I cough, a dry, heaving retch, swallowed by the sock balled in my throat. I am beginning to choke. I think of my son. I will never see him now, though

at least I’ll die knowing I had one, and that he is alive, and happy. For that I am glad. I think of Ben. The man I married and then forgot. I want to see him. I

want to tell him that now, at the end, I can remember him. I can remember meeting him at the rooftop party, and him proposing to me on a hill looking out

over a city, and I can remember marrying him in the church in Manchester, having our photographs taken in the rain.

And, yes, I can remember loving him. I know that I do love him, and I always have.

Things go dark. I can’t breathe. I can hear the lap of flames, and feel their heat on my lips and eyes.

There were never going to be any happy endings for me. I know that now. But that is all right.

That is all right.

I am lying down. I have been asleep, but not for long. I can remember who I am, where I have been. I can hear noise, the roar of traffic, a siren that is

neither rising nor falling in pitch but remaining constant. Something is over my mouth – I think of a balled sock – yet I find I can breathe. I am too frightened

to open my eyes. I do not know what I will see.

But I must. I have no choice but to face whatever my reality has become.

The light is bright. I can see a fluorescent tube on the low ceiling, and two metal bars running parallel to it. The walls are close by on each side, and

they are hard, shiny with metal and perspex. I can make out drawers and shelves stocked with bottles and packets, and there are machines, blinking.

Everything is moving slightly, vibrating, including, I realize, the bed in which I am lying.

A man’s face appears from somewhere behind me, over my head. He is wearing a green shirt. I don’t recognize him.

‘She’s awake, everybody,’ he says, and then more faces appear. I scan them quickly. Mike is not among them, and I relax a little.

‘Christine,’ comes a voice. ‘Chrissy. It’s me.’ It’s a woman’s voice, one I recognize. ‘We’re on our way to the hospital. You’ve broken your

collarbone, but you’re going to be all right. Everything’s going to be fine. He’s dead. That man is dead. He can’t hurt you any more.’

I see the person speaking, then. She is smiling and holding my hand. It’s Claire. The same Claire I saw just the other day, not the young Claire I

might expect to see after just waking up, and I notice her earrings are the same pair that she had on the last time I saw her.

‘Claire—’ I say, but she interrupts.

‘Don’t speak,’ she says. ‘Just try to relax.’ She leans forward and strokes my hair, and whispers something in my ear, but I don’t hear what. It

sounds like I’m sorry.

‘I remember,’ I say. ‘I remember.’

She smiles, and then she steps back and a young man takes her place. He has a narrow face and is wearing thick-rimmed glasses. For a moment

I think it is Ben, until I realize that Ben would be my age now.

‘Mum?’ he says. ‘Mum?’

He looks the same as he did in the picture of him and Helen, and I realize I remember him, too.

‘Adam?’ I say. Words choke in my throat as he hugs me.

‘Mum,’ he says. ‘Dad’s coming. He’ll be here soon.’

I pull him to me, and breathe in the smell of my boy, and I am happy.

I can wait no longer. It is time. I must sleep. I have a private room and so there is no need for me to observe the strict routines of the hospital, but I am

exhausted, my eyes already beginning to close. It is time.

I have spoken to Ben. To the man I really married. We talked for hours, it seems, though it may only have been a few minutes. He told me that he

flew in as soon as the police contacted him.

‘The police?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘When they realized you weren’t living with the person Waring House thought you were they traced me. I’m not sure how. I suppose

they had my old address and went from there.’

‘So where were you?’

He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. ‘I’ve been in Italy for a few months,’ he said. ‘I’ve been working out there.’ He paused. ‘I thought

you were OK.’ He took my hand. ‘I’m sorry …’

‘You couldn’t have known,’ I said.

He looked away. ‘I left you, Chrissy.’

‘I know. I know everything. Claire told me. I read your letter.’

‘I thought it was for the best,’ he said. ‘I really did. I thought it would help. Help you. Help Adam. I tried to get on with my life. I really did.’ He

hesitated. ‘I thought I could only do that if I divorced you. I thought it would free me. Adam didn’t understand, even when I explained to him that you wouldn’t

even know, wouldn’t even remember being married to me.’

‘Did it?’ I said. ‘Did it help you to move on?’

He turned to me. ‘I won’t lie to you, Chrissy. There have been other women. Not many, but some. It’s been a long time, years and years. At first

nothing serious, but then I met someone a couple of years ago. I moved in with her. But—’

‘But?’

‘Well, that ended. She said I didn’t love her. That I’d never stopped loving you …’

‘And was she right?’

He did not reply, and so, fearing his answer, I said, ‘So what happens now? Tomorrow? Will you take me back to Waring House?’

He looked up at me.

‘No,’ he said. ‘She was right. I never stopped loving you. And I won’t take you there again. Tomorrow, I want you to come home.’

Now I look at him. He sits in a chair next to me, and although he is already snoring, his head tipped forward at an awkward angle, he still holds my hand. I

can just make out his glasses, the scar running down the side of his face. My son has left the room to phone his girlfriend and whisper a goodnight to his

unborn daughter, and my best friend is outside in the car park, smoking a cigarette. No matter what, I am surrounded by the people I love.

Earlier, I spoke to Dr Nash. He told me I had left the care home almost four months ago, a little while after Mike had started visiting, claiming to be

Ben. I had discharged myself, signed all the paperwork. I had left voluntarily. They couldn’t have stopped me, even if they’d believed there was a reason

for them to try. When I left I took with me the few photographs and personal possessions that I still had.

‘That was why Mike had those pictures?’ I said. ‘The ones of me, and Adam. That’s why he had the letter that Adam had written to Santa Claus?

His birth certificate?’

‘Yes,’ said Dr Nash. ‘They were with you at Waring House, and they went with you when you left. At some point Mike must have destroyed all the

pictures that showed you with Ben. Possibly even before you were discharged from Waring House – the staff turnover is fairly high and they had no idea

what your husband really looked like.’

‘But how would he have got access to the photographs?’

‘They were in an album in a drawer in your room. It would have been easy enough for him to get to them once he started visiting you. He might even

have slipped in a few photographs of himself. He must have had some of the two of you taken during … well, when you were seeing each other, years

ago. The staff at Waring House were convinced that the man who had been visiting you was the same one as in the photo album.’

‘So I brought my photos back to Mike’s house and he hid them in a metal box? Then he invented a fire, to explain why there were so few?’

‘Yes,’ he said. He looked tired, and guilty. I wondered whether he blamed himself for any of what had happened, and hoped he didn’t. He had

helped me, after all. He had rescued me. I hoped he would still be able to write his paper and present my case. I hoped he would be recognized for what

he had done for me. After all, without him I’d—