Page 49 of The Two of Us at the End of the World

No, she said. I REMEMBER it but Freya? She SEES it. All the time. Every day. What the Russian did to our mother, what the Russian did to her. Even when she sleeps, because then she dreams it too. I don’t dream it. It’s a bad memory, but if I’m lucky it leaves me alone for long chunks of the day. Whole days, sometimes. Freya? It bites her all the time. Bites her and shakes her and won’t let go.

But you miss her, I said. Your mother.

Once more she looked at me and tried for the other half of that smile. Then she took a deep breath and shook her head.

If she was here, she’d know what to do, she said. And Freya wouldn’t be so… broken. And even if she was, she’d know how to mend her.

We’re doing the best we can, I said. I know it’s not the same. But we are trying.

Yes, she said. But it’s not good enough, is it? You and Cat, you’ve done so much for her. For us. And it’s good and I know I don’t thank you enough, and Freya doesn’t thank anyone for anything these days, but… But you think you’re making things better. And I know you think the babies will make things better if we just wait, because that’s what I’ve been hoping too. But they don’t—

They might, I said.

They won’t, she said. I wish they would, but for Freya they won’t.

I do remember that the weather was hot and unsettled, which put everyone on edge. It was the muggy kind of heat that made you feel clammy all the time, with the sweat just oozing even if you weren’t doing anything at all, just sitting out of the sun doing nothing. It was worse when the wind blew, because that was hot too and didn’t cool you at all. The frequent thunderstorms that mostly seemed to come after dark were a welcome change as they cleared the air and lifted that weight, at least for a while.

And it wasn’t just us who were as prickly as the heat: Digger got weird too.

At first I didn’t notice her weirdness, and then when I did, I just thought maybe she’d eaten something that wasn’t good for her. To begin with she seemed a bit quieter and more withdrawn, as if her normally friendly manner was taking a rest. She wasn’t growly or hostile or anything, she just seemed moody. Like the rest of us. Or that’s what Cat thought.

Digger’s in a grump, she said. Look at her, she’s been lying on that bed all day, and when I pushed her off to take her out with me for a walk, she just turned right round and got back up on the bed, only this time with her back to me.

Maybe she’s sick, I said. Maybe she ate a mushroom.

Despite the heat, which seemed out of season, it was that time of year when the woods bulged with fungi, most of which you should not – according to Cat – even touch, let alone put in your mouth.

Dogs don’t eat mushrooms, said Storm who was sitting on the other side of the room. They’re too sensible.

That’s what I mean, I said. Digger’s not acting normal.

Is she being a pain in the ass? said a voice from the dark corner of the room where Freya spent most of her time. Because that’s normal.

We all looked round, I remember, probably because we were all similarly surprised that the normally silent member of our uncomfortable household had actually spoken. Her face was a pale blotch in the shadows.

Yeah, said Storm. She won’t get off the bed. Just like you, lazypants.

Freya turned away, hiding the momentary revelation of white face back behind her hair, leaving one pale hand in its place, curled into a fist with the middle finger sticking up in the private rude sign they made at each other when they ran out of words, or were too cross to speak. Storm went outside, leaving Cat and I looking at each other.

Not just the dog who’s moody, I said, looking back at Freya.

Cat grinned and rolled her eyes, then picked up her bow.

Let’s go hunt, she said. Get something for supper.

Normally Digger would slide in behind us when we went hunting, quietly dogging our heels, as if she instinctively knew that if she ranged ahead of us she would startle whatever we came across, which made us think she was either really clever, or someone had trained her as a hunting dog. Maybe both, Cat thought. Only that time she just stayed on the bed, as immovable and sullen as Freya.

I can’t remember if it was that day or the next that Cat pointed at Digger’s backside and asked me if that was normal.

It wasn’t. Her back end was all inflamed looking.

She’s ill, I said. Like an infection or something.

That’s why she’s been acting strangely, Cat said. Look, I think maybe she’s hurt her tail.

She was right, or at least that’s what I thought when she said it, because Digger’s tail, normally a straight extension of her spine, was kinked at the base in a way that looked like it had to be painful.

What should we do? I said.