time she arrives back at William Morris Terrace, it’s late. Now that George is in custody, the police vehicles have left, along with the media. Thank God. An old guy is walking his dog and a few teenagers on bikes are hanging around the park entrance. If it weren’t for the lilac ribbons festooning every gate and tree, the scene would appear normal. She could be simply returning home after a night out.
She lets herself in and wearily climbs all the way to the top floor. Her trousers are still soaking and the sensation of standing in the freezing water won’t leave her. Her bones are like icicles, and the pungent smell of the reservoir has penetrated her skin. She takes a long, hot shower and washes her hair, then puts on clean pyjamas and her thick dressing gown.
Pangs of hunger are gnawing at her stomach. Realising she hasn’t eaten all day, she goes down to the kitchen, thinking she might manage a sandwich. But the bread’s stale and the sliced ham smells dodgy. Cheese on toast, then, she decides. Simply turning on the grill makes her feel utterly exhausted.
It’s only as she’s cutting open a fresh packet of cheese that the idea comes to her. Once she thinks of it, she can’t let it go. She can’t stay locked in the flat forever, afraid to go out; a sad, demented creature, the object of some people’s pity and others’ speculation. But neither can she bear to court the media or ask for help from celebrities and billionaires. She will not give her side of the story to the tabloids, or appear on breakfast television, or write a book to raise money for the Find Mabel campaign.
With the scissors still in her hand, she takes an empty bin liner and goes out into the street. She’s barefoot and clad only in her nightwear, but she doesn’t care. Starting at the end of the terrace, she goes from gate to gate and tree to tree, cutting off the lilac ribbons. They fall gracefully to the ground like discarded items of lingerie. She scoops them into the bag, popping it in the wheelie bin before going back inside the flat.
Early the next morning, Amber squeezes her fingers around the bunch of flowers as the lift takes her up to the intensive care unit. She’s not sure why she bought them, considering Lewis is in a coma, but visiting hospital empty-handed doesn’t feel right. In this case, they are symbolic. A sign to Ruby that she wants to make peace.
The lift doors open and she steps out. Following the signs, she walks down the corridor, pulse rate increasing with every pace. She didn’t sleep last night and feels light-headed, detached from herself. After several hours of imagining coming to the hospital, it seems strange that she’s actually here now – so strange that she might be dreaming it.
She wonders whether George is still here, in a private room guarded by a police officer, or whether by now he’s at the station, being questioned. She pauses outside the double doors of the intensive care unit and tries to summon up the courage she felt last night on the banks of Batley Reservoir. Stuffing the bouquet under one arm, she applies hand sanitiser, then presses the entry button.
The nurse who answers takes a little persuading to allow her in, but when he realises who Amber is, and that she only wants to talk to her sister, he finally relents.
‘I’m very sorry to hear about your daughter,’ he says, meeting her at the door. ‘It must be agony for you. Everyone here is rooting for Mabel. We all want her to be found alive and well.’
The ward is quiet, bathed in calm. Private rooms, their doors closed and blinds pulled down, surround a small waiting area by the reception desk. Ruby is sitting there, hunched over, elbows on her knees, head in her hands. She hasn’t seen Amber walking towards her.
‘Hi, Ruby,’ Amber says softly.
Ruby starts and looks up, her eyes immediately narrowing. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ she says. ‘Have you no shame?’
Amber absorbs the blow, then sits down on the chair next to her sister, shoving the bunch of flowers out of sight. ‘I had to come.’
‘Well I’m afraid your lover isn’t receiving visitors at the moment.’
Amber swallows hard. ‘How is he?’
‘In a bad way. Might never wake up.’
‘Oh I’m so sorry, Ruby.’
‘So you fucking well should be. Lewis behaved appallingly, I’m