Run: 2026-10-27-01M5YEETH0AYNGS5HFT41F69TP

Rory came down the stairs with a parcel under her arm and found a woman standing beneath the photographs by the door. Rain darkened the shoulders of the woman’s coat. She held a folded umbrella by its crooked handle and studied a picture of Soho after the war. Rory stopped on the last step. The woman turned. Her hair had been cut close to her head, and the silver hoops she used to wear had gone. She wore a charcoal suit beneath her coat, with a strip of white shirt showing at each cuff. “Rory?” The parcel slipped against Rory’s ribs. She caught it before it fell. “Eva.” For a moment, neither moved. Then Eva put down the umbrella and crossed the room. Rory shifted the parcel behind her back so Eva could put her arms around her. The hug pressed a wet patch from Eva’s coat against Rory’s cheek. “You still smell of rain,” Rory said. “You smell of garlic.” “I work in a Chinese restaurant.” “I know. You told me.” Eva stepped back and looked at her. Rory had expected the short hair to make her friend’s face look harder, but it showed the small nick beneath her ear, where she had caught herself with a razor at seventeen. Silas stood behind the bar, polishing a glass. His silver ring struck the stem. “Friend of yours?” “Eva. We grew up together.” Rory laid the parcel on a stool. “This is Silas. I live upstairs.” “Is that what the stairs are for?” Eva glanced at the parcel. “I thought you were bringing him a present.” “It’s a replacement tap.” “The old one dripped,” Silas added. “It sprayed the ceiling.” “That was once.” Eva smiled at him, then took another look at Rory. Rory wore her delivery jacket, unzipped over a black T-shirt, and had scraped her hair behind her ears. There was a grease mark on one sleeve from the chain of her bicycle. “You’re in London,” Eva said. “I’ve been here three years.” “I meant tonight.” Eva took off her coat. “I walked past the green sign and remembered you lived over a bar. I couldn’t remember the name.” “You could have rung.” “I didn’t know whether you’d changed your number again.” “I sent you the new one.” “Two years ago.” Rory pulled out a stool. “You could have rung two years ago.” Eva sat. She set her umbrella against the bar, where it dripped onto the floorboards. Silas placed a cloth beneath it. “What can I get you?” “A lager, please.” “Rory?” “Tea. If there’s milk.” “There’s milk.” Silas filled a glass from the tap. His left leg lagged when he crossed to the kettle, and Rory reached for the mugs before he got there. “I’ve got it.” “I know where they are.” “So do I.” She took two mugs down, and he let her keep them. Eva watched the exchange with her hands folded on the bar. Her nails were short and bare. At school she had painted them with correction fluid whenever a teacher confiscated her polish. “You used to drink whisky,” she said. “I used to drink anything you put in front of me.” “You drank half my father’s whisky and filled the bottle with water.” “You filled it. I held the funnel.” “He blamed me.” “Your little brother blamed you. Your father blamed the dog.” Eva laughed. Rory remembered the kitchen in Cardiff: the yellow cupboards, the dog asleep under the radiator, Eva crouched on a chair with a funnel made from an envelope. She remembered standing guard at the door, enjoying the noise Eva made when she laughed with her mouth full. Silas put Eva’s lager down. “On a tab?” Eva reached into her coat for a card. “Mine,” Rory said. Eva looked up. “I can buy a drink.” “So can I.” “You work here too?” “I wash glasses when Silas needs a hand.” “And fix taps?” “I carry boxes. The plumber fixes taps.” Silas picked up the parcel. “Tomorrow,” Rory told him. “I only wanted to check the label.” “You checked it when it arrived.” He gave her a look, tucked the box under his arm and carried it through the back. Rory poured water over her tea bag. When she turned, Eva had taken the stool beside hers. “I’m in court tomorrow,” Eva said. “That’s why I’m in town. Housing case.” “You’re a solicitor?” “Barrister.” Rory looked at the cuffs, the coat, the umbrella with its polished wooden handle. “You hated barristers.” “I hated your father’s friends.” “You once called one of them a stuffed ham.” “He put his hand on my knee at your birthday lunch.” Rory’s mug knocked against the bar. “You never told me that.” “I told him to move it.” “And then?” “He moved it.” Rory searched Eva’s face. She remembered a long table, her father carving beef, Eva refusing a second helping while his friend poured himself more wine. “I thought you were cross because he called you a little socialist.” “I was cross about that too.” “You should have told me.” Eva took a drink. A thin line of foam stayed on her upper lip; she wiped it away with her thumb. “What would you have done?” “I don’t know. I’d have done something.” “You were sixteen. You’d have gone red and asked him if he wanted potatoes.” Rory wrapped both hands around her mug. The heat reached the crescent scar on her left wrist. “That sounds right.” “It isn’t a charge against you.” “You remembered it, though.” “I remembered him. You brought him up.” The kettle clicked as its metal cooled. At the other end of the bar, a man shut his newspaper and asked Silas for the bill. Coins scraped across the counter. Eva took off her jacket. There was a crease at each elbow, and a loose thread hung from one cuff. She pulled it free and rolled it between her fingers. “I saw your mother in Cardiff last spring,” she said. Rory glanced at her. “She didn’t mention it.” “We met at a crossing. She asked about my work, and I asked about you.” “What did she say?” “That you were well. That you liked London.” “She got half of it.” Eva waited, but Rory drank her tea. She had let it brew too long. “She asked if I’d seen you,” Eva went