly, I haven’t eaten since the Orangery. I rummage for some bread and cheese in the kitchen, and take the food and a small glass of water up to my bedroom. Dad has brought back a gallon bottle of water from the shops, but it cost him as much as a week’s shopping usually does.

I sit on my bed and start to drift off.

The film projector is in front of me again, shining memories on to my bedroom wall. I watch the film of my day for a long time, seeing myself on the London Eye, talking with Liam on the South Bank, being in the capsule … The images replay in front of me, but it doesn’t help me think. My mind flicks back, swapping today for a day seven years ago. I see Mum pottering around the kitchen, swaying a little in time to the radio, buttering slices of toast for my breakfast.

Here is the quiet woman who introduced me to Agatha Christie and Hercule Poirot and I’m grateful that I can still see her like this – that the images haven’t fled from my memory. And I know that the professor is telling me the truth about her. Mum might have been quiet, but she was anything but ordinary. I feel a bubble of excitement fizz up inside me. Mum. My mum. My totally amazing, kind, loving mum had been a secret agent.

I’m running through the silent corridors of St Mary’s hospital. Turning left and right through the maze, I see figures standing in the shadows out of the corner of my eye. There are quick footsteps behind me. They are going to catch me, but I have to reach my destination first. The hospital is so dark. Finally, I push open the door to a room. This is the place I was searching for – Dad’s room. He’s in a hospital bed like the professor’s, but he’s unmoving, kept alive by machines. The door behind me opens …

I wake gasping, sitting bolt upright, as though someone has been holding me underwater. I wait for my heart to slow. The bad dreams all blend together, but the fear they leave behind stays with me. I creep down to the first floor and put an ear to Dad’s door. I’d intended to wake him up after my snack and make sure he got into bed, but I must have dozed off myself. Thankfully, I see that he’s made it off the sofa and up to bed at some point, and is now snoring loudly. I resist the childish urge to wake him up.

I’m torn. In my daydreams there are no consequences to solving a crime. You either get it wrong, or you get it right. But the real world isn’t like my dreams – there are risks at every turn.

I have a quick breakfast of toast with marmalade and make up a buttered roll with cheese for JP. If JP is spying on us for some reason, I should pretend that I haven’t noticed. As the old saying goes – keep your friends close and your enemies closer. I make myself a small cup of peppermint tea, scrawl a note for Dad and prop it in front of the toaster –

Off to visit Mum.

Dad will know what I mean.

In the park, JP is nowhere to be seen. I hold the roll in my hand, as though it might summon him from his hiding place. Curious, I check his usual haunts – an oak tree near the lake, a bench surrounded by rhododendron bushes, and the railings by a patch of swaying poppies. Finally, I go to see if he’s in the hollow of the famous upside-down tree. A huge weeping beech, the upside-down tree’s branches hang down to the ground, making a sort of cave inside.

I crouch down to a gap in the branches and crawl into the darkened space. The air is oven-warm and smells of dry earth. This is a good place to hide in a rainstorm, for a while at least, until the rain bleeds through the canopy. There is nobody in here and I’m about to crawl back out when I glimpse a dark-red object among the roots of the ancient tree. It’s a notebook. Crawling closer, I tug on the notebook, which comes free with a dusting of soil. There’s a ballpoint pen stuck in the spiral binding. I look around, but I’m alone.

Only the first page of the notebook has anything on it.

22:43 – Arrived at house.

23:07 – Left house.

02:00 – Cutting flowers.

My heart speeds up. These notes are about me. Or, at least, about Dad and his mysterious visitor. The first two timings are obvious to me – this was when Davenport had turned up at our house and when he had left. The third time is less clear, but the note must refer to the person who had cut all the flowers off the clematis under my window.

Who could this notebook belong to? If it’s JP’s, then is he spying on us, and, if so, who for? Was JP the person who had cut all the flowers? Whatever the truth, I’m creeped out by the thought of someone watching our house.

I close the notebook, replace it in the root hollow, and crawl out again.

It takes me about half an hour’s walk before the black metal railings of the cemetery come into view, with the two red phone boxes like sentries on either side of the gates. I’m hot and thirsty, but I’m on a mission.

There are a lot of famous people buried in Brompton Cemetery – and Mum. I think Mum would have liked the thought of being buried alongside the suffragette Emmeline Pankhurst, opera singers and boxers, the inventor of the Christmas card and Native Americans from Buffalo Bill’s Wild West show.

Mum’s grave is small and discreet. I’m sure that to anyone else it would look plain, like it doesn’t belong to a person at all, but only a name. Even I have to look at it carefully, almost squint, until I can picture her in her tortoiseshell glasses, and smell the fruit cakes that she baked each week. Then it isn’t a grey slab of stone any more, but a dusty grey window, to which I can press my face and glimpse her reading a book or dancing around the kitchen with the radio on, in another world altogether.

I sit down on the cool stone like I’m sitting on the edge of someone’s bed.

‘Hey, Mum …’ I start, feeling lost for words. It might seem strange to some people, talking to someone who can’t talk back. But Dad always says that Mum was a good listener, so I don’t think she would mind.

‘Sorry I haven’t been for a while; it’s been a strange week. Oh, but I did bring you this …’

I take a crime novel out of my bag that I’d picked up in a charity shop on the way, and place it on the stone. The one I left last time is still there, so I put that back in my bag. Sometimes they are soaked with rain, and sometimes they are gone altogether, but it feels more right to me than bringing flowers.

I sit for a minute in silence, not thinking about anything much. Then, when I feel ready, I start to talk about everything that has happened. I talk about the hit-and-run, Professor D’Oliveira and the strange tattoo. I talk about the faceless man who attacked me, and the red slime that’s spreading all over London. I talk about Brianna, Liam and the professor warning me not to get involved. And, of course, I talk about the key – the present that she left me, and which I’ve finally found.

‘I knew you had a secret, Mum … I just knew it.’

I’m talking and, out of nowhere, I start to cry. Maybe it’s because talking about everything makes it seem more real. Maybe it’s because I start to remember how scared I was when I was attacked. But mostly I think it’s because I miss my mum.

As I cry, and the tears fall on the dusty stone, I feel a sinking tiredness come over me. The world turns sideways, until I’m resting my head on the grave, which seems as comfortable as my bed at home.

‘You shouldn’t be scared, you know.’ She brushes my hair with her hand. My face is buried in the pillow so I can’t see her.

‘I just … I feel like this is what I’m supposed to do.’ I sniff. The pillow smells of her perfume – a scent I’d almost forgotten.

‘But …?’ She coaxes.

‘But … but I don’t want anyone to get hurt.’

She sighs, and for the first time she sounds sad. ‘Oh, sweetie, people always get hurt. That’s the way life is. But to not live life to the full … Well, that’s worse, I think.’

Her hand is soft, and my shoulders hunch up, like the feeling you get when you know you’ve got nothing left to cry. I raise my head from the pillow to look at her.

‘Thanks, Mum …’

I look around me but no one is there. I’m in the cemetery, and the grave is a grave, not a bed. The stone is still wet with my tears. I sit up and wipe my eyes. Something has changed, and it takes me a moment to realise what it is. The heavy weight in my heart has lifted.

‘Thanks, Mum,’ I repeat.