“No one is putting Lilybet anywhere,” Mark said. “But we need to understand what happened today and how to prevent it from happening again. Ring the specialist tomorrow, Pete. We’ll take her in, both of us. Robertson can go as well.”
“I don’t want—” She stopped herself.
“What?”
“I can’t put her into a care home. Please, Mark. I know this is difficult but you must see . . .” She began to weep. This roused Lilybet, who lifted her head. Pete pressed her back into her former position. “No,” she said. “I can’t.”
Mark said, “Pete, you’re exhausted. Let me stay with her for a while. Have a long bath. Have a glass of wine.”
“I’m her mother.” The tears on her face looked hot and burning, not like tears at all but rather an acid capable of singeing whatever it touched. “I want to remain her mother. She’s my only chance to be a mother. I want that. Mark, she’s my life. Isn’t she yours?”
Lilybet defined Pete’s world, but he had defied the claim his daughter would make upon him if he allowed it. So the answer was no, she was not his life. She was part of it, yes, an important part of it. But she wasn’t everything. Not as she was for Pete.
Still he said, “Of course, she’s my life,” because he knew that was what Pete needed to hear and because he also knew it was the only way to get her off the bed in order to see to her own needs for at least half an hour. He touched Lilybet’s baby-fine hair. He touched Pete’s short dark curls. He added, “As are you, Pete. As you always will be.”
She looked up at him, into his face, into his eyes. “Do you mean that?” she asked.
“As much as I’ve ever meant anything, love.” He breathed deeply to absorb his lie, to make it into a truth that he could live with. He said again, “Have a bath and a glass of wine now. I’m happy to stay with her.”
“Truly happy?”
“Of course.”
Slowly, she eased away from Lilybet, moving her gently back against the stack of pillows that supported her. Mark took her place on the bed. He reached for one of her storybooks, opened it, and read aloud, “？‘It’s a funny thing about mothers and fathers. Even when their own child is the most disgusting little blister you could ever imagine, they still think that he or she is wonderful.’？”
He sensed as he read that Pete hadn’t left the room. He could feel her watching him. Minutes passed. He continued to read. She continued to watch. Finally he looked in her direction.
“Bath and wine, Pete? It’ll do you good.”
She nodded but she didn’t turn away.
“Mark,” she said, “I know who she is.”
29 JULY
KINGSLAND HIGH STREET
DALSTON
NORTH-EAST LONDON
Adaku considered her ability to wait one of her finest qualities: waiting for something to happen, waiting for things to be different, waiting to feel different, waiting to believe that something just round the corner would swing her life in another direction. So waiting for someone to show up and to enter the door to the flats above Kingsland Toys, Games, and Books was nothing to her. Her circumstances had undergone a change, and she now had unlimited time to wait.
She had rung the number printed on the card given to her by Easter Lange on her earlier visit. She’d thought everything through, she’d told Easter, and she was now ready. She had the additional money that Easter had demanded and she wished to hand it over in order to reserve a place on the schedule. So they made arrangements for Adaku to part with the cash and for Easter to part with an appointment.
Easter set the time for 10:00 a.m., and now here they were, on the day itself. In advance, Adaku had made the necessary acquaintance of a young musician whose bedsit was across the street and two doors down from Kingsland Toys, Games, and Books. This had not been difficult once she explained her purpose. He was on board at once and introduced himself to her as Richard. Dickon, he was called, he told her. She could call him Dickon if she preferred.
That very day he’d given her a key to his flat in the event she needed to enter while he wasn’t there. He composed background music for films, he’d told her. Mostly he worked here, at home, but there often were times he had to go into the studio. Make yourself at home, he’d said, such as it is.
Dickon, she’d seen upon that visit, might be casual about handing out keys to his flat, but he was serious about his music. He owned an expensive-looking keyboard and a sound synthesizer. He also had a guitar, a set of electronic drums, a trumpet, and a violin. Living in his vicinity must be an interesting auditory experience, she thought. But as long as she had access to his window overlooking the street, she was happy.