Requiem

By Chris Vobe

“I loved you like there was no tomorrow. And then, one day, there wasn’t…”

The clock is ticking. The end is nigh. There’s something in the air. The Water Tower has been condemned. Someone’s final hour is close at hand.

The past is over now. The seeds of the future are already being sown. But before the bell tolls, there are scores to be settled. Truths to unveil. Moments to cherish. Good men to redeem.

Adam Chapman. Victoria Kendall. Clarissa Clements. Hilda Stanton. Madison Carter. Sally Lloyd. Vanessa Hughes. Robert Grainger. The players are in position. All the pieces are on the board. Life in Little Bassington will never be the same again.

Welcome to the last day of May. The day of the Fall.

The final instalment in Chris Vobe's five-volume epic, 'The Water Tower' is a raw and uncompromising tale of love, loyalty and allegiance, and offers a candid exploration of the way we deal with loss.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: Jun 21, 2023

Book preview

(5)

What will you do next?

Prelude

AT THE END

"But concerning that day and hour no one knows,

not even the angels of heaven,

nor the Son, but the Father only."

(Matthew 24:36, English Standard Version)

Who will you call, at the end?

You’re in a hospital bed. You didn’t ask to be there. No one ever does.

They tell you that it’s a heart attack, that it’s cancer, that it’s your liver or your kidney or your lungs. That it’s Huntingdon’s or motor neurone or multiple sclerosis. They tell you that it’s advanced, that there’s nothing they can do, that they can’t wind back the clock. That this is the reason your muscles are aching or your head is spinning or you can’t eat or drink or sleep or think properly. They tell you that they’re sorry. That they wish there was something they could say.

You understand. There’s no turning back now. No consolation prizes. Your curtain call is near. Your story is ending. Your final bow is close at hand.

You’re suddenly aware that this is the conversation you’ve been waiting for all your life. The one we’re all waiting for, in fact, without ever having realised it.

You don’t take in the rest. They might be talking about treatment or trials or wheeling you in under the knife. Ways they can make you feel more comfortable. But none of it matters. Not now. Not anymore. Because you’re thinking about something – someone – else.

You will picture yourself lifting the phone. You’re terrified at the prospect of leaving this world without ever speaking to them again. At the end, before your light fades, they are the only person you can ever imagine calling.

You’re thinking about them now.

If you’re one of the fortunate ones, then you will hear the sound of their approach before the end comes. Before the choirs of fortune summon you or the chorus of your last embrace plays out its final strain. If you’re lucky, you will hear the steady cadence of their footsteps along the hospital hallway. The quickening approach of the one you reached out to. The only one you ever needed.

Perhaps, when the end comes – when all your other investments and contemplations have dissipated like slow rain – you’ll be together. The two of you. Separated only by the cumbersome, unsympathetic bedrails that remain locked in place. Perhaps you’ll rest there, in the cradle of your disintegration, the rest of the world consigned to irrelevance as the last face your face will ever see sleeps soundlessly in a nearby chair.

Then, after a time, perhaps you will see the light. The all-encompassing light; fierce and blinding in its intensity. A light that washes across the landscape of your life.

It will beckon you towards it, that light; and into its embrace you will be drawn. As its majesty spills forth, and you bathe in the stillness and serenity that it exudes, you will feel the shadows that once settled across your days retreat; the last of their tendrils withering and dying beneath the glare of perfect peace.

And as the light claims you, perhaps you will smile; knowing that someone was there with you, at the end. Perhaps you will close your eyes contentedly. Perhaps you’ll think – perhaps you’ll know – that this was all you ever needed.

So who will you call, then, at the end?

Part 4

THE FALL

"And the dust returns to the earth as it was,

and the spirit returns to God who gave it."

(Ecclesiastes 12:7, English Standard Version)

The last day of May

Morning on the Day of the Fall

Chapter 44

"When the righteous cry for help,

the Lord hears and delivers them

out of all their troubles.

The Lord is near to the brokenhearted

and saves the crushed in spirit."

(Psalm 34:17-18, English Standard Version)

And here's Jenna with the sport.

