The Sanatorium(15)

“That was close.” Laure rights herself.

“You okay?”

“Thanks to your quick reaction.”

“Practice.” Elin smiles. “Mum, last year, she kept falling. She used to joke she needed a crash mat, not a carpet.” Her voice catches. She turns away, horrified at the tears springing up in her eyes. Will her grief always be like this? Embarrassingly raw?

Laure studies her. “You looked after her?”

“Yes. More or less full time the last few months. I was on a break from work anyway, so . . .” She can hear herself, explaining it away, making less of it, and corrects herself. “I wanted to do it. We had carers, too, but Mum liked me being there.”

“I didn’t know,” Laure says quietly.

Elin shrugs. “I’m glad I did it.” It’s the truth. She can’t explain it any better. Until it happened, she didn’t know she had the capacity—the patience, the selflessness—but it came easily.

A reflex. Caring for her mother. Giving back. She’d found something intensely rewarding in the fixed nature of the tasks. There was none of the unpredictability of police work, the nagging sense of leaving something unfinished.

“I think it’s amazing. Doing that for someone.” Laure hesitates, voice wobbling slightly. “I’m sorry, you know. Your mum . . . she was a lovely person.”

Elin blinks, taken aback. Another glimpse of the old Laure: easy emotion, both given and received. Nothing wanted in return.

She opens her mouth, about to reply, but the words catch in her throat. Their eyes meet and Elin looks away.

Bending, she gathers the fallen papers into a pile. She realizes it’s not only papers, but photographs too. The image on top is haunting—a row of women sitting outside on the veranda. They’re thin, sickly looking, their eyes turned to the camera. Looking right into hers.

Patients, Elin thinks, shivering at this tangible intrusion of the hotel’s past into its present, suddenly acutely aware of how little separates her from what came before.

All at once, she feels a tightening in her throat. One breath is not following the other as it should, instead hiding, elusive, impossible to grasp. Her chest is heaving, her lungs feeling like they’re filled with something liquid.

Don’t panic. Don’t let it take over. Not here. Not in front of Laure.

Laure looks at her closely. “Is something wrong?”

Elin fumbles in her pocket, clamping her hand around her inhaler. “I’m fine.” Taking a heavy pull on it, she draws the gas deep into her lungs. “Asthma. It’s been worse the last year or so. I don’t think the altitude helps. Or the dust in here.”

Laure nods, still watching her.

It’s a lie. It’s nothing to do with the asthma. She’s been at altitude before, and she can’t remember this feeling.

It’s this place. This building.

Her body is reacting to something here; something living, breathing, woven into the DNA of the building, as much a part of it as its walls and floors.





11





They’re not coming, are they?” Will churns his spoon through the smeared remains of his lemon mousse, and looks at her.

Elin pretends she can’t hear, pushes a forkful of chocolate tart into her mouth. The pastry is crumbly, the chocolate bitter, but the texture is a disappointment—thick and cloying. She slides her plate aside.

“Elin?” Will tries to catch her eye.

She looks at the table. Two squat candles dribbling wax sit in ceramic dishes between them, the flickering flame highlighting the looping grain of the wood. The table holds the dregs of the meal—half-empty wineglasses, a jug of iced water, slick with condensation, the obligatory bread basket that Will always refuses to relinquish.

“El? Are you listening?”

“We said seven thirtyish.”

“Yes”—Will inspects his watch—“and it’s after nine now. I don’t think . . .” He trails off.

Elin picks up her phone. No missed calls. No messages.

Laure and Isaac simply haven’t turned up. Shot through with anger, she reprimands herself: He hasn’t changed. He never will. Why did you think he would?

Tears of frustration and embarrassment pricking her eyes, she turns away, pretending to study the room. It’s busy, nearly all the tables full, humming with chatter. It’s less stark at night, the luminous white of the walls softened by the fire, the candlelight, yet still, the glass. Elin hates it. Hates how vulnerable it makes her feel.

Because of her police training, she prefers environments she can feel in control of, fully aware of any risks, inherent dangers. With this expanse of glass, she hasn’t got that. Even at night, the windows dominate everything. They run the length of the room, a gaping stage set, the darkness outside merging with lurid, staccato reflections of the people inside.

Anything could be out there.

Will laces his fingers in hers. “You’re upset, aren’t you? You expected something”—he hesitates—“different.”

Elin reaches for the jug of water, sloshes some into her glass. “Yes, but I shouldn’t have. This is what he does. It’s a power thing, he gets some weird kick out of knowing I’ll be pissed off. That’s what he wants. A reaction.”