Liyana places her hand on the window, watching the fields flick past, sensing something she can’t yet see. She wonders: Is it possible that she’s already met her sister somewhere before?
As her thoughts drift, Liyana starts to daydream of a place, a game, a skill she once had, a power to manipulate the elements. The train rocks her and Liyana closes her eyes, her thoughts floating free . . . When the train jolts to a halt in Royston, Liyana opens her eyes, pulls her sketchbook out of her bag, and begins to draw her half-sister a story.
9:01 a.m.—Bea
It looks like a heart attack, the male paramedic had said.
Highly unusual in one so young, the female paramedic had said. He must have had an underlying condition.
How soon they’d started talking about him in the past tense. But then, what did they care? They’d never known him in the present tense.
Bea isn’t relieved that she’s not suspected of murder. She wishes she was. She wants to suffer interrogation, prosecution, the full punishment of the law. She wants to suffer, ought to be punished.
When the police arrived, asking only gentle, tentative questions, Bea had been on the verge of turning herself in. So many times she’d almost shouted, I did it, you idiots, it was me! But what would she say after that? How could she explain stopping a man’s heart? That’d lead to plenty of awkwardness and probably land her in the loony bin—and she’d prefer anything to that, even the death penalty. A shame, she thinks, that it’s been abolished, because those enforced Sunday afternoon visits to Saint Dymphna’s have left Bea with an abiding determination to never again set foot inside such an institution.
12:08 p.m.—Scarlet
“Please, I can’t wait three weeks . . . No, I mean, it’s my livelihood, I need you to come today . . . Okay, tomorrow—next week? At the very latest . . .” Scarlet waits, while the unknown woman on the phone, in an unknown office far away, tells her that this is impossible. “I know, I know. But I—please. Please—”
When the refrain of refusal doesn’t shift, Scarlet starts to sob for the second time in as many days.
“You never called.” Walt reaches the counter. “I hoped you would.”
“Sorry,” Scarlet says, discreetly brushing cement dust out of her hair and slightly embarrassed at being caught wearing dungarees and tattered trainers, even though she isn’t especially interested in impressing him. “I just—it’s been, things haven’t been easy around here lately, I—”
Walt holds up his hand. “It’s okay. You don’t need to explain. It’s—I know we didn’t exactly have a frisson, like you and that ridiculously handsome bloke. But I thought we had . . . something.”
“You and your frissons.” Scarlet steps over to the coffee machine. “I’m not selling the café and I’m not seeing him again—look, do you fancy a coffee? We could have our date now. I could do with a break.”
Walt brightens. “Absolutely. And yes, you are looking a little . . . dishevelled—in an incredibly attractive way, of course.”
Scarlet feels tears pricking her eyes again. “The kitchen ceiling caved in last night. I’ve spent all morning cleaning it up. Grandma’s still in bed, thank goodness, or I don’t know—”
“Shit,” Walt says. “Look, forget the coffee and let me help. We’ll have it cleaned up in no time.”
“Really?” Scarlet’s shoulders drop. She should decline—he’s done her enough favours—but she’s too exhausted, too overwhelmed. “Are you sure?”
“Are you kidding?” Walt says, already rolling up his sleeves—though his shirt looks far too pristine for the job. “I can’t imagine a better date than this.”
Scarlet gives him a grateful smile. “We can dine on cinnamon buns afterwards.”
“Perfect.” Walt extends his hand across the counter. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
As she shakes his hand, Scarlet glances down. Not a single spark. Shame.
7:29 p.m.—Liyana
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes.”
Liyana stands beside Kumiko at the crossing on Chantry Street, waiting for the light to turn green. She reaches for her girlfriend’s hand, but Kumiko pretends not to notice. For solace, Liyana’s thoughts go to Goldie and Cambridge. She’d always imagined London to be the busiest city in England but hadn’t reckoned on the thousands of bikes in Cambridge, those eddying streets like rivers conveying so many cyclists darting like minnows in every direction. At least, she thinks, cars are easier to see when crossing the road.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m fine,” Kumiko says.
“I don’t believe you. You don’t seem fine.”
Liyana wants to say that she knows Kumiko isn’t fine but furious—otherwise she’d