Thanks, Ron. There’s plenty of cause for celebration this week, especially if you’re an Arsenal fan. The club are continuing their festivities after defeating Chelsea 2-1 in the FA Cup Final last week. The victory gave them a record thirteenth win, and secured manager Arsene Wenger his seventh FA Cup final success…

(i)

They raised the scaffolding at the start of the last week in May. It was raining as the standards were lifted. A soft patter of droplets dappled the work crews surrounding the site as they laid the ledgers in place. A portable radio sounded from inside one of the vans that had been driven down the thoroughfare and parked just beyond what remained of the Tower’s outer walls. Roy Orbison was singing – Only the Lonely – but no one was listening.

There had been no way to postpone the demolition. The outcry resulting from Robert Grainger’s arrest had prompted demands for the work to be halted as the village coalesced behind Clarissa’s call to revisit the Tower’s fate. In the fortnight that followed, officials at Bassington District Council had struggled to cope with the influx of irate phone calls, the never-ending barrage of angry emails, and the persistent avowals that no one in Little Bassington would tolerate their future being in any way determined by the devil in a two-piece suit. Archangel, after all, were dead in the water. As far as everyone was concerned, any decision surrounding the Tower was null and void.

It almost was. Had it not been for one final structural engineering report, the future might have changed. But the report – commissioned prior to Grainger’s arrest – had only served to confirm the worst fears of those within the Council who’d hoped to avoid civil war: the Tower was simply too far gone to be saved. The cracks in its foundations had become steadily more pronounced; the structural engineers tasked with planning its demolition had made clear, in no uncertain terms, that the damage was irreversible. If the Tower was not felled safely, they’d said, it would eventually fall of its own accord.

It had taken time for them to properly absorb the inevitability; the fury and outrage that had followed the collapse of Robert Grainger’s career had slowly given way to a sense of cautious optimism. So when news filtered through that the Tower was beyond salvation, it was met with a wave of disbelief.

Nothing lasts forever, someone said.

But that didn’t make it any easier.

If only someone, somewhere had done something sooner, came the retort. But what? What could anyone possibly have done?

The village basked in its collective sadness. Waves of grief resonated outward; the kind of anticipatory grief that accompanies the news of a loved one saddled with a terminal diagnosis. Loss before losing.

They put the signs up first; notices at the entrance to the tree-lined thoroughfare that read:

Demolition in progress – keep out.

The area was cordoned off; red and white hazard tape marked the entrance to what was now a building site. Every day, beginning on that last week, people found themselves stopping on the Parade and turning their gaze towards the Tower with every variation of sorrow and sympathy clouding their eyes.

They knew. It was over.

Then they started to take down the walls. One half of the work crew dismantled three of them in the days that followed, while the other half shrouded the Tower itself with scaffolds. They went about their work with a detached efficiency; but for every brick they removed, it felt like they were disassembling a chapter of Little Bassington’s history. The builder’s hands were smeared with lime scale as they loaded the skip. The old wrought iron gateposts just fell apart.

Someone asked them when the Tower itself would come down. They told whoever it was that it wouldn’t take them long to prepare everything they needed. By the end of the month, it would just be a memory.

The crane arrived the following Tuesday. It looked so oddly out of place; the metal of industry resting against a backdrop of lush green open space. They left it there overnight as the work crews performed their final checks, in readiness for what would be the Tower’s last day standing. The 31 st May would be when the curtain called. The news permeated every crack and crevice of village life. No one could avoid it, but hardly anyone chose to acknowledge it. They just walked past, shaking their heads in dismay. Waiting for the end.

You know what they call ‘em, don’t you? someone said from within a small crowd that had gathered at the edge of the thoroughfare, watching the demolition workers buzzing around the cross-brace of the scaffold. The people who put that stuff up ‘round buildings? Erection specialists. Imagine that. Someone asks you what you do, and you tell them – ‘Me? I’m an erection specialist, love’.

The workmen left, discarding their hard hats and high-vis jackets as they walked. They took one last look at the Tower before driving away.

Even the sky was sombre that night; the dark night before the last day. Grey folded to black. People watched from their windows – far more than usual – as the Tower stood guard over the village for the final time; resting beneath a starless canopy, projecting all the fruitlessness and futility of a condemned man.

As if, somehow, it knew.

By the same time tomorrow, it would be gone.

Robert Grainger had been released on bail by the time the demolition work started.

His demise had been swift and absolute; his fall from grace so pronounced that it was immediately deemed irreversible. Word had spread soon after his arrest; as more details of his dishonesty emerged, the burgeoning wave of hushed whispers grew in strength until, gradually, disapproval and derision gave way to disdain and, ultimately, outright contempt.

