“Think it over, Irina. Think it over carefully and call me on this number,” said the agent, handing her his card.
Irina accompanied Wilkins to the gate, and put his card away with no intention of using it. She had sorted things out herself, she didn’t need that money—as far as she was concerned it was tainted and meant she would again have to face the same questions and sign statements that revealed the most disgusting details. She had no wish to fan the ashes of the past in the courts; she was an adult now and no judge would exempt her from having to face the accused. Not to mention the press. She was horrified at the thought that the people she cared about would then hear about it: her few friends, the old ladies at Lark House, Alma, and above all, Seth.
* * *
At six that afternoon Cathy called Irina on her cell phone and invited her to tea in the library. They installed themselves in an out-of-the-way corner close to the window and far from anyone passing through. Cathy didn’t like tea in condoms, as she called the bags they used at Lark House, and had her own teapot, china cups, and an endless supply of a French brand of loose tea, together with butter cookies. Irina went to the kitchen to pour boiling water into the teapot but didn’t try to help Cathy with the rest of the preparations, as that ritual was important to her, and she always managed it despite her jerky arms. Since she was unable to raise the delicate cup to her mouth, she had to use a plastic one and sip the tea through a straw, but seeing the cup she had inherited from her grandmother held by her guest gave her pleasure.
“Who was that black man who gave you a hug in the garden this morning?” Cathy asked her, once they had finished commenting on the final episode of a TV series about women in prison that they were both avid fans of.
“J-Just a friend I hadn’t seen in a while . . . ,” stammered Irina, pouring Cathy more tea to hide her shock.
“I don’t believe you, Irina. I’ve been studying you for some time, and I know something is gnawing away at you.”
“Me? It’s your imagination, Cathy! As I told you, he’s just a friend.”
“Ron Wilkins. They told me his name at reception. I went to ask who your visitor was, because I thought you were upset after he left.”
The years of being unable to move and the tremendous effort she had made to survive had shrunk Cathy, so that she looked like a child in her enormous powered wheelchair, but she still conveyed the impression of great strength, softened by the innate kindness that her accident had only served to emphasize. Her permanent smile and cropped haircut lent her a mischievous look that contrasted with her age-old monk’s wisdom. Physical suffering had freed her from the inevitable bonds of personality and had polished her spirit like a diamond. The strokes she had suffered had not damaged her intellect but, as she said, had altered the wiring, and stimulated her intuition so that she could see the invisible.
“Come closer, Irina,” she told her.
Cathy’s cold arthritic hands clasped the younger woman’s arm.
“Do you know what helps most in misfortune, Irina? To talk. Nobody can go around in this world all alone. Why do you think I set up the pain clinic? Because shared pain is more bearable. The clinic is useful for the patients but is even more useful to me. We all have demons in the dark recesses of our soul, but if we bring them out into the light, they grow smaller and weaker, they fall silent and eventually leave us in peace.”