“I’m scared, Florian. I think they’re going to work out how to get in tonight. They want me to kill myself, Florian. And I don’t want to, but I can’t hold them back much longer.”

  My breath stopped in my throat. “I know, mon chèri, but I’m here to help fight them. We’re going to face them together.”

  Hesitating, I slid my hand down his arm and closed it over one of his. He flinched but didn’t pull away as I rubbed my thumb across his dry, cold skin. So fucking cold. He was only dressed in a pair of wrinkled suit trousers. How long had he been cowering on these ceramic floor tiles?

  “Can I… can I give you a hug? It’s not very warm in here, Charles. I’m cold, too.”

  Anguished grey eyes turned up to mine again. I couldn’t bear to think of the terror going on behind them. “Have you brought any salt with you?”

  Edging on hysteria, I almost laughed. “What?”

  “Salt,” he repeated, his voice urgent. “Your special salt. Have you brought any?”

  Answering in the affirmative felt dreadfully important. I patted my free hand down my body, checking my pockets. Most days, I had little baggies of salt stashed all over the place; I gave them to friends, dished them out to passing tourists, took a handful home to sprinkle on my dinner. Delving into my coat inner pocket, my fingers landed on my passport, a packet of gum, and some loose change. Then skimmed across crinkly plastic, and, sending up a prayer of thanks, I withdrew a tiny clear sachet of fleur de sel. Under any other circumstance, I’d be amused I’d managed to get through customs without being stopped.

  “Yes, here.”

  I held it out. His anxious picking calmed a little, although he made no move to take it from me. My movements slow and deliberate, I made a space next to him and sat. Tentatively, I slid an arm around his bony back, wrapping him up in the last of my hope. I pulled him close until his head rested on my shoulder.

  “Better?”

  “Better.”

  I offered again and he took the tiny salt packet from me. He turned it over and over, studying the wafer-thin flakes as if deciphering their purpose, mesmerised by the play of the dim streetlight reflected across the glittering crystals. Then, in a swift movement, he palmed it.

  I couldn’t resist asking. “Why do you want my salt?”

  Tipping his head up, his expression softened into a pitying smile as though I was the mad one. As if I was dumb as shit because the answer was so fucking obvious. And despite the crud on his face and the stink of fear and the knowledge that in a minute I’d phone Marcus and he’d whisk Charles away and deliver him to professionals who knew how to care for him, I dropped my mouth to his and kissed him. Because I fucking loved him so much.

  “Because it’s silver,” he said simply. “Like you. And salt kills slugs, non?

  CHAPTER 28

  FLORIAN

  Laden with a physical and emotional exhaustion no amount of sleep could fix, I pushed open my front door. Helter-skeltering from one disintegrating brain to another. My frayed nerves hung by a thread; I’d have given anything, at that moment, to have lived alone.

  Papi, Jerome, and Nico greeted me, immersed in a rowdy game of dominoes. Each had a pile of coins in front of them, Papi’s being the largest.

  “Here’s my boy.”

  As everyone looked up, Papi swept most of Jerome’s coins over to his side of the table. I’d read somewhere that board games and quizzes were good for stimulating fading brainpower. Seemed that part of Papi’s brain worked just fine. “Just in time, Florian! Are you going to join in so I can take some money off you too?”

  Not wanting Papi to fret or ask too many questions, I hadn’t told him I was travelling to England. I’d made an excuse about visiting the salt cooperative on the neighbouring island. There was every likelihood he wouldn’t remember anyhow.

  “Give a man a second to walk through the door, Papi.” Even my voice was weary. “It’s been a long day.”

  And night. With a mixture of back-rubbing and hushed promises, a strung-out Charles had eventually nodded off, clutching the salt as if it were the one thing keeping him safe. I’d eased his phone out of his trouser pocket to call Marcus, only to be blindsided by Charles’s screensaver, a snap of our laughing painted faces squashed together. Spliced underneath was a picture of my shimmering salt marsh at sunset, the very last photo I’d sent him. Pulling myself together after that had taken an age, and then I’d spoken to Marcus, whose French turned out to be a smidge better than my English. And after that, everything happened in an efficient, clinical blur. As a cold dawn crept over the city rooftops, I suddenly found myself alone and shivering on the pavement outside Charles’s apartment with tears streaming down my face and wishing I was back home.

