mouth. Didn’t mean to say it; don’t know where it came from.
Me: I don’t mean it like that. I don’t mean that. Just . . . Richie needs more of my . . . care right now. He has nobody.
Kay: Do you have any of your care left for anyone else? For you?
She means, for me?
Kay: Please. Actually think about it. Actually think about you and me.
She’s crying now. I feel wretched, but that roaring hot–cold sensation deep in my stomach is still burning.
Me: You still think he’s guilty, don’t you?
Kay: Damn it, Leon, I’m trying to talk about us, not about your brother.
Me: I need to know.
Kay: Can’t you just listen to me? I’m saying this is the only way you can heal. You can carry on believing he didn’t do it if you like, but you need to accept that he is in prison and will be for a good few years. You can’t keep fighting. It’s pulling your life apart. All you do is work and write to Richie and fixate on things, whether it’s some old guy’s boyfriend or the latest detail in Richie’s appeal. You used to do stuff. Go out. Spend time with me.
Me: I’ve never had much spare time, Kay. What I have has always been for you.
Kay: You go to see him every other weekend these days.
Is she really angry at me for visiting my brother in prison?
Kay: I know I can’t be mad at you for that. I know that. But I just . . . What I mean is, you have so little time, and now I feel I get an even smaller fraction of it, and . . .
Me: Do you still think Richie is guilty?
There is silence. I think I’m crying now too; there’s a hot wetness on my cheeks as yet another bus speeds by, and I can’t bear to get on.
Kay: Why does it always come back to this? Why does it matter? Our relationship shouldn’t have this much of your brother in it.
Me: Richie is part of me. We’re family.
Kay: Well, we’re partners. Doesn’t that mean anything?
Me: You know I love you.
Kay: Funny. I’m not sure I do know that.
Silence stretches on. Traffic speeds by. Scuff my feet, looking down at the sun-scorched pavement, feeling unreal.
Me: Just say it.
She waits. I wait. Another bus waits, then drives on.
Kay: I think Richie did it, Leon. It’s what the jury decided, and they had all the information. It’s the sort of thing he’d do.
Close my eyes slowly. It doesn’t feel like I expected it to – it’s strange, but it’s almost a relief. Have been hearing her say it in silence for months, ever since The Argument. This is an end to the endless twisting in the gut, the endless waiting on the edges of conversations, the endless knowing but trying not to know.
Kay is sobbing. I listen, eyes still closed, and it’s like I’m floating.
Kay: This is it, isn’t it?
It’s obvious, all at once. This is it. Can’t do this any more. Can’t have this eating away at my love for Richie, can’t be with a person who doesn’t love him too.
Me: Yes. This is it.
23
Tiffy
The day after my visit to the hospice, I come home to the longest and most incoherent note I’ve ever had from Leon, laid on the kitchen counter beside an uneaten plate of spaghetti.
Hi Tiffy,
Am a bit all over the place but thank you so much for note for Richie. Can’t thank you enough. Definitely need all help we can get. He will be thrilled.
Sorry I didn’t find you at work. Was my fault completely – left it too late to come and find you, wanted to read your letter to Richie first like you’d asked but took me ages, then just messed up and left it too late, always takes me a while to process things – sorry, am just going to go to bed, if that’s all right, see you later x
I stare at it for a while. Well, at least he didn’t avoid me all night because he didn’t want to see me. But . . . uneaten dinner? All these long sentences? What does it mean?
I lay a Post-it beside his note, sticking it carefully to the countertop.
Hey Leon,
Are you all right?! I’ll make tiffin, just in case.
Tiffy xx
The unusual wordiness of Leon’s letter is very much a one-off. For the next two weeks his notes are even more monosyllabic and lacking in personal pronouns than usual.