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was why he was now eating chaff with skim milk for breakfast and walking the two miles to his Parkside office every morning.
    Theo’s wife, Valerie, had died from a postoperative blood clot in the brain at the absurd age of thirty-four, so long ago now it was sometimes hard to believe he had ever had a wife or a marriage. She had only gone into the hospital to have her appendix removed, and, when he looked back on it now, he realized that he should probably have sued the hospital or the health authority for negligence, but he had been so caught up in the day-to-day care of their two daughters—Jennifer was seven and Laura was only two when Valerie died—that he had hardly had time even to mourn his poor wife, let alone seek retribution. If it hadn’t been for the fact that both girls looked like her—more and more now that they were older—he would have found it hard to conjure up anything but a vague memory of his wife.
    Marriage and motherhood had made Valerie more solemn than the student whom Theo had carefully courted. Theo wondered if those people who were destined to die young had some kind of premonition of the shortness of the hours and that gave their life an intensity, a seriousness like a shadow. Valerie and Theo had been fond of each other, rather than passionate, and Theo didn’t know if the marriage would have lasted if she’d lived.
    Jennifer and Laura had never been troublesome girls, and they’d made it easy for Theo to be a good parent. Jennifer was a medical student in London now. She was a sober, driven girl with not much time for frivolity and jokes, but that didn’t mean she didn’t feel compassion, and Theo couldn’t imagine her sitting in a GP’s office one day telling some fat bloke she’d never met before that he was morbidly obese and he should get off his arse a bit more. That wasn’t really what the new GP had said to Theo, but she might as well have.
    Like her sister, Laura was one of those organized, capable girls who achieved what she set out to do with the minimum of fuss, but, unlike Jennifer, Laura had a carefree character. That didn’t mean she wasn’t an achiever—she had all her scuba-diving certificates and planned to be a master diver by the time she was twenty. She was taking her driving test next month and she was expected to get As in all her exams. She had a place waiting for her at Aberdeen to study marine biology.
    She had got a job for the summer working in a pub on King Street and Theo worried about her coming home at night, imagined some maniac knocking her off her bike on Christ’s Pieces and doing unthinkable things to her. He was hugely relieved that she had decided to go straight to university in October and not go backpacking across Thailand or South America or wherever, the way all her friends seemed to be doing. The world was a place freighted with danger. “You don’t worry about Jenny,” Laura said, and it was a fact. He didn’t worry about Jennifer, and he pretended (to himself, to Laura) it was because Jennifer’s life was invisible to him in London, but the truth was that he simply didn’t love her as much as he loved Laura.
    Every time Laura left the house he worried about her, every time she leaped on her bike, put on her wet suit, stepped on a train. He worried when she went out in a high wind that a piece of falling masonry might drop on her head, he worried that she would take a student flat with an unserviced water heater and die of carbon-monoxide poisoning. He worried that her tetanus shots weren’t up to date, that she would walk through a public building that was pumping Legionnaires’ disease through the air-conditioning, that she would go to the hospital for a routine operation and never come out again, that she would be stung by a bee and die from anaphylactic shock (because she’d never been stung by a bee, so how did he know she wasn’t allergic). Of course he never said any of these things to Laura—they would have seemed