Cecelia Ahern - One Hundred Names

Dedicated to my uncle Robert (Hoppy) Ellis.

We love you, and miss you, and thank you for all the memories.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Behind the scenes writing One Hundred Names

Acknowledgements

About the Author

By the same Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

She was nicknamed The Graveyard. Any secret, any piece of confidential information, personal or otherwise, that went in never, ever came back out. You knew you were safe; you knew you would never be judged or, if you were it would be silently, so youd never know. She was perfectly named with a birth name that meant consistency and fortitude, and she was appropriately nicknamed; she was solid, permanent and steady, stoic but oddly comforting. Which is why visiting her in this place was all the more agonising. And it was agonising, not just mentally challenging; Kitty felt a physical pain in her chest, more specifically in her heart, that began with the thought of having to go, grew with the reality of actually being there, and then worsened with the knowledge that it wasnt a dream, it wasnt a false alarm, this was life in its rawest form. A life that had been challenged, and would subsequently be lost, to death.

Kitty made her way through the private hospital, taking the stairs when she could take elevators, making deliberate wrong turns, graciously allowing others to walk before her at every opportunity, particularly if they were patients moving at a snails pace with walking frames or wheeling intravenous lines on poles. She was aware of the stares, which were a result of the current crisis she was in, and the fact she had at times walked in circles around the ward. She was attentive to any bit of conversation that any random person wished to have with her, anything and everything that she could do to postpone arriving at Constances room. Eventually her delaying tactics could continue no longer as she reached a dead end: a semicircle with four doors. Three doors were open, the occupants of the rooms and their visitors visible from where Kitty stood, though she didnt need to look inside. Without even seeing the numbers, she knew which room contained her friend and mentor. She was grateful to the closed door for the final delay she had been granted.

She knocked lightly, not fully committing to it, wanting to make the effort to visit but truly hoping she wouldnt be heard, so she could walk away, so she could always say shed tried, so she could rest easily, guilt free. The tiny part of her that still clung to rationality knew that this wasnt realistic, that it wasnt right. Her heart was pounding, her shoes were squeaking on the floor as she moved from foot to foot, and she felt weak from the smell. She hated that hospital smell. A wave of nausea rushed through her and she breathed deeply and prayed for composure, for the supposed benefits of adulthood to finally kick in so she could get through this moment.

While Kitty was in the process of looking at her feet and taking deep breaths, the door opened and she was faced, unprepared, with a nurse and a shockingly deteriorated Constance. She blinked once, twice, and knew on the third time that she ought to be pretending, that it would not help Constance to see her visitors true reaction to her appearance. So she tried to think of something to say and words failed her. There was nothing funny, nothing mundane, nothing even nothing, that she could think of to say to the friend shed known for ten years.

Ive never seen her before in my life, Constance said, her French accent audible despite her living in Ireland for over thirty years. Surprisingly, her voice was still strong and solid, assured and unwavering, as she had always been. Call security and have her removed from the premises immediately.

The nurse smiled, opened the door wider and then returned to Constances side.

I can come back, Kitty finally said. She turned away but found herself faced with more hospital paraphernalia and so turned again, searching for something normal, something ordinary and everyday that she could focus on that would fool her mind into thinking she wasnt there in a hospital, with that smell, with her terminally ill friend.

Im almost finished there. Ill just take your temperature, the nurse said, placing a thermometer in Constances ear.

Come. Sit. Constance motioned to the chair beside her bed.

Kitty couldnt look her in the eye. She knew it was rude, but her eyes kept moving away as though pulled by magnetic force to things that werent sick and didnt remind her of people that were sick, so she busied herself with the gifts in her arms.

I brought you flowers. She looked around for somewhere to put them.

Constance hated flowers. She always left them to die in their vase whenever anybody attempted to bribe her, apologise to her or simply brighten her office. Despite knowing that, buying them had been a part of Kittys procrastination, particularly as there had been an enticing queue before her.

Oh dear, the nurse said. Security should have told you that flowers arent allowed in the ward.

Oh. Well, thats not a problem, Ill get rid of them. Kitty tried to hide her relief as she stood up to make her escape.

Ill take them, the nurse said. Ill leave them at reception for you so you can take them home. No point in a beautiful bouquet like that going to waste.

At least I brought cupcakes. Kitty took a box from her bag.

The nurse and Constance looked at one another again.

Youre joking. No cupcakes either?

The chef prefers patients to eat food which has come only from his kitchen.

Kitty handed the contraband to the nurse.

You can take them home too, she laughed, studying the thermometer. Youre fine, she smiled at Constance. They shared a knowing look before she left, as if those two words meant something entirely different they must have done because she wasnt fine. She was eaten away by cancer. Her hair had begun to grow back, but sprouted in uneven patterns around her head, her protruding chest bones were visible above the shapeless hospital gown and she had wires and tubes connected to both arms, which were thin and bruised from injections and tube insertions.

Im glad I didnt tell her about the cocaine in my bag, Kitty said just as the door closed behind the nurse, and they heard her laugh heartily from the corridor. I know you hate flowers but I panicked. I was going to bring you gold nail varnish, incense and a mirror, because I thought it would be funny.

Why didnt you? Constances eyes were still a sparkling blue and if Kitty could concentrate on just them, so full of life, she could almost forget the emaciated frame. Almost, but not quite.

Because then I realised it wasnt funny.

I would have laughed.