‘I’ll kill them! I swear to God, I will fucking kill them!’ His voice was high and unnatural, each word dragged over vocal cords plucked tight with anger and distress. It was the first time she had ever heard her dad use the F word, the first time she had ever seen him cry like this. It felt appropriate, all of it.
‘We’ll have no talk of killing.’ Ruthie pulled a tissue from her sleeve and wiped her eyes. ‘There’s been enough violence tonight to last us all a lifetime.’
‘What have they done to you?’ her dad asked softly, and she knew him well enough to know he didn’t actually want the details. All in good time.
‘We’ve left a message for your sister with her flatmate.’
‘Right.’ She was glad Ashleigh wasn’t home to get the message, hoping she was at her ball having a fabulous time.
‘God, I hope she’s okay!’ Ruthie spoke to her husband, her face contorted. Remy, who ordinarily would have laughed at her overprotective mother, did nothing of the sort, understanding that if something like this could happen to her ...
The door opened, and in stepped a doctor, his white coat open to reveal a brown cotton shirt and beige Farah slacks and a black rubber stethoscope hanging around his neck. A fancy-pants career for sure. And even though she didn’t admit it, not yet, somewhere at the back of her bruised and bashed head she understood that what had happened tonight had changed her, changed everything. She wouldn’t be going off to university, wouldn’t be taking up the law, but would stay close to home, where she’d coil in bed, take warm baths and sit with her mum and dad on the sofa. She would seek out peace and safety. A quiet life, away from those boots and that noise,Oi!, and that fear. That awful, awful fear.
That was all she wanted, that and for Tony to pull through.
Tony . . . please . . .
‘Right, Remy.’ He studied the clipboard with her chart attached, before smiling at her briefly. ‘You’ve been in the wars.’
She nodded, reassured by his presence, this man who was unemotional, calm and who would help make her better, fix her up enough so that she could go home.
‘Can I go and see my friend? I really need to see him!’
‘Um, I don’t see why not. Let me go and grab a wheelchair. We need to get you down to X-ray anyway, but you can stop by on the way. But literally just to say hello.’
‘Thank you!’ At last someone had listened to her. She cried now, but these were tears of gratitude and tasted different.
It was awkward, painful, and cumbersome transferring into the chair, which her mother pushed. Her dad, by her side, keptreaching out to touch her good shoulder, letting her know he was close. It meant a lot, knowing he was right there. Her dad would never let any harm come to her.
‘Just a minute, no more.’ The doctor spoke sternly and knocked on a door before walking ahead. He turned to face them as she and her parents waited anxiously. ‘In you go.’
Remy knew she would never forget the sight that greeted her. The person on the bed had a grotesquely swollen head and face. No discernible features, no pretty eyes, no small nose, no pouty lips that always knew what to say to make her laugh, lips that favoured Heather Shimmer. Instead, he was a bloated, bruised ball that looked more balloon than human. There was a white stretchy tube in his mouth, a drip in his arm and a machine that beeped, attached to his chest via wires.
‘What happened?’ Tony’s mum, Mrs Newman, who had been sitting by his side, her head resting on the small gap on the mattress, fired the question at her. Her eyes bloodshot with distress, her skin grey and loose on her cheekbones, as if felled by the sight of her boy. And Remy understood. This woman who had lost her husband, Tony’s dad, when she was pregnant, this woman who already knew pain. There was something in the rhythm of her question, the emphasis on the wordwhat, the almost imperceptible curl of her top lip as she voiced it, that coated the question with accusation.
Remy’s response was the only one that felt fitting, as she felt the ligature of culpability tighten around her throat: ‘I’m so sorry.’
Had it been her idea to go into town?
Were they laughing too loudly, drawing attention?
Why did she not advise him not to wear so much make-up?
Had her response goaded their attackers?
Was it her fault?
Could she have done more to help her friend?
Why hadn’t she stood and joined in the fight, tried to beat them, clawed them, anything?
Ashleigh had suggested she ditch the off-the-shoulder T-shirt and oversized dungarees. Maybe she was right?
In that moment she felt an instinctive need to see her sister, to be near her, to be wrapped in her arms, her other half, as if believing that in some way, that contact might help restore her broken self. Make her whole.Two halves, one egg ...
For broken she was.
Ashleigh
