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was rigid, her hands clasped before her, pleading. ‘Go to her,’ she whispered. ‘Go fuck her. I don’t care any more.’
    â€˜You’re twisted,’ I shouted. ‘You’re twisted, you know that? ’
    â€˜You’re killing me,’ she whispered, her voice dissolving in her tears. She pulled her hands up to her face and buried it in them.
    An intense wave of fury ripped through me. I stepped across the floor to her and pulled the hands from her face.
    â€˜You listen to me,’ I said, my voice trembling with rage. ‘You can’t just go saying things like that. You know what you are saying is not true.’
    â€˜Really?’
    â€˜You know it isn’t,’ I whispered through clenched teeth. ‘You should apologise.’
    The kettle bubbled and began to whistle quietly. Daiva looked up and a slight sneer twisted her lips.
    â€˜Make me.’
    The kettle shrilled more loudly. The rising pillar of steam jigged in the breeze from the window. My hand flew up from my side. I felt it move as if I had no control over it. It rose in slow motion; we both watched it rise. I felt the sharp sting on my palm as it made contact with her cheek. Saw her head jerk aside. Her hair flicked forwards, hiding her face. She gasped. My hand hung suspended in the air, where her face had been, the palm itching. I drew it back, rubbed it. The kettle juddered on the hob, the steam billowing up towards the ceiling, clouding the kitchen. Daiva dropped to her knees and crumpled forwards. For a moment she was silent and then a low howl broke from her. Her body trembled. She curled over into a ball, shuddering, lost in her crying.
    Kneeling beside her, I felt the tears welling in my own eyes. Gently I touched her on the shoulder. I brushed the hair back from her cheek, ran my fingers across the smooth silk curve of her back. I took her arm, tried to pull her close to me. She resisted. She clenched herself tightly. A ball of pain.
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ I whispered.
    Above us, on the hob, the kettle shrieked. I stood and lifted it carefully, using a towel so as not to burn my fingers. I turned off the flame and stood and leant forwards across the cooker, feeling the scorching heat of the steam dampen my forehead, condense in my hair like dew on a spider’s web. On the floor behind me Daiva did not move. She cried softly, unstoppably.
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ I said, but already my heart was hardening, irritated by her refusal to listen. A bitter little thought niggled at the back of my head. She had won. I crushed the idea immediately.
    â€˜Really, I’m sorry,’ I said. But I turned then, feeling the anger building again.
    Going into the bedroom, I dressed quickly. The baby was still sleeping in the cot and I stopped for a moment by her side and leant down and brushed my fingers across the soft down on her head. When she stirred, I stepped back quickly, fearing I had woken her. I hesitated in the doorway. Daiva had not moved.
    Outside, I lifted my head and gazed up into the darkness. The clouds hung low, scraping soft-bellied across the roofs of the nine-storey apartment blocks. I closed my eyes, pressed my fingers into the sockets, squeezing, until star bursts kaleidoscoped across the skin of my eyelids. A ripple of sorrow brushed across my face. Settled on it. When I lifted my fingers and opened my eyes, the dots and stars whirled across the sky, flashing among the street lamps and the brilliant sudden glow of headlights. A car engine roared, as someone revved it hard. My mind was spinning in the tail of the light particles. I felt the ground shift and open a crack. My hands trembled and my feet almost turned in the direction of the bar on the corner, in the basement of the five-storey block just off Freedom Boulevard. I stopped, Davia’s voice tolling in my ear. ‘It won’t help. It’s not an answer.’
    â€˜I know,’ I said, then looked