Even his most ardent supporters could broker no argument in his defence. His hero status had been abruptly washed away. Grainger was vilified; only Mark Miller was brave enough to defy the court of public opinion by pointing out that no charges had yet been brought.

They soon were.

Grainger and a newly re-emerged Emma Lambert were formally charged less than a week later on several counts. They would have their day in court but, in the eyes of most people in Little Bassington, it was as if a guilty verdict had already been pronounced.

The time-old refrains could be heard among the waves of village chatter: It’s the same with all politicians, isn’t it? – Only in it for themselves – They’re all as bad as one another – Snouts in the trough, all of ‘em!

People find it so easy to hate politicians – they probably always will. It’s a feeling that fits like a glove, cushioned as it is with a simple convenience that evades any in-depth analysis of the nuances that characterise the real world. But the ones they hate the most – more than any of the others – are the ones they wanted, so badly, to love.

In the fortnight since his initial arrest, the Bassington Post had done all they could to capitalise on the interest in the Grainger case, revealing the full extent of his machinations in what had gradually become a media storm. In reality, the information they’d been able to print had offered very little of substance; but it was enough to ensure that his public standing would never recover, and more than sufficient to satiate the appetite of the hungry conversationalists who’d relished each and every opportunity to chew over the scandal blow for blow.

Then Grainger resigned. Unexpectedly, swiftly, and with surprisingly little fanfare, he quit the Town Hall and vacated his seat (and the Mayoralty) in disgrace. The Post ran the news on their front page. With his career in tatters and the prospect of a criminal conviction looking him square in the eye, his point of no return had been reached. And so he had exited, stage left, his reputation shredded beyond hope of redemption. Just like that, it was over. One morning, he was there; the next, he wasn’t.

As soon as the news hit, people began to speak of Robert Grainger in terms of betrayal, treachery and duplicity. It was as if, all of a sudden, everyone in Little Bassington had a reason to view his actions as a personal sleight. Narratives were weaved around the ways in which his conduct had impacted their lives just as profoundly as it had the community at large.

There would have to be a by-election, of course. Grainger’s seat could not remain vacant indefinitely. The weary and battle-scarred villagers greeted the approach of yet another electoral event with a mixture of resignation and glee. The former because it was beyond doubt now that, irrespective of the outcome, the damage inflicted by Grainger could not be undone – the Tower remained destined to fall and, with its impending demise so visible and apparent, any other considerations they might have had seemed to pale into insignificance. The latter because it would be a chance for the village to openly embrace a new beginning; one heralded by the clean hands of whoever Grainger’s successor turned out to be.

As the days wore on, talk grew steadily of the only person many believed could possibly stand. His name was Adam Chapman – and yet, despite the best efforts of those who knew him, he was currently nowhere to be found.

On Rosary Road, the man who had unwittingly found himself the focus of collective attention sat in the attic room of Hilda Stanton’s house; immune to events in the outside world, secreted away, refusing to leave the side of the woman he loved. Hilda told him what was happening, of course; although Adam had absorbed the edited highlights printed in the Bassington Post for himself. Texts from Jan, Clarissa and Hugo went ignored. He didn’t answer. Because he didn’t care.

As dawn broke on the last day of May, and the Post ran a feature online entitled The Little Bassington By-Election: The runners and riders to succeed Robert Granger, the reality of his circumstance was brought home to him.

As far as everyone was concerned, he’d ended the career of a man with whom he’d never exchanged a single word.

(ii)

There was only one sensation now: tranquillity. A calm surrender that existed beyond the wild rush of youthful days; a peaceful serenity that pushed everything – the doubts, the pain, the fears – aside. It was the wave lapping on the beach, the water smoothing the cliff face as it wore away the rough edges until they shined.

Madison watched herself in the mirror as her hair fell in thick clumps onto the bathroom floor. She’d sheared the longest locks first; the untidy mess of cuttings had fallen limply and scattered across the tiles. Then she’d started using the razor; conducting the close shave with a precision that her newfound calm had only served to heighten. She kept at it until there was nothing left, running the palm of her hand between strokes across the smooth, bald surface of her skull to identify where the bristles and the small stalks of hair that the blades hadn’t quite captured remained.

