‘I thought they’d killed him.’
‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘I’m scared, Ash,’ Remy whispered.
‘What are you scared of, my love?’
‘Everything.’ This one word shook down the line, and Ashleigh felt the power of her admission. It was devastating to hear her sparky sister so cowed. ‘I need you, dove. I need you right now.’
Archie let himself in with the key she’d given him and held the can of Skol Special Strength in the air. More cans were stuffed into the pockets of his dinner jacket and a cigarette dangled from his mouth. One glance at her, however, and he too dropped to his knees, placing his can of lager on the floor. He put his hands on her legs, his expression one of concern.
‘It’s my sister,’ she explained with her hand over the mouthpiece.
‘She alright?’ he mouthed.
Ashleigh shook her head. No, no, she was very far from alright.
‘I’m coming home, little dove. I’ll be home tomorrow. I’ll be there as soon as I can. You just hang on. You just hang on, okay?’
‘Okay. Okay.’
After her call, they sat on the hall floor for a while, Ashleigh letting the facts permeate, while Archie, still drunker than her, did his best to offer platitudes. She was, however, glad of his physical presence.
‘I can’t come to Mulverton. I hope your parents understand.’
‘Of course they will.’ He kissed her.
‘My sister and her friend, our friend, Tony, they were attacked by a group of men.’ The words sounded monstrous, even to her own ears.
‘God, that’s awful!’ He sat back against the opposite wall, he too stunned by the terrible fact.
‘It is. Really awful. I need to go home. I’m going home. I’ll get the first train tomorrow.’
‘Shall I come with you?’
It was a sweet offer from the boy she loved, the boy who loved her back, but these were not the circumstances under which she wanted him to meet her family or for them to meet him.
‘Thank you, Archie, but I’ll go on my own.’
She took a deep breath and sat up straight, knowing that in a crisis, independence and self-reliance were important. Sometimes, they made the difference between surviving or sinking.
And of one thing Ashleigh was absolutely sure: she was not about to let herself, or her sister, sink.
Ashleigh Brett and Remy Aller
1983
Aged 21
Remy
The sky took on the pinky hue of dusk, as Remy, who had lost all track of time, stared out of the window of the taxi. Sleep had been sporadic over the last couple of days. It happened like this, when your day was no longer punctuated by a work routine, or the eating of breakfast, lunch, and supper. No commute, no clocking in or clocking out, no being late or early, no framework within which to exist. It had been this way since the incident, which she didn’t really know how to name, cloaked still with shock and something close to embarrassment that it had happened to her, happened at all. Weren’t smart people supposed to avoid situations like that? And that nagging and persistent doubt that she could have done more, done less, done differently.
The police called it an assault, grievous bodily harm. It had certainly been grievous to her body, had harmed her for sure, and yet if people asked her what had happened she felt her mouth go dry and she’d mumble, ‘We were ... hurt, my ... my friend and me. It was, it was bad ...’
And they’d more than likely nod and change the subject. She understood. I mean, what was there to say that wasn’t either flippant or invasive?
Sorry to hear that . . .
