‘Sorry?’
‘My son. Martin. He said he’d seen a woman there – young, brown hair. For a while I thought . . .’ She closed her eyes and bit her lower lip, giving her head a shake. ‘O ye, of little faith.’
‘Apologies,’ said Rowan. ‘I don’t understand.’
Sarah Johnson’s manner had changed remarkably; the trepidation replaced by what looked like relief. ‘Martin told me he’d seen a woman in Marianne’s house. I thought he was trying to tell me he was seeing her ghost. Either that or he’d forgotten she’d died.’
Rowan caught Cory’s eye.
‘I should explain.’ A little of the light faded from Sarah’s face. ‘He had an accident on his bike four years ago. Motorbike. No one else was involved but his helmet came off. He’s still making progress – the OTs and the speech therapist at the hospital are very good with him – but he’s . . . different from how he used to be.’ She stood up. ‘Let me call him – he’d like to meet you, I know, Marianne’s friends.’
At the end of a short passageway at the back of the room, she tapped gently on a door. ‘Martin? Have you finished playing your computer game, sweetheart? Can you hear me? There are some people here – a lady and a man – who were friends with Marianne. Would you like to come and meet them?’
Cory was jabbing his finger at the wall behind her. ‘Go?’ mouthed Rowan. ‘Now?’
He shook his head. ‘Look.’
Turning, she followed his direction. On a shelf of the display cabinet behind her, in a wooden frame that was larger than but otherwise very similar to the one that held Rowan’s favourite photo of Jacqueline and Marianne, there was one of Mazz’s drawings. It was pen and ink, a portrait of a young man, just his head and shoulders but detailed to an extent that told them Marianne had had time to study him. She hadn’t done it on the fly: he’d sat for her.
‘Here he is,’ Sarah said, as if introducing a child, and turning back, Rowan saw the face in the flesh. Marianne had caught him very well, was her first thought, the fine nose and wide eyes, the light brown hair so straight it didn’t shape itself even to the line of his temples. It was a delicate face, mild, made arresting by its contrast with his body. The heating in the flat was turned up high and he was wearing tracksuit trousers and a plain white T-shirt under which his muscles – bulky and individually developed – were clearly visible. He walked awkwardly, however, and as he came closer, she saw that one of his feet pointed inward.
‘Hello.’ She stood and, before she could think, held out her hand to him. He hesitated then took it and gave her a strange sort of handshake. She had the idea that he had been taught how to do it: his grip was gentle – almost tender – but she could feel the power that he was holding in check. She introduced herself and Cory then turned to the drawing on the shelf. ‘Marianne drew you,’ she said. ‘It’s a very good likeness.’
The same momentary pause and Rowan had the horrible thought that maybe he wasn’t able to talk. Then, though, he said, ‘Yes. She got me – that’s what she said. She got me.’
‘She did.’ Rowan smiled. ‘How long ago did you sit for her?’
A trace of panic in his eyes, Martin looked at his mother.
‘About eighteen months,’ she said.
‘I went to her house, we had some chocolate cake and then she did my picture. She said I could keep it so I brought it home and we put it in a frame.’
‘You were friends?’
‘Yes, she was my friend. We always waved to each other.’ He said the last phrase slowly, as if the concept were tricky to negotiate. ‘I stood here and when she came up to her studio, she waved and I waved back.’
‘I’ve seen you in your window,’ Rowan said. ‘Here.’ She gestured at the expanse of glass. ‘At night. You must be almost as bad a sleeper as I am.’
‘Insomnia,’ he said, pronouncing each syllable carefully. ‘I don’t like the dark. I have tablets to go to sleep but I don’t like them. I don’t want to get . . .’ He looked at his mother again.
‘Addicted,’ she said.
At the door, Sarah Johnson moved closer to Rowan and lowered her voice. It seemed an unnecessary precaution: with the air of a teenager who had done his social duty, Martin had sloped off back to his room. Watching him go, Rowan thought suddenly that if Marianne had asked her to describe him, she’d have said he was like a child in the body of a Russian gymnast: the power and the simplicity together, the muscles and the pallor of his colouring, the light blue eyes.
‘Is he bothering you?’ his mother asked. ‘Looking over like that.’
‘No. I . . .’