Blood Loss by Kerena Swan (good beach reads .txt) 📕

out, head back and eyes closed but still with her hand firmly gripping the glass on the floor. As I walk past her to pick up the cardboard box, she opens her eyes.

‘What are you doing, Sarah? Leave those there. I want to look at them again.’

‘I want to look at them again too. I’ll bring them straight back.’

I spread the photographs across my bed. It doesn’t take me long to find all the hospital scenes. I put them into a separate paper wallet then go back downstairs to find the hospital identity bracelet. Where did Mum put it? I reach out to shake her shoulder and ask her, then change my mind. She’ll worry I’m up to something and she probably won’t tell me where it is. I’ll look for it instead. It must be here somewhere.

It’s not in the lounge so I go back upstairs. Mum’s room is a mess of discarded clothes, sour bed sheets and leaking toiletries. There’s no sign of the bracelet on the cluttered surfaces and the wardrobe has no shelves. I turn my attention to the chest of drawers and rummage through old pairs of tights, socks and T-shirts. My nose tingles with the smell of unwashed feet and stale talcum powder. She’s disgusting, and I’m ashamed to be associated with her.

I find nothing.

Mum must have put the bracelet into a box or container for safe-keeping. I sweep aside a jumper and dirty underwear then kneel to look under the bed. It’s as cluttered as I expected and I sigh as I pull out armfuls of clothes, a broken hairdryer and dog-eared magazines. When my hand touches a cardboard box, my hopes rise. On closer inspection I can see it’s decorated in a montage of dogs and cats, and covered in a thick layer of disturbed dust. I remove the lid and peer inside.

The contents surprise me. There are old birthday cards I made for her as a child, a tiny hand-knitted cardigan, a small press full of dried flowers, old tickets and a bundle of letters tied together with a length of yellow ribbon. This must be Mum’s memory box. I shift items around gently, looking for the bracelet and find it. Phew. I put it carefully to one side and am about to put the box back when I find myself drawn to the letters.

They might be love letters from Colin Evans. They might reveal whether Mum did have an affair. Not that it matters now. But something about the letters is niggling at me. I don’t know much about handwriting but the script on the envelope seems too delicate and feminine to be a man’s. Too many loops and flourishes.

I untie the ribbon. There are four letters in all. I turn one over, then freeze in disbelief. The sender’s address on the back is The Old Hay Barn, Bow Brickhill. My mind can’t take this in. Was Mum writing to Fiona? Did they both know about the swap? I’ve spent days, no weeks, tracking down my real family and Mum knew where they were the whole time. Keeping the letters out, I place the lid on the box and thrust it under the bed. I pick up the bracelet and letters, and leave the room.

Back in my bedroom I grab handfuls of photographs from my bed and chuck them haphazardly back in the box then sit on the bed and lean against the headboard to read the first letter.

The paper is thick and creamy, the ink real and a little faded. I sniff it and detect a faint lingering scent of roses. I’m almost afraid to unfold it. I hold my breath and open it.

15th June 2016

Dear Mrs. Butcher,

I hope this letter finds you and your family well. You may not remember me but we met at the maternity unit when our daughters were born. I was sorry we lost touch at the time but no doubt both our lives were hectic with the small babies.

My reason for writing is that I have recently discovered your whereabouts on the electoral roll and wondered if you would like to meet up for a coffee and a chat?

It would be so lovely to see you again and hear all about your daughter. You called her Sarah, didn’t you? You can reach me on the number below or write to me at the address on the back of the envelope.

I hope to hear from you soon.

Yours sincerely,

Fiona Winterbourne

I open the next letter straight away.

27th July 2016

Dear Mrs. Butcher,

I apologise for the intrusion, especially if you would prefer not to hear from me but I’m not sure if my last letter reached you safely. I know post sometimes goes astray, so I hand-delivered this one.

In my first letter I explained that we met in the maternity unit when our daughters were born. I hope you remember me as well as I remember you. In my letter I asked if you’d like to meet up for a coffee and a chat.

Could you please call me on the number below? There is something of great importance I need to discuss with you. I will explain when I see you.

Kind regards,

Fiona Winterbourne

Something of great importance? It has to be the swap because what else could make Fiona look Mum up on the electoral roll and write to her persistently, even going to the trouble of delivering one of the letters by hand? I open the next letter with trembling fingers.

Chapter 45

March | DI Paton

The stockroom at the rear of the shop smelled of cardboard, dust and sweat. Boxes of food items were stacked in huge metal cages ready to be wheeled onto the shop floor to re-stock the shelves. Paton sat on a hard plastic chair and watched the store manager, seated at a cluttered desk as he clicked through files on his computer.

‘The human resources department do all the clearances for staff but I see the original documents and verify them,’