Locked in the past.
‘Phillip,’ says Tim.
‘Phillip?’
‘Yes, that one who’s playing me.’
‘Felix?’
‘Felix.’ He nods. ‘He loves you so.’
‘Oh, no.’ I glance again at Robbie. Did I really just see him move? What had he been about to say? ‘We’re very old friends.’
Tim doesn’t press it.
He’s also looking at the photograph in my hands.
‘Jacob didn’t want that to be taken,’ he says. ‘He thought it was tempting fate.’
‘Really?’ The revelation, so unexpected, makes my pummelling heart heavy. I look at him now, too, his head bowed towards Piper.
Poor Jacob.
Poor,poorJacob.
‘Maybe it was tempting fate,’ I say, and my throat feels strangled.
I don’t know what’s come over me.
‘This photograph didn’t change anything,’ says Tim, softly. ‘A photograph could never do that.’
It’s almost like he’s consoling me.
Slowly, I look back up at him, certain, suddenly, that he’s said these words before; that he once consoled the photographer too.
‘Who took this, Tim?’ I say, raising the frame.
He closes his eyes.
‘Was it … Iris?’ I ask, and only just stop myself from saying,me. ‘I think it must have been Iris. Did you see her, after the crash?’
Silence.
‘Tim … ?’
‘She said you’d come. She told me … ’
He’s trying to change the subject, I think: distract me by talking about Imogen again. She must have telephoned him, mentioned my plan to visit.
I don’t ask him about that though.
I can’t let him change the subject.
‘Was it Iris?’ I repeat.
‘Your eyes,’ he says, reopening his, ‘they’re the same.’ He holds my gaze, and a smile pulls at his scarred lips. ‘Windows to your soul.’
It’s my turn to be silent.
