“Someone. P’rhaps. And I didn’t want that. I didn’t ask…I didn’t tell…”
Kerra saw why the girl had come to her, finally. The knowledge dawned upon her and with the dawning came a fuller understanding of who Madlyn was. Perhaps it was the central shift within her that had come about because of Alan. She didn’t know. But she did feel different about Madlyn at long last, and she could see things from Madlyn’s perspective. She rose from her place opposite the other girl and sat at her side. She thought about taking her hand, but she didn’t. Too abrupt, she thought. Too soon.
She said, “Madlyn, you must listen to me. I don’t believe you had anything to do with what happened to Santo. There was a time when I might have done and I probably did, but it wasn’t real. Do you understand? What happened to Santo wasn’t your fault.”
“But I said to people?”
“What you said to people. But I doubt you ever said that you wanted him to die.”
Madlyn began to cry. Whether it was from grief too long withheld or from relief, Kerra could not tell. “D’you believe that?” Madlyn asked her.
“I absolutely believe it,” Kerra said.
IN THE INGLENOOK OF the Salthouse Inn’s bar, Selevan waited for Jago Reeth in something of a lather, which was unusual for him. He’d phoned his mate at LiquidEarth and asked could they meet at the Salthouse earlier than normal. He needed to talk to him. Jago was good about the matter. He didn’t ask could they talk on the phone. Instead, he said, ’Course, that’s what makes mates mates, eh? He’d give the word to Lew and set out directly, soon as he could. Lew was a decent bloke about things deemed emergencies. He could be there in…say, half an hour?
Selevan said that would do him fine. It would mean a wait and he didn’t want to wait, but he could hardly expect a miracle from Jago. LiquidEarth was some distance from the Salthouse Inn and Jago couldn’t exactly beam himself there. So Selevan finished his business at Sea Dreams, packed up the car with everything he would need for the coming trip he’d be taking, and set out for the inn.
He knew he’d carried things as far as he could, and it was time to bring it all to a conclusion, so he’d gone into Tammy’s cramped little bedroom, and from the cupboard he’d taken her canvas rucksack, which she’d first brought with her from Africa. She hadn’t needed it then and she certainly didn’t need it now, because her possessions were few and pathetic. So it was the matter of a moment only to remove them from the chest of drawers: a few pairs of knickers of the overlarge sort an old lady might wear, a few pairs of tights, four vests because the girl was so flat in the chest that she didn’t even require a brassiere, two jerseys, and several skirts. There were no trousers. Tammy did not wear trousers. Everything she possessed was black, except the knickers and the vests. These were white.
He’d scooped up her books next. She had more books than clothes and these comprised mostly philosophy and the lives of saints. She had journals as well. Her writing within them was the one thing about her that he hadn’t monitored, and Selevan was rather proud about this since during her stay with him the girl had done nothing to hide them from him. Despite her parents’ wishes in the matter, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to read her girlish thoughts and fantasies.