‘You pushed me first. And I fell into a muddy ditch!’
Flora touched her lip and blood came away on her fingers, dripping down her chin and onto her blouse. ‘I’m bleeding.’
Heather knelt down, her bare knees snagging on the concrete pavement. ‘Here, let me help you.’
But Flora pushed her away. ‘Leave me alone.’ Her voice sounded weird with the fat lip, which had already swelled to twice its normal size. She stood up shakily, brushing down her wet skirt.
‘Flora, I’m sorry. I –’ She reached out, but Flora slapped her hand away.
‘Go home. Now! Before I fucking kill you!’ spat Flora, blood bubbling on her lip. She picked up her Walkman from the pavement and Heather could see that it had smashed in the fall. Flora crouched over it, tears spilling down her face.
Heather wanted to cry too. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She touched her sister’s shoulder. ‘I’ll buy you another. I shouldn’t have come to find you. I was worried.’
Flora covered Heather’s hand with her own and squeezed it gently. ‘I know. But please just leave me alone now. I’ll follow you. Just go. There’s no point in us both being late.’
Heather knew when she was beaten. If she stayed it would only make matters worse. Flora was too cold, tired and angry to listen to her now. She’d follow on. She just needed some space. It was still only a little past nine and not yet properly dark. And Jess would be wondering where she was. She’d left her in her bedroom nearly an hour and a half ago, telling her she was sorting out the pony. Because it was raining Jess had been happy to stay behind. Jess didn’t love horses like she did.
Heather turned back just once as she walked off down the road, before taking a left along the lane that led to the fields. Flora was kneeling on the ground and stuffing what remained of her Walkman into her rucksack, her hair obscuring her face. Heather wanted to rush back to her sister and throw her arms around her. But she knew it wouldn’t be welcome.
And then, her heart full of guilt and sorrow, Heather trudged down the lane that led towards home.
46
Jess
Time seems to stand still as I watch from the window. I press my face to the glass, trying to spot Rory in the building opposite. I’ve got my boots and coat on in preparation, my phone in my hand, ready to call the police if he flashes his torch three times. Nothing. The silence seems worse somehow. I’m imagining all sorts: he’s been stabbed before he can alert me that he’s in danger; he’s been beaten up – murdered.
‘Come on, Rory,’ I mutter to myself, stamping my feet impatiently as though trying to dispel some of my nervous energy. ‘Give me some sign you’re okay.’
And then I see it, an arc of torchlight. Is it him? I don’t know what to do. I’m paralysed by indecision. Rory’s put himself in danger for me and now I’m letting him down by being a flake. Perhaps he’s just searching the area and has found nothing.
I can’t bear the not-knowing.
Before I change my mind I race out of the flat and down the stairs to the entrance. The street is empty, the door of the building opposite slightly ajar where Rory broke in. I falter. I don’t think of myself as brave. I’m notone of those journalists who constantly puts themselves in danger on the frontline, or who goes undercover to investigate some criminal gang. No. I might be headstrong, reckless at times. I make wrong decisions, like the part I played in the phone-hacking scandal. But I’m not brave. Yet, as I stand here dithering, I can’t stop thinking about Rory, playing the hero for me. Without allowing myself to think any more about it, I dart across the road, slam my shoulder against the heavy door and step inside the building.
It’s dark and dusty and I instantly sneeze. It was once a warehouse and it still has those large, square windows that are murky with dirt. I blink, trying to adjust my eyes to the dark. The room is immense: open plan with stairs in the far corner. A large dust sheet is draped over something near the stairs. I turn slowly. Where is Rory? And then I see him in the opposite corner, underneath the window, the moonlight bleaching his dark curls. He’s leaning over what looks like a body.
‘Rory?’ I hiss, stepping towards him.
His head swivels towards me, his eyes wide. ‘I’ve just called an ambulance. There’s a woman here, unconscious.’ He gets to his feet, and that’s when I see her. The woman. She’s sprawled on top of a dirty old sleeping-bag and there are used needles littering the concrete floor, as well as empty crisp packets and a cereal box. A drug addict.
Rory kneels beside her and takes her hand. He looks visibly upset and I’m suddenly struck by the horror of it. ‘She’s so thin,’ he says sadly. ‘What makes somebody end up like this?’
I go to him and put my hand on his shoulder, wanting to comfort him. I know this will affect Rory greatly. He’s the first person to put his hand into his pocket, or donate by mobile when an advert for Unicef or the RSPCC comes on the TV. He can’t walk past a homeless person without stopping to give money, or aBig Issueseller even if he already has that particular copy. I kneel down beside him. The woman looks older than me, her skin sallow and sunken, her long dark hair matted and greasy. She’s wearing a colourful maxi-dress and only a cardigan for warmth. Her fingernails are bitten down and dirty. But there’s something familiar about the shape of her face and the dimple next to her full, chapped lips.
Rory still has hold of her hand. ‘It’s okay,’ he says to her, in a soothing voice. ‘The ambulance is on its way. We’ll stay with you. My name is Rory and this is my girlfriend, Jess.’
At the mention of my name her eyelids twitch and her mouth moves.
‘Rory,’ I whisper, ‘she’s not unconscious. She’s trying to say something.’
Her eyes open slowly. Cat’s eyes. For a second I stop breathing. ‘Jess …’ Her voice is raspy, as though she’s not used to speaking out loud.
Rory turns to me in shock. ‘Do you know this woman?’
Her eyes close again and her hand goes limp in Rory’s.
I sit back on my heels in horror, thinking I might be sick as the sirens sound in the distance. It can’t be. It can’t be her. But even in her current state the resemblance to Heather is striking. ‘I think … I think it’s Flora.’