  And now I was here, and wishing I was back there. Not that I’d be able to help. My head pounded and a gritty dryness, that no amount of rubbing would diminish, lodged behind my eyes. Churning nausea accompanying too much travel and not enough sleep had me swaying in the doorway. Nico’s eyes bored into mine, asking questions, and I gave him a minute shake of my head.

  “These two here have got a lot to learn,” Papi prattled on. “When I was a lad, we spent every Sunday evening playing dominoes. We had tournaments at school, too.”

  Because I really needed to hear a story about the glorious past right now.

  “Isn’t that right Florian? Your grandma Beatrice is a demon. She beats everyone. Don’t you remember, Florian, when you were small, how we used to… ”

  I gritted my teeth against the tide of irritation flooding through me. “Yes. Papi. If you don’t mind, I might just… I think I might…“

  “I was only laughing with your grandmother earlier today about the time that your mother and sisters....”

  I couldn’t stand it another second. “Non. Sorry, Papi, but you weren’t.”

  A domino clattered to the floor as his merry smile faltered.

  “You weren’t,” I repeated, like the unfeeling bastard I was. Already hating myself for spoiling his little story but doing it anyhow. “You weren’t laughing with her, and you weren’t talking to her. Because, you know, Papi? Sometimes things just aren’t as we want them to be, and sometimes we just have to accept the truth of how they really are. And for you, that means…”

  “Hey, Flor.” Nico pointed a finger at me, his tone sharp. “Not now, okay?”

  His eyes flashed a warning and mine flashed right back. They could all go to fuck. I was tired of listening to this shit. I was tired of caring for people and I was tired of being told what to do and I was tired of fucking everything. “Yes, now. He wasn’t talking to my grandmother, because…”

  “Florian. I said leave it.” Nico’s chair skidded noisily on the tiled floor, drowning out the rest of my words.

  “Papi,” Jerome butted in, “Let me pour you another glass of wine. And I need your advice about bringing up children. Specifically, when to buy them their first set of boules.”

  I stomped up the stairs, Nico hot on my heels.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No.”

  I flung my bag against the wall and myself across the bed. Hot tears pricked at my eyelids, and I covered my face with my hands.

  “Do you want to get absolutely smashed then shout and scream and hit something?”

  Mon dieu, yes. Then sleep and never wake up.

  “Well tough. Because that’s not going to happen. Tell me how he is. Not good, obviously.”

  I shook my head. That was one way of describing it. “Very, very not good. Fucking horrific, actually.”

  I let out a dry sob and the bed dipped as Nico made himself comfortable next to me. He made a patting noise. Turning over, I crawled onto his chest and he wrapped me in his arms.

  “We’ll pretend I never did this, okay?”

  I treated his shirt to a snotty snort.

  “Let me explain what’s going to happen. You’re going to tell me all about it, have a good cry, and then tuck yourself into bed and get some sleep. Jerome and I will sort out Papi. And then tomorrow, you will get up, put on your clothes, collect your tools, open up your shack and rake some salt. And the day after you will do the same. And the day after that.”

  “I’ve messed up with Papi, haven’t I?”

  Nico laughed, rumbling under my ear. He rubbed my back with his warm hand, causing my hot tears to breach the last barrier. “No, because he’ll have forgotten all about it by tomorrow.”

  The back rub turned into a tight cuddle. Nico was one of those rare straight men who hugged other men without a trace of self-consciousness. Nonetheless, he must have been worried about me if he was doing this. He let me sob into his neck for a while, and I tried not to imagine where Charles was at that moment. I hoped he was being treated with utmost kindness. Marcus had promised his money would buy him the best care available, and I guess I had to trust him on that.

  “There’s a box of tissues by the bed,” I said. I had a feeling I’d be needing more than a box over the coming days.

