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  Brian and Beth were expecting their second child. Beth was already eight weeks along, and they had gone home to tell their families. Simon had taken Marcia on a brief holiday. When Colin had had time off on gray days, they had gone back to bed after breakfast. Now she turned on the lights to chase the gloom away and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders to counter the chill. Always she was conscious of the days passing by, of the cruel countdown to February 23, the date of Colin’s death. She wished for a way to escape or delay it. Maybe if she went back to bed – if she stopped leaving the flat – she could cause time to blur. She took her pillow from the sofa and climbed the stairs to their bedroom, hers and Colin’s. She slipped off her jeans, sprayed a little of his after-shave on one of his shirts, and buttoned it up over her t-shirt. Wanting to fall asleep faster, she took a sleeping pill and then drifted off, thinking about her husband.

  Awake she was dead to life, but in her dream she was vibrantly alive, and more important, so was Colin. They were on their honeymoon, and her skin was warm from the Bermuda sun. He was smiling at her, his most tender smile, the one that took her breath away because it said, I’m going to make love to you now. “On the beach?” she laughed. “You’re too beautiful to resist, and there’s no one else about,” he answered. Colin, his chest broad and strong, his body free of lacerations and trauma, holding her, kissing her.

  When she woke, the day was still gray and hazy, as if the dawn hadn’t wanted to come. No matter. She didn’t care if it came. What was the daylight to her? She resented the hours she would have to wait until she could sleep again. She was slightly hungry. There wasn’t much worth eating in her kitchen, but she lacked the energy and the will to bundle up and make the trek to Sainsbury’s for more. She made do with dry cereal. If she could just shut out the distractions of things outside, perhaps she would dream of him again. She let the newspapers accumulate on the porch and turned off her phone, disregarding the message Beth had left about Jenny returning to help at school when the term resumed. The world was empty. She would not find Colin there, and she wanted so badly to see his blue eyes once more. Maybe grief wasn’t such a bad thing. If it could cause her to dream of being loved, maybe she shouldn’t want to let it go. When she dreamed, the days did not advance, the seasons did not change, there was no night or day. She turned off the lights downstairs. She straightened the sheets, fluffed the pillows. The flat was quiet, blissfully quiet. She took another sleeping pill and closed her eyes.

  PART THREE

  There is only the fight to recover what has been lost…

  There is only the trying.

  — T.S. Elliot

  CHAPTER 1

  It paid to be quiet. Sergeant Nick Howard learnt a good deal listening to others. From time to time he overheard bits of news about Jennifer Sinclair. “Never much food in her fridge. She’s not looking after herself.” “Beth hasn’t seen her since before Christmas.” “Her mobile’s not working.” Casey and Davies thought she was still having a rough go of it and were dead worried.

  Howard had been assigned to her witness protection team, on a periodic basis only, and he hadn’t thought much of it. Now the leader of an SO-19 specialist firearms team like Casey, he considered his role. Coppers were paid to respond to the needs of the public, but she hadn’t requested assistance, and his skills didn’t lie in public affairs. Leave it, he told himself.

  Cathryn Donnelly, his live-in girlfriend, didn’t agree. “You always wanted another chance to show your parents what they’d accomplished with you,” Cath told him. “Just because she hasn’t asked for help doesn’t mean she doesn’t need it. You know what grief is. But if you’re to have any credibility, you’ll have to tell her.”

  Years later he still didn’t like speaking of it, but he knew what grief could do. Paralyse you. Eat you up inside if you let it. He could check on Jenny, see for himself. No harm in that.

  “You’ll go easy on her?” Cath asked.

  “If I can,” he said.

  CHAPTER 2

  Howard banged on Jenny’s door. There’d been no answer to the bell, and newspapers were strewn all about her front porch. “Police!” he called. “Police! Open the door!”

  Late morning, and she wasn’t dressed. The bulky blue dressing gown she clutched around her dragged on the floor. Must have been Sinclair’s. “Do you remember me?” he asked.

  The witness protection officer with the dark hair and the darker stare who would never converse with her. He had more lines around his eyes than she remembered, but that grim mouth and forbidding expression: It had to be Icky Nicky, the one with no social skills. “Nick,” she said slowly. “What are you doing here?”

  “Sergeant Howard to you,” he answered crisply. He held up a Tesco bag.

  She frowned and leaned against the door jamb. “Groceries? I don’t understand.”

  Her pupils looked normal in spite of her bleary eyes, but her speech was dull and her movements sluggish. He stepped past her into the flat. The drapes were drawn, and stacks of mail covered the dining room table. He headed for the kitchen and placed the shopping bag on the counter. The sink was filled with unwashed dishes. He opened the fridge. A glance told him that the milk had gone off; it was well past its sell-by. The cheese was mouldy. She had no bread. Good job he had come prepared. “I’ll be making you breakfast,” he said. He removed his coat.

  Damn. He was staying. She followed him into the kitchen. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Sit.” He found a skillet and unpacked his supplies. He rinsed a bowl, cracked two eggs into it from the box of six, beat them briefly, and poured them into the buttered pan. While they cooked, he rinsed a plate and fork and placed them in front of her. He scrambled the eggs until they looked rubbery and burnt them a bit on purpose. He wanted to get a reaction out of her. “Eat,” he said, scraping the eggs onto her plate. He poured her a glass of milk.

