Loneliness, misery, desolation and a vat of thick, stinking guilt in which to bathe – when I could be bothered. The sun never shone in my new world and days would pass when I wouldn’t speak to a single soul. Except Natasha’s soul, that is. I found myself offering her occasional words, like sorry or I love you, but she never replied. She just left me a tingle in the core of my spine and a whisper of cold air on my neck. For a time, that was enough. After a while, I began writing letters to her. They’re all in the Natasha box up in the loft. But it still didn’t feel as if I was connecting with my baby and so strong was the desire to make contact that I went to see a psychic woman. She’d been advertising in our area for a few weeks. Make contact with lost loved ones. It seemed appropriate. When I telephoned Madame Luna, she invited me for an appointment at her little semi-detached house across the other side of town. I took a bus and twenty-five pounds and a notebook and pencil to write down what she said.
