Claire's Head by Catherine Bush

overstimulation), a state of affairs which even she found pathetic, though there didn’t seem to be much she could do about it. Scary movies, in which her whole body succumbed to a seizure of tension, were the worst. Occasionally, she and Stefan went to see films anyway, although Stefan never tried to convince her to accompany him, any more than he encouraged her to do anything – drink alcohol, hang out in smoky bars – that might cause her to react. She did not mind him dashing out to a movie as soon as she left town. “And how was your trip?” he asked.
    â€œUnmomentous and almost on time. I miss you.”
    â€œI miss you, too. How are you feeling?”
    â€œFine, I’m feeling fine. I don’t think the hotel’s going to give me any more information, though.”
    â€œThey probably won’t unless you bring in the police. Presumably that Detective Bird will contact them.”
    â€œI’m really not sure what Detective Bird is planning to do.”
    â€œWell, we’ll bug him.”
    â€œI suppose I’m counting on the neurologist.”
    Long ago, Rachel had talked about becoming a doctor, even a neurologist – towards the end of high school and during her first two years at university. She had taken a range of science courses and done well but backed away from the idea of medical school in the end because, she said, her migraines were too disruptive. She did not think she had the stamina for it.
    Claire, who had never thought she would hold down a full-time job, understood this. Map-making had appealed as something she might be able to do on her own, on her own time – she had never expected to stay at City Maps as long as she had.
    Later, she and Rachel had joked that since neither had become a neurologist, one of them ought to have married one, preferably a migraine specialist who was on top of the most cutting-edge research and who would, in addition, understand their neurochemically volatile condition. Rachel had even given the imaginary neurologist a name, Tom Lukacs. Now, she said, all she had to do was meet him. Claire had come close, with Stefan Simic, star medical researcher, whose father’s family hailed from Dubrovnik, who dreamed of creating customized treatments for individual cancer patients by targeting the particular molecular pathways of individual tumours. The pin-in-the-right-place approach, he called it. How could Claire possibly begrudge him his fixation on lethal cancers, or argue with his priorities, when her neurological quirk resulted only in pain, which made you suffer, but couldn’t kill you.
    The moment Claire hung up the phone, the red message light began to flash. There was one message waiting. The youngwoman spoke in a breathless volley. “Rachel Barber checked in on March 14 and checked out March 16. She stayed in room 514. Please delete this message immediately, and don’t tell anyone how you got the information.”
    Claire sank to her knees and offered up a prayer of thanks to the hook-eyebrowed girl at reception. Not just the dates, but the room number. Numinous detail. Only given this much information, greedy, she wanted more: what about Rachel’s itemized hotel bill, which, if she’d charged long-distance calls to her room (conceivable, knowing Rachel), would have listed not only the ones to Claire and Allison but any others.
    She would call Stefan to tell him, but first she left the room and hurried to the elevator, riding it two floors down to the fifth floor. She counted nineteen steps along an identical hall to room 514, on the other side from her own, facing north. You’d see the mountain through the window. The illuminated cross on top. You might, possibly, between buildings, pick out the rooftops of the Royal Victoria Hospital and the Neurological Institute, on avenue des Pins, nestled halfway up the mountain. In the bay just beyond the room, ice roiled and crackled in a machine.