The Girl Below(109)

I thought Suki must have gone inside—though I wasn’t sure how she could have done so without anyone seeing her. My childhood bedroom overlooked the patio, and I tiptoed to the window and peered in. Bars in front of the glass made it hard to see, but enough light filtered through from the hall that it was just possible to make out the bed and a figure sleeping in it: Suki.

Was this the same Suki I had rescued from the bunker? I realized there was no way of knowing, but I saw that there might be a way to return the locket—to right the mistake I had made so long ago.

The French doors were open, but at the threshold I hesitated, wondering what would happen if I stepped through them. I had gotten as far as putting my foot in the door, experimentally, when I heard movement inside the flat. Someone was heading straight for me, then at the last minute they veered off to the right, toward Suki’s room. In the light of the hall, I recognized Hillary, my mother, and froze, not knowing what to do.

She went into Suki’s room for a minute or two then came out carrying a bucket—and I still hadn’t moved. I knew I should leave but my feet had decided, independently of me, to stay put. I must have gasped then or made some other noise for she turned in my direction and appeared to be staring straight at me. She looked so young, so vital, that every cell in my body yearned to go to her.

My mother approached me with an expression of open curiosity, but as she got nearer she looked troubled—and then plain frightened. I noticed she was looking in my direction but not straight at me, not meeting my gaze, and I wondered what it was she was seeing. Perhaps I was in shadow—or maybe I resembled a ghost. A few steps in front of me she halted, eyes wide, and put her hand to her throat. When I mirrored her actions, my hand collided with the locket. Was that what transfixed her?

“Mum, it’s me,” I said, and she tilted her head so that for one brief second I thought she had heard me and was going to respond. But instead whatever had caused her to tilt her head also galvanized her into action, and she reached out and shut the French doors, then pulled the curtains across in front of them.

She was gone, but not the ache, and I remembered what she’d told me just before she died, about seeing each other again in the garden. This had been it. Only her motivation had not been to reproach me for taking the locket but to gift me a moment of hope. She had wanted me to know, in some small way, that her dying wasn’t the end of us—that we would share another moment of connection, even if for her, that moment had been and gone.

I was so relieved I wanted to cry—but not yet. I was still trapped in the garden, and before anything else, I had to get out.

I returned to the service door hoping it had somehow opened during the time I had been in the bunker, but it was still stubbornly painted shut. The French doors, the way I’d arrived, were locked, so I went to the edge of the patio and peered into the communal garden, or what I could see of it: the large stretch of lawn bordered by towering oak trees. I tried to make out what was beyond those trees, but no matter how much I strained, the buildings that should have been there remained murky and in shadow—the edge of a world I did not have the courage to explore.

Heavy rain started, surprising me, for I hadn’t been so aware this time of moisture in the air. Almost instantly I was soaked through, my glasses so streaked with water that I found it hard to see. Getting wet didn’t bother me, but I minded that I had nowhere to run, and that the garden, with me in it, was about to dissolve. Even through my streaked lenses, I could see the edges of the garden were losing definition, rinsing away. So I did what anyone would do when faced with no other option: I crouched on the ground and covered my head with my hands, and prayed for it all to be over.





Chapter Twenty-Three


Skyros, 2003





And sooner than I had thought possible, it was. The rain stopped, abruptly, and I opened my eyes and looked down at a surface that was covered with pebbles. Dry pebbles inlaid in concrete. I was back in Elena’s courtyard, crouching next to the wall. Someone was patting my shoulder, talking to me in a soft voice: “Suki, are you okay?”

It was Pippa.

“She’s gone to a better place,” she was saying. “They both have.”

To uncurl myself took some effort—my muscles had been clenched clamshell tight, and now they felt weighed down with lead. My clothes weren’t soaked through this time, but they were damp, as though I’d been sweating.

“I thought this might happen,” said Pippa. “That Peggy dying would bring back all the memories from when Hillary passed away.” She pointed to my neck. “Your mother’s locket. I had no idea you still had it.” She smiled. “It looks well loved.”