Walking with Ghosts

back down the stairs. I was ready to give up. But then I remembered the cafeteria, and took a peek in there.
    ‘They were holding hands across the table. India had her back to me, but I had a good view of him. He was small, dark. He was looking at her with that look that men have, you know, right at the beginning, when they’re hungry,] when they stare and shake their heads, like they can’t believe this is really happening.’
    Naiomi shrugged her shoulders. ‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘He didn’t look like he was going to murder her. He didn’t look big enough for a start.’
    ‘What did you do?’ Marie asked.
    ‘I came home. I had a couple of stiff gins and went for a jog along the beck.’
    ‘Weren’t you curious? Didn’t you feel like waiting to see what happened next?’
    ‘Yes, of course. But I was too bloody angry. India had cut 0ur meetings short to meet this man. I think if I’d stayed there I might have confronted her. Caused a scene.’
    ‘Can you remember anything else about him? Would you recognize him if you saw him again?’
    ‘Yes. He was small with dark, piercing eyes, and he had a broad forehead with eyebrows that met in the middle. I remember that because we used to say that was a sign of madness. Slimly built, I could imagine him being a dancer. But he looked vulnerable, somehow. As though life had been a disappointment. And India had walked into that disappointment, and she was beautiful, so he was confused. Those feelings, of someone who was confused and disappointed, they’re somehow stronger than the physical details of his face. Whenever I’ve thought about him since, I don’t remember his features as well as I remember the feelings.’ She walked over to the window and looked out at her garden. She looked back at Marie, who was scribbling in her notebook. ‘Oh, God,’ Naiomi said. ‘You don’t think...?’ Marie stuffed the notebook into her pocket and got out of the chair. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘But I’m glad you told me. And yes, it could be that this confused and vulnerable looking man transformed himself into the monster that killed India Blake.’
     

28
     
    You open your eyes. Where’s Sam? Your lips clog. You ask the question but no sound comes from your throat.
    Diana understands. ‘He’s ringing the doctor.’
    The iron bar is still there, lying across your body. It has always been there, Dora. Only you did not notice.
    ‘Do you feel any better?’ Diana has layers of concern on her face. Concern and fear. You have a dim desire to communicate. If she moistened your lips with the sponge you would be able to speak. But there is not a lot left to say. After everything she loves you. You love her. That is obvious, at last. In the end neither of you has any freedom about it. You are together. All the anguish, the self-recriminations, the guilt; it was all in vain. Maya. Illusion.
    Sam’s hand on your cheek, then he disappears. Diana watches the panic in your eyes. She takes your hand. ‘It’s all right,’ she says. ‘He’ll be back in a minute. He’s gone to the bathroom.’
    Yes. It is all right. He is back with the sponge. He holds it to your lips. His free hand brushes the wisps of hair from your forehead. The iron bar shifts a little, recedes.
    ‘Did you get through?’ Diana asks.
    Sam glances in her direction, but his eyes come back to yours when he speaks. ‘Yes. He’s out. They think he’s on his way.’
    ‘God,’ says Diana, impatiently. She looks at her watch. ‘It’s been hours.’
    ‘The doctor,’ Sam explains. ‘He’s on his way.’
    You shake your head. You don’t want a doctor. You don’t want anything to do with doctors. You speak through the sponge, and Sam withdraws it. ‘No hospital.’
    He smiles. ‘No,’ he says. ‘No hospital. Don’t worry. I won’t let them take you.’
    Diana stands. ‘Shall I make a drink?’
    ‘Yes.’ Damn that croak, Dora.
    ‘Fruit juice?’ asks Sam. Then to Diana. ‘Dora wants fruit juice, I’d like coffee.’
    When she has left the room he leans forward and kisses you on the forehead.
    ‘Wait.’
    He leaves his face close to yours.
    ‘Sam, when I’ve gone—’
    ‘Dora. Dora.’
    ‘When I’ve gone, Sam. You should marry again.’
    ‘OK,’ he says. ‘Three days of mourning, then I’ll pop round the marriage bureau.’
    ‘Don’t joke. You should marry.’
    He shakes his head. You have planted a seed in it, Dora. You have planted a seed in his head, and he