Michael Robotham - The Night Ferry

Her lawyers seem confident that they can argue a case of diminished responsibility or temporary insanity. Given what she’s been through, nobody is very enthusiastic about sending her to prison, not even Mr. Greenburg, who had to choke back his emotions when he told her the CPS was pressing ahead with the murder charge.

“What about the public interest?” I demanded, acidly.

“The public saw it happen on the BBC, prime time. She killed a man. I have to let it go to a jury.”

Samira posted bail thanks to Ruiz and my parents. The DI has become like a grandfather to the twins, who seem enthralled by his craggy face and by the low rumble of his voice. Perhaps it’s his Gypsy blood but he seems to understand what it’s like to enter the world violently, clinging on to life.

My mother is the other one who is besotted. She phones four times a day wanting updates on how they’re sleeping and feeding and growing.

I take Jasper from Samira and hold him over my shoulder, gently rubbing his back. She scoops up Claudia with her right hand and offers her a breast, which she nuzzles anxiously until her mouth finds the nipple.

A missing hand doesn’t even seem like a disability when you watch her with the twins, loving them completely; doing everyday chores like washing and feeding and changing nappies. She is a bright, pretty teenage mother of baby twins.

Samira doesn’t talk about the future. She doesn’t talk about the past. Today matters. The twins matter.

I don’t know how long we’re going to have them or what’s going to happen next, but I’ve come to realize that we can never know something like that. There are no certainties in life or in death. The end of one story is merely the beginning of the next.