She went back to the clinic a few days later. Where else was there to go? She didn't even try to go quietly this time. It was midday, all cameras blazing, and the newspaper headlines seemed like the most irrelevant thing in the world. Outside, I spotted Mr Mulligrent giving a television interview, the sweat gleaming on his broad forehead under the bright light.
She stayed longer this time, long enough that I was allowed in for a visit. I had hoped I'd see her changed, looking healthier, happier. But she was grey and jittery, smoking cigarette after cigarette, drinking strong black coffee.
"Do you know what they said to me here?" she said. "They said, just keep going. That's it, that's all of it. When you're going through hell, just keep going. But I don't know if I'm strong enough."
Tears leaked out of her eyes, her nose started to run. What is it in me that still found her beautiful? Is that a force for good or for ill?
"You are," I said, "you are. You're stronger than you know."
She cried a little more, and scrubbed at her nose with a dirty tissue.
"Why has it happened so quickly?" she said, "it was so good and now it's just …"
"I think maybe it's like mirrors," I said, "like physics. The law of reflection. The angle of incidence is equal to the angle of reflection. The faster you come in, the faster you're going to go out." I drew a little diagram on the table with my finger.
She sniffed and wiped her nose. She could not seem to stop the tears from falling. "I just want to stop," she said, "that's all I want now."
