The gun.
She searches, frantic, picking up every item, throwing it behind her. Pulling the bedding up. She looks beneath furniture and opens and slams drawers.
She finds herself sitting in the middle of her room, surrounded by her things. She must search the other rooms. If Mark were here, he’d take her in his arms, comfort her. He’d make her feel safe. Her knee hurts.
She marshals her courage as best she can, though she feels her grip on any helpful emotions is loosening. Search for other people, she tells herself. Do it carefully. A weapon is missing.
She steps carefully and quietly onto the landing. The first room she comes to is Ruth’s. The door is part open, the room dark inside. She peers in. A sound from behind freezes her. Another creak.
Her rational brain tries to tell her that it is the house, the weather, but the animal response in her is so strong that she feels she can hardly breathe. Her spine stiffens, as if ice water were dripping down it. Mark, she whispers. A sob half breaks from her.
Pull yourself together, she castigates herself, but the words sound like a joke.
She reaches for the light switch, flips it on, but the bulb is broken. She waits for her eyes to adjust to the dark in the room.Helped by a shaft of light from the landing she can make out a shape in the bed and she draws breath sharply.
Her fear level skyrockets as she makes a careful approach. Ambush, she thinks. It could be.
But it’s Ruth. Asleep.
Jayne sits on the bed, calls her friend, shakes her vigorously, but Ruth won’t wake up. She’s as heavy and limp as a sack of grain. Breathing, though. The smell on her breath is pure alcohol. Jayne reaches for the bedside lamp, turns it on and sees an empty vodka bottle on the floor. Ruth is sleeping fully dressed, beneath a mess of bedcovers.
Jayne feels her strength ebb away swiftly and completely. Disassociation is exhausting. It drains her, robbing her of every impulse, even now the instinct to stay safe.
Her gun is gone. Somebody else has it. And Jayne is too afraid to search for it any longer.
All she wants is safety.
She turns out the bedside light and makes her way around to the other side of Ruth’s bed. She climbs onto it and lies down beside Ruth. Her eyes fall shut. Pixelated death dances on the backs of her eyelids. The flashbacks will ebb. They will.
The buzzing settles to a manageable hum. The sense of danger doesn’t abate, but she can only wait, now. Sleep will turn this off. It will slow the pounding of her heart. She will come back to life, later. She will be herself again.
She moves closer to her friend, until she can feel the warmth of Ruth’s body through the duvet. She curls up, like a baby, her back to Ruth, in contact with Ruth’s arm.
Her brain starts to shut down. Another safety mechanism.
All she wants is to burrow here until morning, when Mark will come, but still she tries to justify her actions. I’m keeping Ruth safe, she tells herself, in case she vomits in her sleep.
It helps to tell herself that, even as she’s succored by the heat radiating from Ruth’s arm. She turns and curls up facing Ruth, her forehead touching Ruth’s shoulder. Jayne’s hands are clasped, gently, in front of her. Her breath warms them. Her clothes are wet but she can’t move to take them off. She is in the fetal position.
This feels like safety for now. It’s all she wants.
Her brain demands rest, and she can’t fight herself any longer.
She sleeps.
Imogen has been asleep for hours and I haven’t been able to move from my spot on the chair beside her, only angled it so as to see her better.
These are the most peaceful few hours I’ve spent for a long time. I can feel the tension in my shoulders easing and a small sense of satisfaction creeping over me.
It’s nice to get a chance to study her. I’m searching for signs of myself in her and I think that maybe there’s something of me in the shape of her chin. Truly, she’s a beautiful young woman. The image of her mother.
I take out my phone and crouch on the floor beside her, my back against the sofa, my face as close to hers as I can get it. I try to take a selfie, including both of us.
I know, she’s asleep, so it won’t be perfect, but you don’t want to let the perfect be the enemy of the good and I want a memento of this, our first night together as father and daughter. It won’t be one for framing, I agree, but I’ll keep it to myself and enjoy it.
But it’s very difficult to find an angle that’s flattering to us both. I put the phone down and rearrange her, pulling her body a little way across the sofa so her head tilts at a better angle. I tuck the blanket over her more neatly, and all the time I’m doing it I holdmy breath in case she wakes but really, there’s no need to worry. She’s as floppy as a rag doll.
I kneel down again and try taking another picture. This time, it’s as close to perfect as it’ll ever be and I know I’ll treasure it.
