Who is she?I back away.
‘Karla!’ she cries, desperation in her voice.
Clamping my hands over my ears, I don’t answer. I am not listening. I don’t want to hear. I can’t listen to any more lies. Ican’t.
‘I did it to protect you!’ she calls, following me into the hall as I turn to flee.
‘Liar! You did it to protectyou!’ I scream, pausing to glare at her as I thunder up the stairs. ‘Was it worth it? All the secrets you kept, the lies you told, the people you sacrificed so you could feather yourfucking nest, was it worth it?’
‘Karla,please… Let me explain.’
‘No!’ I keep going, past my parents’ room and the room beyond it, which became mine, and on up to the third floor, where I bang open the door to a room that has rarely been ventured into since the funeral. As I hear my mother hurrying along the landing, I turn the key in the lock. It’s a sturdy lock. It will keep her out for a while. I wish I’d turned the key all those years ago. I wish I could turn back the clock.
And be with me?Sarah asks hopefully.
I don’t know, I answer silently. I don’t fit anywhere. I’ve no idea who I am. Who anyone is. I don’t want to be… anywhere.
‘Karla,’ Mum says tremulously outside.
Ignoring her, I head for the window. Sarah and I used to look out over the park from here, telling stories of charming princes and wicked witches, sharing our dreams.
The sharp wind cuts through me as I throw the window open. The heavy rain that’s now steadily falling spatters my face. I can’t stand outside without stooping any more, but I can sit comfortably enough on the wide window ledge. The man who thought he was my father said he would build a balcony here, once, so we could all eat together, looking out over the park. He said he wanted to do it himself at the weekends. He never did. He was always too busy nursing his hangovers on Sundays.
Shifting slightly, once I’ve lowered myself, I clutch my knees tight to my chest and rest my head. I can see Sarah, smell her, smell my mother’s Poison perfume. We would sneak into her bedroom and steal a spray sometimes.
I can smell the alcohol, too, that wafted from his body the night he killed her. He’d been drinking all day before he’d gone out to his club; drinking to forget what he’d done. I squeeze my eyes closed as I see his face, puce with rage, his eyes, bloodshot and bulbous, as he strikes out at Sarah. I hear it: the dull thud, as her head smashes heavily against concrete.
I smelled the brandy on his breath when he crouched down in the garden beside me, trying to wake her. Later, up here in the bedroom, I could smell it when he lay his heavy bulk on her bed. I tried to tell him about her odd breathing. He wouldn’t listen to me. ‘Go back to bed,’ he slurred, and then grunted and rolled over. Rolled onto her.
‘Karla, please open the door, darling,’ my mother calls again, as I press my hands hard to my ears, trying to block out his snoring, which is reverberating in my head. ‘Please come out and let me talk to you.’
I was unconscious, Sarah says.
But did he hurt you?I ask the question I’ve asked over and over that’s driven me halfway to madness.Did he touch you?
I couldn’t breathe.That’s why I died. He suffocated me, but he didn’t touch me,Sarah finally answers me.I didn’t die because of you. I died because of him.
I close my eyes, relief flooding every vein in my body. I’d thought that he… For so long, I’d wondered. Even in my childhood, it occurs to me, I must have known that my father was a man who was deeply flawed. Did he deserve to die for what he’d done? For causing so much hurt? For killing Sarah? For killing me?
I don’t know. I’m so tired of searching for answers. Keeping secrets. The tears and the lies and the arguments. I crave sleep; deep, dark and dreamless. Escape from my conscience.
Will I hurt when I land, I wonder? Will the physical pain be harder to bear than the emotional pain? I can’t endure that any more. I glance to my side, down to the bone-crushing ground below. I’m watching a leaf curl and flutter gently in the wind when my phone rings, causing me to jolt.
Jason. Hope rises inside me as I recognise his ringtone. He will have seen the papers or heard the news. By now, he will know that this latest story has broken. How will he feel when he realises how twisted a story it’s become? What will he do then? Stifling the sob climbing my throat, I pull my phone from my pocket, and accept the call. I don’t speak.
‘Karla, where are you?’ he shouts, his voice frantic.
Lost, I want to cry.I can’t find me. I don’t know me. ‘Watching the leaf,’ I say weakly instead.
‘Watching the leaf where, Karla?’ Jason asks carefully.
I hesitate. Why does he want to know? He’s not likely to come to me when he’s halfway to the airport to meet his fantasy.
‘Karla, please…’ he begs, his voice filled with emotion.
‘In the window,’ I tell him. He won’t come. He’s salving his own conscience, that’s all. Checking to make sure I’m functioning. He will lie to me, probably. Tell me he’s not going to try to steal my children. But heis. I know he is. He was going to take them to her. Iknowthis, I want to rage at him. But she’s not there. I’m not here.Don’t you see?
I gulp back a sob.Jessie is me!
