Back home from the shops, she found nothing in the newspaper about Daniel Sutherland （and not only that but she realized she’d forgotten to buy marmalade to have on her toast, so the trip was a bust）。 She did eventually locate her phone （in the bathroom）， but its battery was （as she’d predicted） flat, and she couldn’t for the life of her remember where she’d put the charger.
Infuriating.
But she wasn’t losing her marbles. It wasn’t dementia. That was the conclusion to which people jumped when you were old and forgot things, as though the young didn’t also misplace their keys or forget the odd thing off their shopping list. Irene was certain it wasn’t dementia. She did not, after all, say toaster when she meant tablecloth, she didn’t get lost on the way home from the supermarket. She didn’t （often） lose the thread of a conversation, she didn’t put the remote control in the fridge.
She did have turns. But it definitely wasn’t dementia; her doctor had told her so. It was just that if she let herself get run-down, if she forgot to drink enough water and eat regularly, she became tired and then she became confused and before she knew it, she’d quite lost herself. Your resources are depleted, Mrs. Barnes, the doctor told her the last time this had happened. Severely depleted. You have to take better care of yourself, you have to eat well, you have to stay hydrated. If you don’t, of course you will find yourself confused and dizzy! And you might have another fall. And we don’t want that, do we?
How to explain to him, this kind （if ever so slightly condescending） young man with his soft voice and his watery blue eyes, that sometimes she wanted to lose herself in confusion? How on earth to make clear to him that while it was frightening, the feeling could also be, on occasion, thrilling? That she allowed herself, from time to time, to skip meals, hoping it would come back to her, that feeling that someone was missing, and that if she waited patiently, they’d come back?
Because in those moments she’d forget that William, the man she had loved, whose bed she’d shared for more than forty years, was dead. She could forget that he’d been gone for six years and she could lose herself in the fantasy that he’d just gone out to work, or to meet a friend at the pub. And eventually she’d again hear his familiar whistle out in the lane, and she’d straighten her dress and pat her hair down, and in a minute, just a minute, she’d hear his key in the door.
Irene had been waiting for William the first time she met Laura. The day they found Angela’s body.
* * *
It was terribly cold. Irene had been worried, because she’d woken up and William wasn’t there, and she couldn’t understand where he’d got to. Why hadn’t he come home? She took herself downstairs and put on her dressing gown, she went outside and oh, it was freezing, and there was no sign of him. No sign of anyone out in the lane. Where was everyone? Irene turned to go back inside only to find that the door had swung shut, but that was all right because she knew better than to go out without a key in her pocket; she wouldn’t make that mistake again, not after last time. But then—and this was the ridiculous thing—she just couldn’t get the key into the lock. Her hands were frozen into claws, and she just could not do it, she kept dropping the key, and it was so silly, but she found herself in tears. It was so cold, and she was alone, and she’d no idea where William was. She cried out, but nobody came, and then she remembered Angie! Angela would be next door, wouldn’t she? And if she knocked softly, she wouldn’t wake the boy up.
So she did, she opened the gate and she knocked softly on the front door, calling out, “Angela! It’s me. It’s Irene. I can’t get back in. I can’t open the door. Could you help me?”
There was no reply, and so she knocked again, and still no reply. She fumbled for her key again, but how her fingers ached! Her breath was white in front of her face, and her feet were numb, and as she turned she stumbled against the gate, banging her hip and crying out, tears coursing down her cheeks.
“Are you all right? God, you’re not all right, course you’re not. Here, here, it’s okay, let me help you.” There was a girl there. A strange girl wearing strange clothes, trousers with a flowery pattern, a bulky silver jacket. She was small and thin, with white-blond hair and a sprinkling of freckles over the bridge of her nose, and she had the most enormous blue eyes, her pupils like black holes. “Fucking hell, mate, you’re freezing.” She had both of Irene’s hands in her own; she was rubbing them gently. “Oh, you’re so cold, aren’t you? Is this your place? Have you locked yourself out?” Irene could smell alcohol on the girl’s breath; she wasn’t sure she looked old enough to drink, but you never knew these days. “Is there someone in? Oi!” she yelled, banging on Angela’s door. “Oi! Let us in!”