Around her, what had once been her matted, unkempt black hair lay at her feet. She considered her reflection for a moment, pausing to place the electric razor beside the sink and allowing her eyes to travel across her likeness in the glass.

She hardly recognised herself. The loss of her hair only served to emphasise how thin her face had become; the tautness of her jawline betraying the fact she had been reliant on quick, unthinking meals she had snatched here and there to keep herself awake and alive. Outwardly, her body appeared drained; and yet, in her eyes, there was only contentment. No longer did she bear the hollow, disconnected aspect that had defined her for these past weeks. She was more now. She was certain.

She hadn’t been sure – not truly – until the moment she’d opened her eyes that morning. It was only then had she had understood that this would be her day. As the milky sunlight of the early hours had leaked through the window and stung her retina, she had known. She had lain there, searching her inner self for the surety she’d needed, before finally rising and bringing the fruits of her labours to bear.

She had planned it all – meticulously – in the sustained belief that there would come a day when she would draw a line; when she would oversee the demise of her former self and embrace something entirely new. She had hoped beyond hope that it might be today; then, in the warm embrace of first light, had come the absolute conviction that it would be.

She picked up the razor to indulge in one final sweep of her head, feeling its hardened edge scrape against her skin as she shed the last of her hair. The scissors had been awkward, cumbersome; she had never been the most manoeuvrable or dexterous person and she’d found cutting her own hair in the mirror to be difficult. The razor had been so much more comfortable; delivering clean, fulfilling arcs that had removed the last vestiges of the person she’d once been. A deconstruction that would, she told herself, be satisfying in every way.

The tranquillity and contentment rose within her again, surging with the taste of what was still to come. There would be no more pain after today. The prospect made her feel as if she had shed a skin; relinquished her hold on everything that had once pulled her into the darkness in one beautiful, wholesome release. What lay beyond was only fresh, fulfilling, enticing light.

She boxed up the electric razor and washed the bathroom sink until it was clear of follicles. She fished the dustpan and brush from out the back of the cupboard; the plastic pan was cracked, and the grooves were stained with the remnants of whatever filth they’d once carried. She neither noticed nor cared. With a delicate exactitude, she began to sweep up the hair that had fallen across the bathroom floor, making sure to leave nothing behind, taking her time to brush each of the tiles thoroughly until they were clear. She disposed of the cuttings in the bathroom bin, took a moment to satisfy herself that the room had been suitably cleaned and then, with a sense of growing satisfaction, she walked away, closing the door behind her.

She threw on a hoodie as she got ready to leave the house, the hood raised so as not to startle anyone she might encounter. It wasn’t that she was ashamed or embarrassed; she simply wanted to avoid the questions that might ensue. She’d prepared a cover story in the event that anyone asked why she was covering her head; she’d tell them she’d been to Deidre’s hair salon in town, because Mum had treated her, and the stylist had managed to make a mess of both the cut and the colour, so she was keeping it under wraps until it was sorted. They’d laugh, she knew – not least because the thought of Madison Carter going to a hair salon was enough to make them believe she’d started getting ideas above her station – but it would do.

She bagged up the things she’d labelled before she went. She’d put aside two thick black bin-liners for the task; they were sturdy enough to hold what she needed. The night before, she’d stalked through the house, tearing small strips from a roll of brown Sellotape and marking out the things she’d take with her. There wasn’t much – she’d never had much – but it still needed to be done. They were just things, in any event; useless possessions that she no longer needed, none of which provided her with any fulfilment or satisfaction. They were destined for irrelevance anyway, in the new world that she was about to embrace.

She grabbed the DVD player first, wrapping the cable around its body as she deposited it in the first of the two black liners. Her mobile phone followed; she removed the SIM card and cut it with the kitchen scissors, discarding the two halves in the bin beneath the sink. The phone itself wasn’t the most up to date, but she thought someone might take it if they needed a burner. She threw her jewellery box in next; she’d had it since she was a child. One of the hinges was broken and the latch on the front didn’t close properly, but she’d decided to take it on the off chance. Everything inside was purely cosmetic; she’d never owned anything of value. She tipped the contents into a small plastic bag that she found at the back of the kitchen drawer, tied the top and then dropped it in the liner with the rest.

She filled both of the bags; adding a stack of DVDs, some old magazines that she’d kept for reasons that now escaped her (she thought that she’d probably liked looking at the fashion photos), a small handful of CDs filled with cheesy hits from the start of the decade, and her copy of Snow Patrol’s Eyes Open.

