Page 68 of Famous Last Words

And, anyway, Cam does have things to lose. She acts like she doesn’t, she tells herself she doesn’t, but she does: the memory of him. That belief she has that is sometimes weak and sometimes cast iron: that he was good. If he had a hand in a murder before the siege, then she has to stop telling herself that taking hostages was some sort of mistake, something he was forced to do, a no-win situation. It will cheapen his legacy, for ever.

She leaves Sarah Carpenter House, and then Whitechapel, rattled, alone. She hurries to the station the way you might rush up the stairs after turning the light out. She tells herself it’s nothing, her imagination, reading too many thrillers, but, at the last moment after she has boarded the DLR at Shadwell, a man gets on too, a full carriage away, all in black. The same man? She can’t tell. She tries to look at his face, but he takes off down the crowded train, away from her, his walk quick. As she strains to watch his tall, retreating form, she wonders if it could be her husband, but she’d know that, wouldn’t she? Wouldn’t she?

33

Libby: Gordon’s.

Libby: Just us two??

Cam: Sure

Libby: Can you be less enthusiastic?

Cam: Sure!!!!!!

It’s the beginning of Libby’s fortieth celebrations, but as Cam approaches Gordon’s Bar that evening, she finds she’d rather be anywhere else. Polly is with a sitter; Libby and Cam always spend their birthdays together, something Luke and Si used to complain about.

Cam’s mind is swirling with new information. The unknown woman approaching her, then not arriving at their meeting point, and tenuous links to funerals and the slightly grubby feeling of having been to a graveside that has nothing to do with her.

Libby has already got herself a glass of wine. Cam clocks it and understands immediately: the IVF is not up for discussion. It is a semaphore, a message conveyed without words. Cam feels a guilty stab that Libby feels she has to do this, still, all these years into it. She points to it as Cam arrives. ‘You and I are going to get fucking pissed.’

‘Any particular reason?’

‘Just birthday.’

Cam sits down, her insides cringing. She doesn’t want to get drunk, stay out late.

Gordon’s is London’s oldest wine bar. It is underground, candlelit, the walls porous, the ceilings above great semi-circles over their heads, built into the old Tube. Even though it’s still light outside, down here it’s night-time, which suits Cam just fine.

‘But firstly,’ Libby says.

‘What?’

‘We were phoned today about your application. Seems they reach out to everybody to verify Luke is really gone,’ Libby says, but to her credit she does say it cagily.

‘Oh,’ Cam says. She gestures to the wine. ‘OK – yes. Load me up. What did they want to know?’

‘Basically, if he’s ever made contact.’

‘Oh, great,’ Cam says drily. ‘Just stick it on the form if he reaches out to you, right?’

‘Sure will,’ Libby says. ‘I don’t know how you put up with the admin over this – it’s so dystopian.’

‘No choice.’

‘Still.’

‘I’ll probably never move, now. Not for ages, anyway. I don’t get the impression it’ll be a quick process,’ Cam says, but what she doesn’t add is that she’s glad of this. That the moving on can be protracted and painful. Let it be so. Let his side of the bedroom stay the way it is, for ever.

They sit and sip. Neither of them can hold their drink but, really, Cam just wants to sink into it now that Luke’s come up. This candlelit night, this artificial liquid happiness, the past.

‘They’ve asked for our recollection of the events. I guess to check they match yours,’ Libby continues.

‘Hmm,’ Cam says, and perhaps something betrays her on her face, perhaps her sister just knows her well, she isn’t sure which, but Libby says:

‘What?’ She swirls her drink like a wine taster, red staining the edges of the glass.

‘Nothing.’

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