‘I’m looking for somewhere . . . um, somewhere to sleep tonight,’ Anna says. ‘The Jericho hostel – do you know it?’
‘That’s a night shelter. It’s not too far from here. They might still have some space.’
‘Can you tell me where it is?’
‘Sure. We’ll walk you there if you like.’
They take her through the darkened streets. No questions asked, no small talk, but the atmosphere is friendly. They’ll have seen it all before, the worst, most tragic manifestation of humanity.
At last they get to their destination, an unprepossessing building on the corner of a side street with an institutional, disinfectant smell. She’s come full circle, the brief freedom of the last twenty-four hours forgotten now. The volunteers leave her at the door and she goes in, lucky to negotiate the last bed for the night.
Not bothering even to take off her jacket, she lies on the small cot, her bag tucked up beside her like a small child. She’s surrounded by strangers, the room full of sighs and creaks as other sleepers shift in their beds. She’s too tired to worry about who they are, too tired to ask questions about Kelly – that’ll have to wait. Even more immediately, she needs to pee; she should rinse her mouth, even if she can’t brush her teeth. But she does none of it, felled by an immediate need for sleep that drowns out all the noise of the surrounding area.
She is completely out of it until the following morning, surprised to find herself waking at dawn. The room is filled with the sounds of sleep: snores, grunts, the occasional cry. It’s like being back inside, the background noise more familiar to her than the calm of Tom’s house the morning before.
She gets up, finds the bathrooms and washes as thoroughly as she can without having a full shower, unable to face the thought of going out into the cold morning with wet hair. Picking up her bag, she walks back through to the reception area, where two young women are sitting, different from the night before.
‘Sleep OK?’ one of them says, smiling at Anna.
‘Yes, thank you,’ she says. Hoisting her bag even further up on to her shoulder, she makes her way towards the door, but the other woman calls out after her.
‘We’re doing a Sunday roast here later on, has anyone told you? It’s the culinary highlight of the week. For me, too!’
Anna smiles. She hasn’t eaten properly since the sandwich Tom handed to her wordlessly at Paddington station the day before, when they were on their way back from the probation appointment. Plus, it’ll be a chance to ask around about Kelly, see if anyone knows her.
‘Yorkshire puddings?’
‘Sounds delicious. What time?’
‘From twelve. Get here early to get your pick of the roast potatoes!’
She nods. ‘It sounds good,’ she says. She’s at the door when she turns abruptly and returns to the desk. ‘Actually, I do have a question. I’m looking for someone,’ she says. ‘I wonder if you’ve heard of her. Kelly Green? I think she might have been living on the streets here for a while, dealing with some addiction issues. Did either of you ever come across her?’
The women look at each other, shrug. One of them replies, ‘I’m afraid I haven’t. I’m only on duty occasionally though – she might have been in one night I wasn’t here.’
‘Same with me,’ the other says.
‘Tell you what,’ the first woman says. ‘We’ll ask around, see if anyone has any idea about her. There are a couple of volunteers who come in much more frequently. If you’re back at lunch, you can check in.’
Anna nods her thanks, leaves. Now there really is an incentive to return.
It’s so early the streets are still empty, curtains drawn for Sunday morning lie-ins. She’s wandering aimlessly, her feet taking her along streets that she used to know.
She stops for a moment by the Radcliffe Camera, looking at its rotunda. She spent hours working here at its wooden desks, soaking up the atmosphere of centuries of learning while other students hung out with each other, building friendships for life. Another chance wasted.
Down Magpie Lane now, a wave to her old college as she goes. In theory she could go in, claim alumna rights and wander around, but she balks at the idea of trying to prove herself to the porter. Her sister would laugh to see her so fallen – she always took the piss about Anna’s decision to go there rather than Sheffield, where she herself hadthe best time ever, Anna. Modern, not the rod up your arse Tudor shit you’re obsessed with.
Her sister. The thought winds her. She wanted to reject Tom’s words. She can’t. He’s right. She has been running away from it. When she thinks now about her plan to kill herself off the south coast, she shrinks with shame. Prompted by what? One letter returned to sender?
Anna thought she was doing the right thing, wallowing in misery, polishing her guilt like a warped trophy on a shelf. It would solve nothing, though. Her death wouldn’t show her sister how sorry she was – it would just compound misery on misery, a further blow to a family already wounded beyond repair.
She can’t blame her sister for ignoring her letter. It was too little, too late. Anna’s going to have to go in person, apologise, tell them how much she’s changed. And if they won’t listen, if they don’t accept it, even if Marc attacks her, as he threatened to do so many times in the letters that he sent – all of that would be fine. At least she’ll have said it to their faces.
More importantly than anything else, though, she might be able to find out if Toby ever recovered. If he’s off life-support. What kind of life he has left. If any.
OUTSIDE
Leaves all around me, the wind in the trees. It should be quiet but I can’t stop crying.