  Nico chuffed as he reached for a handful. “I can’t imagine what those are usually used for. Putain, and the box is nearly empty.”

  “My boyfriend left me; I’ve been very lonely. Haven’t you heard?”

  “I’ve heard nothing else for the last month, Flor.”

  I blew my nose, noisily. “I think I’d like to develop temporary dementia. So I could forget the last fucking twenty-four hours.”

  “That bad?”

  I gave my nose another unattractive blow.

  Nico winced. “I’m beginning to appreciate why he left you.”

  “Whatever you’re imagining happened in London, times it by ten. And what’s worse, I think that was probably the last time I’ll ever see him. Marcus—his friend, allegedly—said if it’s like his previous episode, then he won’t be allowed to see people for a while anyhow. And it’s not like he was great at keeping in touch before.”

  “Perhaps that was because he was ill? From what you said, his head was all over the place. People like that, once they sink down, they don’t remember to call friends and arrange visits and all that polite stuff, do they?”

  Nico was most probably right. Even if he wasn’t, it was a soothing way of looking at things. Until Charles’s panicked phone call, I’d been bereft, but also annoyed he’d dropped me like a stone, even as part of me knew it was because he wasn’t coping well. And now, I had my answer. Not abandoned, just lost, as the illness took hold, along with his ability to cook and wash and manage his affairs. I’d take it as an explanation.

  “And maybe, Flor, for your own good, you should draw a line under him. For what it’s worth, I think you’ve done the right thing by rescuing him, but now it’s time to move on. Remember, he knows where you live if he ever wants to find you.”

  An ugly sob escaped. “I don’t know if I can do that.”

  “I know you don’t, but you will. It’s the right thing. He will come back here if he wants to, when he’s well. But you can’t mope around waiting for that. It might never happen. And he… he might be a changed person the other side of this.”

  “I love him, Nic. Out of nowhere, I wasn’t even looking, and wham!”

  “That’s how love works, Flor. Look at Jerome. It finds you when you’re least expecting it, with the person you’re least expecting. And sometimes it doesn’t work out. We’ll get you through this, I promise.”

  Lovesickness wasn’t a valid excuse for unpaid bills. Taking Nico’s advice, I dragged myself out of bed the next morning and went back to work. After all, when your dreams came untrue, what else was left? Somewhere in London, in a hospital, a sick man lived through an indescribable nightmare, and I couldn’t dwell on that right now. He was in a good place. And I had salt to harvest and a cooperative to run.

  Before I left, I made Papi’s breakfast. An ominous overcast sky darkened the kitchen. No breeze either. That figured. Shit salt weather. Even the goldfinches had flown.

  Papi sat in his favourite chair, accepting my reassurance that his clothes were his own with less aplomb than usual. He chewed through his coffee-soaked bread more quietly, too. I wondered if somewhere in his addled mind he recalled my unpleasantness of last night.

  “What are your plans for today?” I asked.

  “Not much. The usual. The diary says I’m playing boules with Paul at four. I’ll wander down and say hello to Beatrice afterwards, if the rain holds off.”

  With a bowed head, he concentrated on eating. A tuft of white hair stuck up in a different direction to the rest, where he’d missed it with the old-fashioned gloop he used to stick it down. Reaching out a hand, I smoothed it flat for him.

  “That’s nice,” I managed. “Say… say hello to her from me, won’t you?”

  He nodded and swallowed. “I do every day. She likes hearing about you. She’s ever so proud of you leading the cooperative. We both are.”

  We weren’t much for physical affection with one another, but I patted his hand. It distracted me from the huge fucking lump in my throat, which I blamed on too little sleep and a torrid twenty-four hours. Papi didn’t notice anything amiss. He tore off another strip of stale bread and dipped it in his coffee.

  “Good salt weather, isn’t it?”

  I stirred my coffee. “It is.”

  CHAPTER 29

  CHARLES

  I hadn’t envisaged fighting this battle more than once, but here we were again. How did you wake up from a nightmare when you were not even asleep?

