not tightly but restricted. She moved her thumb, felt her skin crack and a searing pain shoot through her palm.
‘Good.’ His hand rested on hers, his fingers warm.
She moved her thumb again, easier, less pain. She felt tearful, tense, yet she so wanted to say something. He kept talking, his voice steady and reassuring. He tapped the tip of her forefinger gently. ‘What about this finger? Can you move that?’
It was difficult, a small movement, but he saw it. ‘Good. So we’ll make it a finger for yes, and the thumb for no. That OK with you, sweetheart?’
She thought for a moment, then twitched her finger.
‘You fancy a wee chat? My name’s Alan.’
Yes, I know. She twitched her finger.
‘Look, love, we know what happened to you, and we can find out who did it.’ Strong words, but the voice remained friendly. He sounded very young. ‘But the first problem is, we don’t know who you are...’
She listened hard to his voice, so young, so sympathetic. But so few words – could she judge? She kept still.
‘Do you have any memory of what happened to you, anything at all?’
Conversational? Concerned? She kept still.
‘OK, OK.’ He didn’t speak for a while. She wondered if he was going to trip himself up, imagined him contemplating his next question. ‘Look, I’m not stupid, and I don’t think you are either.’ The voice paused. ‘You made a good attempt at covering your tracks, but a trained eye can always see things.’ She felt fear prickle at the back of her neck. ‘You were in labour, yet the last thing you did before you went out that door was to wash bits of burned photograph down the sink. Must have been important to you.’
She heard him move, shifting closer. ‘Somebody got to you. They’ll come after you again. You know they will. They might come after the baby.’
He wasn’t threatening her; he was stating fact. She was sure he would hear the panic of her heart as it slapped against her chest. She kept her fingers still.
After a moment he said, ‘If there’s anybody we could contact for you, let them know how you are?’
She stayed still.
His voice softened. ‘What about the guy who gave you the ring? Your husband? Fiancé? Was he involved in the attack?’
The thumb jerked. No.
‘He’s a good guy, then?’
Piet, smiling at her, on the yacht, the wind ruffling his hair, his Steve McQueen smile . . . she watching as the flames ate the photograph, the black flakes disappearing down the drain in a torrent of water...
Eventually her finger twitched.
‘I see.’ She felt his fingers, warm and soft, caress her hand. He had the same gentle touch as Piet.
This was a man used to talking to women.
I want to hold my daughter.
‘But I’ll have to call you something. What do you fancy?’ His hand was still stroking hers. ‘You have long blonde hair. Rapunzel?’ She had no idea what he was talking about, but she could tell he was teasing her. ‘Alice in Wonderland? Oh, I know – Anastasia. They can’t work out who she is either. Anna for short.’
Anastasia and the rest of the Romanovs? They had had their precious stones, their diamonds, all the wealth they could take with them, sewn into their clothes. They didn’t make it.
She could remember holding a pile of uncut pure diamonds, almost warm to the touch, in her hands. They were secure now, wrapped in black velvet in a safe-deposit box in Edinburgh. They were safe, safe for their child, but she herself wasn’t. A tear of pain bit into her eyes to remind her. Her life was precarious.
‘I’ve got a present for you . . . we took them from your room – your ring, the watch, it’s all there.’
Her finger twitched.
‘Here’s the ring. I thought it was silver, but Mappin & Webb tell me it’s an imperfect blue diamond set in platinum, a one-off. Why were you in a bedsit with a diamond worth a fortune?’
There was no response.
‘Did the guy who owns the watch give you the ring?’
Again her thumb twitched, twice.
‘OK.’ The voice was conciliatory. ‘Just make sure someone doesn’t take them. Things go missing in hospitals, you know.’
Her finger twitched three – four – times.
Silence hung thick around them for a minute or two.
‘Anna, are you saying you want me to keep them for you?’
A single twitch of her finger.
‘All right, I’ll keep them safe, I promise.’
She heard the chair scrape, sensed his shadow move, as he stood up.
‘The wean looks fine.’ Wean? A word she didn’t know. ‘They all look the same to me, but the nurses seem to think she’s a pretty wee thing. Do you have a name for her?’
She heard him walk over to the cot. ‘Can I pick her up?’
Her heart began to race. Maybe, if she concentrated really hard, he would know. She raised her finger.
‘Well, look at you, eh? Oh, don’t cry now.’ Then his voice changed. ‘Have you seen – sorry, held her?’
Please. She twitched her thumb. Oh, understand – please.
‘She’s got blue eyes, blonde hair, extremely pretty. Takes after her mum.’
She twitched her thumb at him, telling him he didn’t know that, turned her head as far as the dressings would allow. The baby was quiet now.
Please.
‘Here.’ His voice was nearer now. She could smell mint – he had just cleaned his teeth. He guided her hand the inch or two the restraints would permit to something on the bed beside her, something warm, breathing, living. ‘Anna, meet your daughter. Small person, this is your mother.’
Her daughter’s head. Her fingers, stiffly at first and painfully, were exploring all the little pulses and bumps and fontanelles, seeing as blind people see, creating a picture in her mind of downy eyebrows, little wisps of eyelashes, the soft chubby flesh of a cheek. Her daughter.
