Kate could feel her cells, her blood, her marrow crystallising in a kind of understanding she was unable to name to herself. She was at home and with no-one to question her. Due to traffic, the journey from York had taken more than five hours. Not once stopping for food, she’d simply driven until the road became familiar again. She’d left behind an image of domestic security and its failure, the calm solidity of people who’d tried their best but had been unable to cope with what had been handed to them, and the uncertainty of hope. When she’d arrived home, it was dark but she’d felt no fear. There was a birthday card from Nicky and the family, which she opened and put on the mantelpiece. She felt nothing. She’d unplugged the telephone, switched off the mobile, drawn the curtains and lain down, fully clothed, on her bed. Her limbs felt as if they belonged to someone else, not her, and she shivered, even though the night was warm. In the end, she stayed there for nearly two days, getting up only to go to the bathroom, both to relieve herself and to quench her raging thirst.
