‘Tell me.Cinq.’
‘I liked you in your uniform. The girls were laughing at you, but I thought you looked lovely.’
‘Thank you.’ She squeezes Inci’s plump shoulder. ‘Six.’
‘I had a nanny, when I was a little girl.’
‘Sept.’
‘Her name was Felicée. She was from Toulouse. I loved her, and she loved me. I sometimes think she was the only person who ever did love me. Don’t stop.’
‘I won’t.Huit.’
As the minutes slide past, Inci continues a murmured reminiscence that ebbs and flows, seeming to require no response, and eventually becomes a trance-like silence. As Oxana reaches the hundredth hairbrush stroke Inci rouses herself, stretches luxuriantly, and briefly touches her lips to Oxana’s cheek. ‘You’re very kind and very patient,’ she says. ‘I need to rest now. Will you come again?’
‘Of course I will.’
This is strange and sad and I’m not quite sure how to react. On the face of it she’s just looking for someone to be kind to her, like this Felicée person was kind to her. Years ago, at university, my teacher Anna was kind to me, and in truth I’ve never got over her, and never will. I was crushed when she turned me down. There’s an echo of the same vibe in Inci’s neediness. She’s a strange creature, obviously lonely, and there’s a pampered-cat quality about her that doesn’t seem to belong to the present day at all. Her face, with its faint pink flush, is as smooth as a sugared almond. Her body is soft and unworked. She lookslike an eighteenth-century Parisian aristocrat, destined for the guillotine. I’m weirdly, morbidly fascinated by her.
22
It’s 3p.m. by the time the two police officers leave Tom’s bedside. Philippa and Eve have been waiting in the hospital cafeteria, drinking tea and picking at slices of dry carrot cake.
When they reach the intensive care unit Tom looks exhausted and resigned. ‘Were they… all right?’ Philippa asks him anxiously. ‘The police, I mean… They didn’t… You’re not in trouble, are you?’
He shrugs his thin shoulders. ‘I, er… No, I don’t think so. Not from the police. But it’s not them I’m worried about.’ He glances at Eve, then turns enquiringly to his mother.
‘You remember Eve, don’t you?’ Philippa asks.
‘From the café, yes.’ He smiles palely. ‘Hi, Eve.’
She grins. ‘Hi, Tom. I’m sort of giving your mum a hand here.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘Can you bear to go through it all again? To tell us both what you told the police?’
‘I don’t mind. But?—’
‘Mmm?’
‘These guys. They don’t mess around. I don’t know what’s gonna happen when I get out of here, but?—’
Eve nods. ‘Look, we’ll figure something out, OK? But first we have to know the whole story. We have to know what we’re up against. Make sense?’
‘I guess.’
‘Would you like some tea? Something to eat?’
‘That’d be nice.’ He looks at Philippa, his expression strained. ‘Mum? Could you…’
‘What?’
‘Can I… talk to Eve alone?’
‘Er, yeah. Sure. If you want.’ Philippa glances questioningly at Eve.
Eve gives her the ghost of a shrug.