Page 52 of All Our Missing Pieces

Even then, I begged them not to operate, because I knew what would happen once I was unconscious. It did, of course. By the time I came round, they had taken her away. Only my grandmother was there by my bed, holding my hand, saying, There, there, Orla. It’s all over now.

I believed her – all these years, I thought that what she’d said was true.

But she was wrong. I have the means to make contact with her now and I can’t stop asking myself the question: if I wanted so much to see her back then, why can’t I bear to do so now?

THIRTY-THREE

Over the next couple of days, after the mercy of the weekend, Beatrice found herself bursting into tears at the slightest thing: when Slate gave her a picture he’d drawn of her, with long yellow hair, a bright red smile and hearts next to the wonky BIBI he had written underneath; when coffee spurted out of the sides of the cafetière as she was pushing down the plunger, scalding her hand; when Neil rang to check in and ask if she was okay.

‘You’ve had a shock,’ Frances, who had taken a rare two days off work to spend with Parker, told her. ‘Me too. I haven’t been able to sleep at all since it happened – I keep getting up and creeping in to check on them. And my sugar cravings are off the scale.’

Beatrice had found the opposite – whenever she tried to eat, she felt her throat closing, as if her body was echoing what Parker’s had done when she’d been unable to breathe.

‘I’ll be okay,’ she said. ‘You’re right, it was a shock. But it’s my job to deal with things like that, right?’

‘And you were marvellous. Peter and I will never, ever be able to thank you enough. You saved her life.’ Frances lowered her voice so that Parker, contentedly bashing wooden pans in her play kitchen, couldn’t hear.

‘Don’t.’ Beatrice felt a fresh surge of the terror she’d felt that night. ‘She’d have been fine. It was only croup.’

She pulled a tissue out of the box on the kitchen island and dabbed her eyes.

‘Oh, honey.’ Frances laid a comforting hand on her arm. ‘Look – why don’t you take the afternoon off? Get some rest. Have a break.’

‘But what will the kids do this afternoon?’

Frances laughed. ‘I will take care of that, of course. I don’t know how we managed without you – even before I went back to work, the place was always chaos and the kids were feral. But I am their mother – I reckon I can cope without you for one afternoon.’

Reluctantly, Beatrice agreed. Frances was right – she needed to rest. She felt hollowed out with tiredness, but at the same time brimming with emotion, seesawing between tenderness and anger with such speed that she could barely put a name to her feelings from one minute to the next.

‘If you take them out, Slate’ll need his raincoat and I’m not sure where it is. I may have put it in the wash. And Parker’s decided she doesn’t like peas with her mac and cheese any more.’

‘Beatrice.’ Frances smiled, but there was a hint of steel in her eyes. ‘I’ll be fine.’

Beatrice felt herself flushing, tears prickling her eyes yet again. ‘Sure. Great. Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

Chastened, feeling as if her employer had segued from praising her to telling her off in the space of seconds, Beatrice left.

When she arrived back at Damask Square, the house was deserted. Livvie would be at work. Luke must have been out on some errand. And Orla – who knew? It would have been the perfect opportunity to do some more investigating, but Beatrice didn’t have the energy.

She let herself into her room, took off her clothes, lay down in bed and fell asleep in seconds.

It was dark when she woke up and the house was as silent as it had been when she’d arrived home. She could see a full moon gleaming through the leaves of the birch tree outside her window; a glance at her watch told her it was two in the morning. She’d slept for twelve hours straight, and now she was wide awake, her mind humming with alertness.

She pulled on her pyjamas and thrust her feet into her sneakers, then sat for a few moments on the bed, listening keenly but hearing nothing. Then she stood up, picked up her torch and stole to the bathroom. She peed as silently as she could and crept downstairs, where she waited in the kitchen for a full five minutes, watching and listening.

She could hear the swish of the occasional car on the street outside. A moth, lured indoors by the light earlier, bashed against a windowpane somewhere. But no one stirred – it was so quiet Beatrice could hear her own breathing.

For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine that she lived here on her own – that the house was hers and hers alone. How beautiful she could make it! She’d put in a new kitchen and an en-suite bathroom with a power shower. She’d have her studio up on the top floor, where the light would be perfect. She’d have a little wrought-iron table and chairs out in the garden, and friends would come and sip rosé with her.

This house – she could see why Orla loved it. She could imagine loving it too. She felt in her bones that it partly belonged to her – or she belonged to it.

Then she heard movement and almost jumped out of her skin. But it was only Maud padding downstairs, her eyes huge and luminous when Beatrice shone the beam of her torch on her face.

As ever the cat regarded her with wariness. She knew that Beatrice wouldn’t feed her like Orla did, fuss her like Livvie did, or engage her in exciting games with discarded cable ties like Luke did.

Now, though, Beatrice had other plans for her. She had things to do, and Maud could help.

‘Come on,’ Beatrice whispered. ‘We’re going in.’