Day Twelve
“The Civil War stuff is coming fast,” I say to Mum. She’s lying in her bed, looking a little befuddled. I don’t mention yesterday’s phone call with Matthew. I decide it’s too much for her. Instead I keep to the writing news. “I worry about misrepresenting Cristiana. I mean I have loads of documentation, so I know more or less what happened. I know that Russell Boyt killed her, that he was suffering terribly from PTSD –”
“PTSD?” Mum sounds incredulous.
“Yeah,” I say. “Post-traumatic stress disorder. They called it Soldier’s Heart back then.”
“I know what it means, honey, but he wasn’t.” She sits up a bit straighter in bed. I can see that her nightclothes are stained with food and drink from the day before.
“Mum,” I say. “Let’s get you into something fresh.”
And while I root