on. “What did you say?” “The truth.” “That we hadn’t?” “That I’d spoken to you when you left Cardiff, and not much since.” Rory set the mug down. “She rang me after that.” “She didn’t tell me she would.” “She rang to ask why I’d given you my address and not her.” “I didn’t know she hadn’t got it.” “I hadn’t given it to anyone yet. You had the restaurant address.” Eva looked at the coaster beneath her glass. She turned it over, then back. “I gave it to her.” Rory drew her sleeve over the scar. “She came here.” “I’m sorry. She told me she wanted to send you a birthday card.” “She sent a card. Then she came here.” “What happened?” “She stood outside the restaurant until Yu-Fei brought her in. Yu-Fei gave her tea, and I finished my deliveries.” “You wouldn’t speak to her?” “I spoke to her after.” “And?” “She asked when I was coming home. I told her I wasn’t.” Eva ran her finger along the rim of her glass. “I should have asked you first.” “Yes.” The man with the newspaper left. Cold air entered with the sound of traffic and faded when the door shut. Eva’s umbrella had stopped dripping. “She looked frightened,” Eva said. “Your mother.” “She was frightened. I’d stopped answering her calls.” “Why?” “She kept passing the phone to my father.” Eva picked at the edge of the coaster. “He wanted to talk about my degree,” Rory said. “Mum wanted me to talk to him about it. I wanted them both to stop asking when I’d go back.” “You were good at it.” “I passed my exams.” “You used to argue with the lecturer who took your tutorials.” “He told us a woman’s bank statements were evidence that she couldn’t manage money. She’d emptied the account because her husband kept taking her wages.” “You won that argument.” “I went home and looked up the case, and I found out I’d got the dates wrong.” “You never told me that.” “You bought me chips to celebrate. I didn’t want to give them back.” Eva smiled, but Rory kept her eyes on the tea bag string wound around her finger. “You could still finish,” Eva said. “I could.” “Would you want to?” “Not enough to do it.” Eva sat back. She had a small burn on the side of her hand, a pale patch against her skin. “You sound different.” “I’m five years older than the last time you saw me.” “That’s not what I meant.” “What did you mean?” Eva took a breath. “You used to ask me what I thought. About everything. A haircut, a course, whether you should tell your father to stop bringing you application forms.” “I remember.” “You stopped asking after you met Evan.” Rory unwound the string from her finger. “I asked you about him.” “Once.” “You didn’t like him.” “He wouldn’t let you answer a question without answering it for you.” “He let me.” Eva’s eyes met hers. “He did it at the pub. I asked if you wanted another drink, and he told me you’d had enough.” “I had.” “You were halfway through your second.” Rory pulled the tea bag from her mug with a spoon. She laid it on a saucer and pressed it flat. “You came round the next week,” she said. “I brought your umbrella.” “It wasn’t raining.” “You’d left it at my flat.” “You brought it because you wanted to talk about him.” “Yes.” Rory remembered Eva on the doorstep, the umbrella tucked under one arm. Evan had been in the kitchen, making coffee. Rory had kept her voice low, though Eva’s had carried into the hall. “You called him a bully.” “I did.” “I told you to leave.” “You told me I was jealous.” Rory put down the spoon. “I remember that too.” Eva rubbed the loose thread from her cuff between her palms until it disappeared. “You told me I couldn’t stand you having a boyfriend.” “I knew it wasn’t true.” “You knew where to put it, though.” Rory looked towards the back room. Silas had returned to the till; he lifted a bottle from a shelf and checked its label without looking at either of them. “I wanted you to go before he came out,” Rory said. “He’d heard us arguing before. He’d ask questions afterwards.” “You could have come with me.” “I know that now.” “I stood by the gate for an hour.” Rory turned. “Why?” “I thought you’d come out. I thought you’d tell him I’d upset you and take a walk to calm down.” “You should have knocked again.” “He came to the window.” Rory remembered Evan closing the curtains that afternoon. She had asked why, and he had told her the sun was in his eyes. “I didn’t know.” “I went home when it got dark. I kept the umbrella.” “You rang the next day.” “You didn’t answer.” “He’d taken my phone.” Eva gripped her glass. Rory reached for her tea, found it cold, and left it where it was. “I saw the missed calls later,” she said. “I should have rung you back when I got it.” “You rang me when you left.” “Two years later.” “I told you to come to London.” “You did. You found the number for the restaurant too.” “Yu-Fei was looking for someone with a bike.” “I didn’t have one.” “You borrowed mine.” Rory looked down at her stained sleeve. “I still have it.” “The blue one?” “I changed the tyres and the saddle. The bell came off on a bus.” Eva pressed her fingers to her mouth, then lowered them. “That was my brother’s bell.” “He can have it back if he finds the right bus.” Eva laughed, and Rory did too. Eva’s laugh stopped first. “I nearly didn’t answer when you rang,” she said. “I saw your name and let it ring. Then I thought about the umbrella by my front door.” Rory touched the handle of her mug. “I’d have rung again.” “I didn’t know that.” Silas came over with the kettle. “Fresh tea?” Rory nodded and pushed her mug towards him. Eva moved her glass aside to make room. As Silas poured, she picked up the soggy tea bag by its string and carried it to the little bin beneath the counter. “You still take milk?” Rory asked. “Yes.” “You used to put six sugars in.” “Four.” “Six when your mother wasn’t there.” Eva held out her hand for the spoon. “Give me two.”