Laura hardly seemed to notice. Used to it, Miriam supposed, and clearly in pain—the limp seemed to get worse with every floor they climbed. When finally they reached Laura’s front door, Miriam asked about it, politely, as a simple expression of concern, fully expecting a banal response—a twisted ankle, a drunken fall—and instead received a tale of woe she could scarcely believe. Awful parents, a terrible accident, virtual abandonment to her fate. Miriam’s heart went out to her. A start like that in life? No wonder she was such an odd fish.
Her sympathy for the girl swelled when she saw her pitiful little flat. Cheap, ugly furniture on a gray acrylic carpet, walls the yellow of nicotine. This was the home of a child without: no colorful throws or cushions, no ornaments or trophies, no books on the shelves, no posters on the walls—nothing whatsoever save for a single framed photograph, of a child with its parents. A relief from the bleakness until you got closer, as Miriam did, stepping over a pile of clothes lying in the middle of the living room floor, to see that the picture had been defaced, the child’s eyes crossed out, its mouth bloodied. Miriam peered at it and flinched. When she turned around, Laura was looking at her, a strange expression on her face. Miriam’s skin goose-fleshed. “Shall we have that cup of tea, then?” she asked, with forced jollity.
（Damaged goods, odd fish—who knew what was going on behind those pretty eyes?）
In the kitchen, tea drunk and an uncomfortable silence hanging over them, Miriam decided to take a risk, to speak up. “I know you, you know,” she said. In her pocket, she fiddled with the key, the one she’d taken from the floor of the boat, with the key ring attached.
Laura gave her a look. “Yeah. From the launderette. Duh.”
Miriam shook her head, a small smile on her lips. “It’s not just that. I know why you didn’t want to go down to the canal.” She saw the girl’s expression change, from boredom to consternation. “It’s nothing to worry about,” Miriam said. “I’m on your side. I know it’s you the police are talking to about him. About Daniel Sutherland.”
“How did you know that?” There it was, the girl’s body tensed, ready for the off. Fight or flight.
“I was the one who found him,” Miriam said. “My boat—the pretty green one, with the red trim, the Lorraine, you’ve probably seen it—it’s moored just a few yards from where his was.” She smiled at Laura, letting this information sink in. “I was the one who found him. Who found his body. I was the one who called the police.”
Laura’s eyes widened. “Are you serious? Fuck. That must have been grim,” she said. “Seeing him . . . all . . . bloody like that.”
“It was,” Miriam said. She thought of the gash in his neck, the whiteness of his teeth. She wondered whether, at that moment, Laura held the same image in her mind, whether for a moment or two they found themselves in alignment. She tried to meet the young woman’s eye, but Laura was in the process of pushing her chair from the table, getting to her feet, reaching over Miriam’s shoulder to pick up her empty mug.
“Have you . . . have you been in touch with the police since?” Laura asked her, her voice strangely high. “Since you found him, I mean. Are they, like, giving you updates or anything? Because I keep looking at the news and nothing really seems to be happening and it’s been more than a week, now, hasn’t it, since he . . . well, since he was found, so . . .” She tailed off. She was standing with her back to Miriam, placing the mugs in the sink.
Miriam didn’t answer the question, but waited until Laura had turned back before she spoke. “I saw you leaving,” she said. “The day before I found him. I saw you leaving the boat.”
Laura’s eyes widened. “And?” Her expression was defiant. “It’s not a secret I was there. I told the police I was there. Everyone knows I was there. I didn’t lie.”
“I know you didn’t,” Miriam said. “Why would you? You did nothing wrong.” Laura turned away again. She turned on the tap, rinsing the mugs under the stream of water, her actions jerky, a little frantic. Miriam’s heart went out to her; she could see her victimhood written all over her, in every flinch and every twist. “Do you want to tell me what happened?” Miriam asked gently. “Do you want to tell me what he did?” Breath held, blood singing, Miriam felt herself teetering on the edge of something important: a confidence. An allegiance. A friendship? “I’m on your side,” she said.