Jess, in her armchair, shook her head. She knew the name, of course, and vaguely recognized the face on the screen – the grizzled stubble, the earring, the jet-black hair tied back in a ponytail, the striking pale blue eyes. There was a clip they always showed of him, from the nineties, drunk on some late-night BBC Two talk show, slowly slipping down in his chair, gradually getting growlier and growlier until eventually he ripped his microphone from the front of his shirt and stormed off set ‘to get a pint of Guinness’。
‘I’ve met him about ten times,’ said Lyra, counting on her fingers and nodding along as she mentally checked off the occasions. ‘But he still never remembers my name. He always kisses on both cheeks and his stubble scratches. And he stinks of cigarettes.’
Jess checked the time again.
It was now nearly a quarter to midnight.
She had suggested, several times, that it might be time for Lyra to brush her teeth and go to sleep.
‘No point,’ said Lyra. ‘Mum will wake me up when she turns all the lights on or falls over something. Don’t worry, you won’t get in trouble. I don’t have a bedtime.’
Nevertheless, Jess insisted Lyra at least try to close her eyes. Grumbling, yawning, Lyra did so.
Only after she was certain Lyra had properly nodded off did Jess turn off the bedside lamps and make her way to the bathroom. It took her a moment to find the light switch – or rather a cluster of brass dimmers, which she then made her way through, illuminating the lights under the sink first, then the overhead light in the enormous frosted-glass shower, then a shaded light hanging directly over the claw-foot bathtub, then finally the one she wanted. All across the polished concrete floor were scattered clothes from several suitcases. Against one antique-Delft-tiled wall stood a double sink, and next to the sink sat a child’s travel wash kit, and next to that a bag of make-up the size of something you might expect a professional to turn up at a photo shoot with.
It didn’t take her long to find what she was looking for, tucked away in the corner of one of Kyra’s monogrammed cases. Given the length of time Kyra Highway was due to be staying on the island, it was extraordinary how many different kinds of pills she had brought. Had you found this see-through, ziplock bag on the street, you would have assumed it had been discarded by someone who had just robbed a pharmacy.
Here we go, thought Jess.
Sleeping pills. Strong pills, too, from the looks of it, and several types.
She found herself wondering how many she could pocket without Kyra noticing. Ten? Twenty? There were three large bottles. She settled on fifteen, counted them out, wrapped them up in some toilet paper and slipped them into one of her pockets. Then, recalculating things in her mind, she went back and tipped another half-dozen into her palm.
In the other room, Lyra Highway was still fast asleep in bed, her mouth slightly open. Jess lay down on the couch and decided to try to get a little bit of sleep as well.
It didn’t take her much time at all to drop off. It was a warm cabin. It had been a long day.
It always begins the same way, the dream.
She is six years old, not much younger than Lyra. She is lying under a blanket on the back seat of her parents’ car. They are driving at night down a country road, the headlights illuminating the hedgerows on either side of them, the overhanging branches. Her father is in the driving seat. Her mother is looking for something – a different CD, perhaps? – in the glove compartment. Hearing Jess stir in the back, her father mutters something softly to her mother, glances at Jess over his shoulder, smiles. And even in the dream she always knows that this is a dream she has had many times before.
Sometimes, although she knows this is not how dreams or memories work, she will notice something, some detail – the pattern on the blanket, the way her mother rests her hand gently for a moment on the back of Jess’s father’s hand and gives it a squeeze – and think, ‘Oh, I’ve never spotted that before.’ Other times there are glitches, incongruities, little logical gaps, that even in the dream she is capable of noting and being irked by, like the way she is suddenly sitting upright in her seatbelt without ever being able to remember how or why; like the way the radio is often playing not the song she actually remembers it playing but a song they played at her father’s funeral; like the way she always knows what is going to happen next. And she keeps trying to warn her parents, keeps trying to attract their attention, but her mother just keeps rooting for whatever it is in the glove compartment and her dad keeps driving and it is never the moment of impact that jolts Jess awake but the moment at which she realizes that however loud she screams, he cannot hear her, will never hear her.