Then came the clothes; she removed each item, one by one, from the wardrobe, folded them with some cursory degree of care and placed them in the second liner. They were mainly jeans, hoodies and t-shirts, though complimented by a pair of trainers that she was sure Uncle Sean had bought her but which she had never worn. Finally, she added the make-up. She’d never used much; even when her friends had become obsessed with ensuring that they had the latest eyeliner or glitter-streaked lipstick, she’d rarely bought any. She’d never been able to afford much beyond the cheap appliances anyway; what little she had had been gifted to her on Christmases or birthdays. Saved up for by somebody who might once have cared.

She tipped her makeup case into the bag; ripping away the Sellotape tags as she parcelled them up inside. Most of it was unopened and unused. She retained only a couple of items which, according to her carefully devised plan, she would make use of later.

The bags filled, she walked to the Runway. There was the television too, of course, but she could hardly take that with her. She’d thought about offering it to Johnno; he always had a friend of a friend who’d take that kind of stuff off your hands. The rest was easy enough to carry; or at least, it would have been, for most people. She was forced to stop twice along the way, her arms aching, her limps sapped of what little upper body strength she used to have. The pain gnawed at her muscles, but she forced herself to press on.

She found them exactly where she’d expected to; the young mums in shell suits congregating on the playground. Just beyond, Donnie and his friends stood in menacing clusters along the broken tarmac that led to the garages. She’d half-expected to see Kayleigh Morris there, but she was nowhere to be seen. A sudden subconscious thought manifested itself and Madison realised she knew where Kayleigh would be: with Si, obviously. She’d found love, after all. Some people did. Madison was happy for her.

Carter? one of them asked – Jodie, she thought it was. "Not seen you in years. Where’ve you been?"

Around. Bin havin’ a clear ou’, she explained, motioning with the two liners as she hoisted them up, one on each arm. She dropped them onto the sorry-looking rubber ground. ’M sellin’ this lo’. ‘Av a look.

At her invitation, they started rifling through the liners. Some of her belongings fell untidily to the ground as they rummaged among the mishmash of contents. Oy, Donnie, one of them called across the Runway. Come ‘ere. Carter’s having a fuckin’ jumble sale!

The lads jumped the railings and joined the scavenging. Madison hadn’t seen Donnie for a long time; not since that night he’d ended up in a fist fight with Raz after fingering his girlfriend in one of the garages. Raz had come off worse and the girl – Madison couldn’t remember her name – had left Raz for Donnie. She didn’t know if they were still together.

Fuck’s sake, Carter, what you getting rid of all this shit for? someone asked.

Tol’ yer. ‘Ad a clear out. Don’ need it so fought I’d make a few quid.

Jodie’s eyes narrowed. You done something to your hair? Why you wearing that hoodie?

Madison told her the story. The one she’d prepared about Deidre’s salon, her Mum’s treat and the stylist who’d got the colour and the cut wrong. She thought Jodie believed it; and even if she hadn’t, a kerfuffle over the DVD player stole everyone’s attention at just the right moment. Donnie said he wanted it; he reckoned he could sell it to Jezza or one of his mates. Jodie’s mate Amber had her eye on it too; she’d just bought her son a new TV for his room.

Donnie got his way, of course. Madison knew that he’d pay her less than she wanted and then sell it on for a profit. She could guess what he’d use the money for too, but she didn’t mind. She wasn’t here to judge. All she wanted was to sever the last remaining links to the life she’d once lived; to close the door on times past and allow herself the freedom to move on. So she sold him the DVD player. He took the phone too.

’S like a fucking brick this thing, Carter, he told her. How long you had it?

Jodie took the makeup, Amber the CDs and DVDs; she told Madison she’d had good taste in movies, with the exception of a couple she’d discarded because she thought they were boring. Then Donnie managed to knock one of the CDs off the top of the pile and the case cracked; despite the fact it was his fault, he told Madison that she owed Amber a discount. She didn’t argue.

Jodie’s other mate, whose name Madison didn’t know, bought some of the clothes, then rang her sister Toni, who came down with cash for the rest. Madison thought the jeans would be too skinny for her, but she insisted. One of the lads who’d been with Donnie – a scrawny, uncoordinated thing – gave Madison what little he had for the jewellery, telling her it would do for his girlfriend.