  “Go away,” she whispered.

  “When you’ve eaten.”

  “I hate scrambled eggs. Didn’t your mother teach you to cook anything else?”

  “My mum died when I was six.”

  No wonder he didn’t know what TLC was. “What about your father?”

  “I never knew him. Eat.”

  “Are you going to make me?”

  He put the fork in her hand and closed his hand firmly over hers.

  “No,” she said. “I’ll do it.”

  He released her and watched her take several tiny bites.

  The eggs were tasteless. He hadn’t seasoned them. She pushed some of the mail out of the way, looking for the salt shaker. “Why are you doing this to me?” she asked.

  “I’ve always been a bit bloody-minded.”

  No kidding. She took several bites, washing each down with a swallow of milk. She put her fork down. “What happened to you after your mother died?”

  “I was put into care. None of the placements lasted for long. By the time I was ten, I’d taught myself not to care about anything or anyone. Then I was placed with the Thompsons.”

  “What did they do?”

  “Saved my life.” He paused. “Pick up your fork, Jenny.” She ate two half-hearted, slow bites.

  “Two more,” he commanded.

  “Why?”

  “The first rule of survival: eat.”

  She wasn’t sure she cared about surviving, but something in his expression told her this wasn’t the time to argue. She complied.

  “That’ll do,” he said. She had consumed nearly half. Sighing, she pushed herself away from the table but did not rise.

  Her lack of spirit concerned him. “Mind if I have a look round?” He wanted to complete his assessment.

  She hadn’t liked him when he had guarded her in witness protection, and she didn’t like him now. “Then will you go away?”

  He surveyed the rest of the floor, including the loo. No drugs there. He headed downstairs. The rooms looked unused. Upstairs the master bed was unmade. Clothes were scattered about the floor. In the m
aster bathroom, he found her sleeping pills. According to the date, there should have been many more in the bottle. One script was remaining. He removed one pill and left it on the shelf in the medicine cabinet. He put the bottle with the rest in his pocket to make it more difficult for her to refill. She would hate him, but he could handle being a target. The rooms beyond were evidently intended for children, but they were either unfinished – the wallpaper undone in places – or someone had begun to dismantle the décor.

  While he had been upstairs, she had stretched out on the sofa in the sitting room. He thought better of speaking to her. No need for him to broadcast his plans.

  He located her handbag on the table next to the front door. Not wanting to leave the flat unsecured, he took her keys with him and locked up after he left.

  CHAPTER 3

  The next morning, when Jenny didn’t respond to the bell or his shouts, Sergeant Howard used her key to gain entry to the flat. She was waiting for him in the same robe.

  “How did you get a key?”

  “Took yours.”

  “You took my pills, too!” she said. “That’s theft. I should call the police.”

  She was more alert than the day before. “Use your mobile then. Report me.”

  “It’s dead.”

  “Use mine.” He held it out to her. “I’ll show the plods my warrant card and go home. They’ll see the state of this place and call for a psych eval. You could be sectioned.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Compulsory psychiatric commitment.”

  She didn’t want that.

  He put his mobile back in his pocket and went into the kitchen.

  “Are you going to give me a pep talk?” she asked. “Tell me to look on the bright side?”

  She was angry. Good. “I’m not, no. Sometimes all you can do is weather the storm.”

  When he put the plate of scrambled eggs in front of her, she pushed it away. “I’m not eating this.”

  He raised his voice slightly. “You will.”

  “What for?” she cried. “It won’t help! Don’t you understand? All your orders – what are they good for? I’m alone! I just want to sleep, and you won’t let me!”

  He yelled back. “Damn it, Jenny, don’t mess me about!”

  In one swift motion she swept the plate of food off the table. “Go away! Just go away!”

  He suddenly saw himself, an angry, desperate child striking out at everyone within reach, and he knew he needed to change his approach. He pulled a chair next to her and took her hands. “Jenny, quitting’s not an option. For you or for me. I’m not walking away. I’ll work with you.” They were much the same words Mr. Thompson had used when he first arrived at the Thompsons’ home.

  She felt even worse. If Icky Nicky felt sorry for her, she must really be in bad shape.

  “On the Job we’re taught to take control of situations very quickly. If there’s any possibility of armed resistance, we have to win. At the most basic level, surviving is winning. Being conscious and rational. That’s what I want for you.”

  She just wanted to sleep and dream of Colin. When she woke, she lost him all over again, and the sorrow was deep and sharp.

  “I brought milk yesterday. If you don’t like my eggs, would you eat some cereal? We’ll go to the market after.”

  “I don’t have anything to wear. Clean, I mean.”

  “We’ll tackle that next then.” He made her a small bowl of cereal. While she ate, he cleaned up the mess from the eggs and brewed a cup of tea for himself.

  When she finished, he watched her sort the laundry and start the first load. They worked together on the dishes in the sink. He found a bin bag and threw away the old newspapers and all nonessential mail. She folded the clothes when they came out of the dryer, her fingers lingering over Colin’s shirts.