  I’d properly thrown myself into La La Land this time—the episode earlier this year had been nothing more than a warmup for the main event. Then I’d been skating on thin ice, now I was submerged under and thousands of miles from a blow hole. For a couple of weeks, I even believed I was one of them. A demon shadow. A cockroach, the physical embodiment of filth. Erratic, fast-moving, catching folk out, delighting in exposing to everyone the futility of their fortresses. And then, in a flash, I switched to a speeding train, hurtling through a narrow black tunnel, all the stations whizzing by in a blur. Florian stood at one, waving to me. We didn’t stop. My mother tried to flag us down at another. We didn’t stop. And for hours, days, weeks on end, I braced to crash.

  Don’t get me wrong, losing control of my mind was terrifying, but so much fucking worse were the lucid moments, the bright spots of awakening when I realised where I was and how I’d landed there. Because the clarity only served to underline my insanity. At least I’d managed not to kill myself. And, I was later told, I had Florian to thank for that.

  After four weeks, Marcus was allowed to visit. He filled me in on a few details. Thanks to the right balance of medication, my paranoia had, by and large, receded, leaving me with a dull ache of low mood and on suicide watch, although everyone pretended I wasn’t. Frankly, I couldn’t muster the energy to kill myself and what was even more bizarre, I didn’t especially want to.

  “Good to see you on the up, old chap. What’s the food like in here? Any good? It should be, this place is costing enough.”

  “Possibly.”

  I pushed a box of chocolates over to him. Any calories were good calories at this stage, according to my nurse. As long as I regained strength. “Have my share, too.”

  I watched him, a man I realised I didn’t know at all, rifle through the top layer and then the bottom, hunting for his favourite variety. Having located it, he picked out all the matching ones from both layers. Anyone on the ward with a penchant for hazelnut swirls was in for a disappointment. He popped one in his mouth, loudly crunching the nut.

  “Wife’s left me. Shagging one of the kid’s teachers apparently.” He swallowed and picked up the next chocolate. “Good luck to him; he’ll need it, the poor sod.”

  “Sorry to hear that, Marcus.” Sounded like an appropriate response. My muzzy brain was a little out of practice.

  “She’s not getting the house, that’s for sure. Nor the Bugatti. The divorce is going to cost me a bloody fortune.”

  This morning, my daily conversation with my therapist had ventured onto the topic of my future. Only in vague terms, because orange still had a tendency to flare up whenever I was expected to make any kind of definitive choices. At breakfast however, I’d selected Weetabix without a hint of anxiety, which she’d praised. Like I was a fucking toddler. Anyhow, my homework for the next few days was to create two lists. Not to think about it too much, but to write on one list all the people and things that I liked. It, or they, could be something as mundane as a particular breed of dog, or Granny Smith apples, or as esoteric as Dadaism. So far, the list had Florian’s name at the top and the words silver and salt underlined below.

  Marcus, I decided, as he proceeded to outline a conniving divorce strategy rendering his long-suffering wife penniless, would head up the other list.

  My therapist refused to let me phone Florian. Which placed her in grave danger of ending up on the other list too. She laughed when I threatened her with it.

  “Whatever. You’re not supposed to like me, Charles.”

  “Good, because I don’t.”

  At some point during my illness, I’d become quite childish. Especially when I didn’t get what I wanted. I had been warned that was normal, thus my mini-tantrum left her unfazed.

  “Florian won’t appreciate hearing from you when you’re like this, I can assure you,” she declared, for about the fifth time. “You’ll thank me later for not letting you phone him.”

  “And I can assure you, I really won’t.”

  “Ask me again a year from now.”

  “I hope I don’t know you a year from now.”

  That made her laugh, too. “So do I.”

  I sulked after that. For at least a couple of weeks. On some days, Weetabix and the bloody medications were the only sustenance that passed my lips. So they started mumbling about feeding tubes and electroconvulsive therapy, and although I told them to fuck off, I began eating ham and mustard sandwiches. Meanwhile, the list of things I liked grew. I added painting to it, so they brought me an easel and some oil paints. I made a complete fucking mess with them but thoroughly enjoyed myself. Or as much as a person locked up in a psychiatric unit was able.