It was worth more than he offered her for it, but she took pity on him. The scrawny lad emptied his pockets while Donnie mocked him mercilessly from the side lines. Madison was going to give him the box to carry the jewellery in, but it ended up being smashed against the bottom of the roundabout. The lads had started throwing it around, and Donnie didn’t catch it in time when one of them sent it hurtling through the air towards him. The hinge detached completely, then. Donnie stamped on it until it shattered, still laughing at his mate for being such a pussy when it came to Candice. There was a time when Madison might have been angry; in years gone by, she’d probably have screamed at him. Today, her composure won out. Because none of it mattered. There was only the tranquillity now.

She stalked away from the Runway soon after, leaving the last of the spoils with Jodie and Amber, telling them they could do whatever they liked with what was left. She asked Donnie to let Johnno know there was an old television gathering dust in her house. She wouldn’t be there when he came for it, but she supposed Mum or Uncle Sean would let him in.

Then she headed home. Her arms ached and her feet were heavy, but the pockets of her jeans were lined with the cash she’d managed to collect.

Her skin was almost shed. She was at the edge of the darkness now.

The light, and all its enticing possibilities, awaited.

She found the flowers propped against the doorstep when she arrived back at Meredith Court. The delivery driver had tucked a note inside the cellophane cushioning the snow-white lilies to explain that he’d tried knocking, but there had been no answer. In some ways, she thought, they looked sad; lying there, waiting for someone to love them. In others, they were perfect; their long stems stretching out towards heaven, the petals of each flower raised up on stilts of thick green.

Madison kneeled down to pick them up, grasping the crinkled plastic wrapping between her fingers. She knew, instinctively, that he’d sent them. They couldn’t have come from anyone else. No other man she knew would have been so callous and bitter, so vindictive or so cruel as to have sent her funeral flowers.

But then, he was a man who could never bear to lose.

She knew they’d let him out. She hadn’t followed what had been happening measure for measure, beat for beat; she’d been too consumed in her own plans, or else encased in the hazy mist that descended whenever she shot herself up. But she’d registered enough. She’d seen the paper in Old Man Singh’s shop; he’d been on the front page.

She’d known since the day she’d stood outside the Town Hall – when their eyes had met for that fleeting semblance of a second – that they had unfinished business. The humiliation he’d endured would have been enough on its own, but for her to have witnessed it first-hand was more than Robert Grainger would ever have been able to stand. The look that had flitted across his gaze when he’d seen her had been indescribable.

He’d never been able to see past that day. The day Alice had been conceived. From then on, he’d made it his first and final want to dispose of Whitechapel – to dispose of her. The lengths he’d gone to – not all of which she’d fully understood – had been plentiful. Now everything had come unravelled.

And he blamed her.

She knew he blamed her. Because everything – the fight over the Tower, the row over Whitechapel, the anger they’d all levelled at Victoria, the reason the police had come knocking at his door – it all came back to her.

She let herself in to the house and flopped onto the couch, still holding the lilies. She spotted a small greetings card poking out from behind the pink ribbon that the florist had tied around the bouquet. Extracting it, she read the words he’d had printed there:

You know what you need to do.

Of course she knew.

But not because Robert Grainger had told her. Because she’d already decided. She’d known from the moment she’d woken up that morning and savoured the sunlight.

This was her day.

She didn’t own a vase, because no one had ever sent her flowers and she’d never have thought to buy them for herself. She thought Mum and Uncle Sean had one, but she wasn’t going to ask them, so she filled a pint glass with water and placed the lilies on the windowsill.

The glass had been filthy when she’d found it, stuffed at the back of the cupboard, but even that was fortuitous; it had served as a useful reminder of everything she still needed to do.

She spent a while gazing at the flowers then set about cleaning the house. She swiped the used needles that she’d slid down the side of the couch – her traditional hiding place in case anyone ever came round – and cleared the plastic trays that had been lazily abandoned throughout the room. She threw everything into the outside bin – the bottles, the cans, even her old Jack Daniels tin where she kept her junk. There was hardly any of it left now; she’d used it all and she was never going to see Danny Barton again. There was no reason to hang on to it.

She washed every surface, using a wet cloth to scrub away every inch of dirt and grime that had built up over weeks and months of slovenly living. Her muscles ached with every stroke. She cleaned the sink, the