  “Jenny, this sadness – you have to walk away from it.”

  “I don’t know how,” she sighed. “My life ended when he died.”

  “Head toward the glow on the horizon. It’s there if you look for it.”

  “There isn’t any!”

  “There will be. You’re in a tunnel.”

  “Will the sadness go away?” she asked. “It never goes entirely. But the glow gets larger.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do.” She looked knackered. “Jenny, I’ll go to the market tomorrow. What would you like me to purchase?”

  “Anything but eggs. Fruit? Cheese? Something sweet?”

  He nodded. Before he left, he took one of her hands and placed a single sleeping pill in the palm. She closed her fingers over it and, after a moment, extended her other hand. “Please,” she whispered.

  “No,” he said softly. “One will have to do.”

  CHAPTER 4

  When Sergeant Howard arrived the third morning, Jenny was dressed, in a flowery t-shirt, a long, sloppy sweater, and a belt which held up her baggy jeans. She didn’t want him to cook anything, so she ate some of the cheese and fruit he brought. He made tea for both of them.

  “Tell me about the Thompsons,” she said.

  “They were an older couple. He was retired Royal Army, and she’d been a schoolteacher. Trouble started straightaway. I came home bloody from my new school and punched Mr. Thompson. Before he could punch me, you see.” He shook his head, remembering the surprise he had felt. “He wasn’t angry. In fact, the only time I ever saw him angry was when I upset Mrs. Thompson. Any road, he held me until I calmed. He called for Mrs. Thompson to clean me up. Then he sat me down and asked if I’d like him to teach me how to box.”

  He looked up at her. “He wanted me to be able to look after myself. ‘Raw power is less effective than disciplined power,’ he said. ‘You need to have a target and aim for it. But first, son, you need to be fit.’ He called me ‘son’ from the first day,” he explained. “And he started taking me with him when he worked out at the gym.”

  “You needed a dad,” she said.

  He was silent, remembering his first boxing match. He had trained hard. “I’m proud of you,” Mr. Thompson had said. “Why?” he had yelled. “I lost!” Mr. Thompson had taken him by the shoulders. “Not in my book, son. Not in my book.” And he had learnt that there were all sorts of victories. He cleared his throat.

  He has been trained to be unflappable, but he’s uncomfortable, she thought. It’s hard for him to talk about them.

  “Let’s walk a bit,” he said. “You’ll need a coat. It’s chilly.” He wanted Jenny’s appetite to increase and her depression to decrease. Cath had suggested that he get her moving.

  Jenny found herself out of breath very quickly, but Sergeant Howard didn’t hurry her. They walked as far as the entrance to the Heath. Today the Heath looked the way she felt: like an old woman. Her limbs were stiff, and her joints creaked, but some of the fog inside her escaped and became visible in the chill air. The winter wind slapped her cheeks, and she realized she was feeling again.

  He didn’t say much, and her curiosity about his life grew. “What was Mrs. Thompson like?”

  “A real mum,” he answered after a moment. “When I had nightmares, she was the first to come to me. At first she just woke me and held my hand. Later she put her arms around me. Mr. Thompson always patted my shoulder.” He turned to face her. “Jenny, you need to stop taking sleeping pills.”

  “No,” she objected, “I need them.” With resentment she accepted the one sleeping pill he gave her before he left.

  CHAPTER 5

  “I’ll cook today,” she told Howard when he arrived the next day.

  A good sign, he thought. Her hair wasn’t as messy, and her clothes weren’t untidy. She’d had pizza the night before. The box peeked out of the rubbish bin.

  She made omelettes. He watched her crack the eggs with alacrity then beat them with a dash of milk and seasoning and more energy than he expected. She melted the butter, tilting the pan for even coverage before pouring the beaten mixture in. After a few minutes, she tur
ned the omelette with one easy, fluid motion. It billowed up as it cooked. She slid the first one on his plate then repeated the process for hers.

  He ate quickly, and she realized that she no longer thought of him as Icky Nicky. “The walk yesterday exhausted me,” she said, “but I slept better last night. Are we walking again today?”

  “If you don’t mind it a bit wet,” he said.

  The rain was gentle and quiet, softening the landscape, and she wondered, as they walked, whether there was such a thing as gentle grief.

  “On 11 September many women lost husbands. What do you suppose they were advised to do?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer, and he understood that he would need to answer for her. “Remember them. But keep going. Don’t let the bad guys win.”

  “Sergeant Howard, that’s not enough!”

  “It is for now,” he insisted. “Thompson’s Law: Things don’t stay the same. Since they’re already as bad for you as they can be, they’re bound to get better.”

  They walked as far as Sainsbury’s, Jenny bundled up and wondering whether she would ever find her grief as manageable as the puddles she stepped across.

  Inside the store she selected croissants and challah bread from the bakery and several servings of frozen vegetables. All the meat was packaged for more than one diner, and she felt a wave of sadness wash over her. Sergeant Howard would leave when they returned to the flat, and the rest of the day would be interminable. It seemed incomprehensible to her that she would miss – of all people! – Sergeant Howard, but she was less lonely when he was there.