Page 39 of The Light Within

Cinn

If someone had told Cinn a week ago that he’d be seeing his mother on Christmas Eve, he’d have died laughing.

But there he was, travelling in a crowded, noisy London Underground tube carriage, his nose pressed into a stranger’s armpit, on the way to see her.

There had been no telephone number in Madame Sinclair’s file. Only a home address, and a work address. Their first port of call had been her house. A new one—not the one of Cinn’s childhood, although it was only a twenty-minute bus journey or so between this and their old digs in Croydon.

When the moment came to walk up to the ground-floor flat, Cinn’s legs trembled uncontrollably. Every step felt heavier and heavier, as if the gravity of the past was pulling him back. What if his mum slammed the door in his face? Or didn’t even recognise him? Sweat dampened his forehead by the time they reached the door.

The old lady who answered informed them Esme Saunders had moved last month.

Cinn almost cried in relief.

Well. That’s that, then. It isn’t to be. Not this time. Oh well.

But no such luck. The others insisted they go to the hospital where she worked to see if they could source her current address.

“She might even be on shift,” Elliot said cheerfully, and just like that, Cinn’s nausea returned in full swing.

After the fun and games of Cinn’s family reunion, they were supposed to be catching the afternoon matinee of a pantomime with Darcy’s parents, so Darcy and Elliot were tagging along for the ride. While it was nice to travel all together, the amount of moral support was actually making Cinn’s nerves even worse. He certainly didn’t think he’d be up for a pantomime afterwards, but it had all been too much to explain to Mrs. Beaumont when she’d handed out the tickets that morning.

Maybe he could hang out at the theatre bar. He’d likely need the drinks.

The trek up to Westminster on the Northern Line to St. Thomas’s Hospital passed quicker than Cinn wanted, even with the number of sticky bodies pressing against him in the carriage.

Before he knew it, he was dragging himself towards the hospital entrance. A fine mist drizzled down on them. Seemed like an ominous sign.

“Hold on.” Darcy pulled his arm back. “There’s a library on the other side of the street. Elliot and I can see if she’s in the White Pages phonebook.”

Agreeing to reconvene by the fountain, Cinn found himself fixated on the black lettering of the hospital sign as it loomed over him. How was it even possible thathis motherworked here? She’d never shown any interest in medicine before, let alone caring for the community or shit like that. In fact, she’d ignored their neighbours and given him paper towels in lieu of plasters. One time she’d even tried to cure his cold with boiled water and the ‘Italian mixed herbs’ they used in every dish.

He was getting himself worked up, and that wouldn’t do. He wasn’t looking to meet her to resolve his childhood trauma. No, he was here for answers, and answers only.

“Ifwedotrack her down, there are some ground rules you’ll have to follow if you want to be there.”

Julien’s eyes widened. Had he expected Cinn to say he wanted to meet her alone?

Well, newsflash, he was way too chicken-shit for that.

Julien may be a fucking nightmare, but he was Cinn’s fucking nightmare, and he needed the layer of armour that his presence offered him.

“Rules you say? We both know how much I love following them.”

“Shut up and listen. Don’t get on at her for stuff that happened back then. It’s all in the past now. Alright? Else you’re not coming.”

He met Julien’s gaze fiercely, jaw set. But Cinn’s sharp tone clashed with what his eyes undoubtedly communicated—please don’t make me do this alone.

“Oui,” he said softly. “I understand.”

Yes, Julien understood him completely.

The hospital lobby was bustling, the low hum of conversation and the overpowering scent of disinfectant surrounding them as they joined a lengthy queue, to inch closer to the receptionist’s desk at a snail’s pace.

The wait was torturous. Cinn rehearsed possible lines in his head.

Two people in front of him, then one.

He fiddled with the cuff of his beanie.

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