pulled in to her street, the blue lights of the police car lighting up the sky intermittently. This was it then. The water had filled her up and the banks had burst. She’d let them drown. She’d failed.
72
My hands are covered in warm, sticky blood and all I can do is stare at them stupidly. I hadn’t even noticed that her head had been bleeding when I’d lifted it on to my lap, cradled it as her breathing changed from desperate, ragged spurts to light, strangled gasps. Had I known then that she was dying? The words didn’t enter my head fully formed and with total clarity, but yes, I believe I knew it had gone further than I had ever planned or expected.
I didn’t stay to see Eleanor die. I regret that now. I’d driven the train off the tracks and I was too cowardly to stand and watch the crash. I know that it will hurt her family to know she died alone and scared. But there are plenty of things in my life I regret – this is just the biggest. I’d lost control and I was ashamed – of everything it was my control that was the most important thing to me. I’d let her rile me with her callous words and her refusal to listen to the danger she was in – the true danger. And when she turned away from me, dismissing me as though I was no more than one of her children to be ignored or humoured in equal measure, I grabbed her arm. I pulled her towards me and on her face I saw fear. She pulled back at the same time that I pushed her away. I don’t think I hit her with anything. I’m certain she fell. I know I pushed her too hard, but she wouldn’t stop saying those awful things. It wasn’t my fault. Maybe now they’ll all see.
Part Three
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Tell me about when you were four.
You’ve asked about that before. I’ve told you, it’s not relevant.
I think it is, and so do you. Is it hard for you to talk about?
Of course it is. I’ve never spoken about what happened with anyone.
Try.
I was three when Mum brought her home from the hospital. Amy. She was tiny, smaller even than the doll Dad had got me to prepare me for her arrival into the family. I loved that doll. I took her everywhere with me, I changed her nappy and fed her from my sippy cup. She was my best friend. And when Amy came home, I knew we would be best friends too.
Were you jealous of her?
Never. At least not that I can remember. She was so little, she needed our help with everything. She took up so much of Mum’s time, and Mum was always exhausted, but I don’t ever remember blaming Amy. If anything, I blamed Mum. I didn’t understand how she could be so snappy and miserable when we had this wonderful little thing to take care of. When Amy cried, I would give her my teddy to make her happy, and she would look at me with those huge blue eyes, eyes too big for her little face, and sometimes I would pretend that I was her mummy and that our mum didn’t even exist. Even at three I knew I wanted to take care of this baby for the rest of her life.
Go on.
My mum got worse. I didn’t know what zombies were then, but that’s how I remember her now – like the walking dead. She would spend whole days when she never talked to either of us. Of course she kept us fed and watered, we were always clean and well dressed, but I didn’t feel like I was even there. Sometimes I would pretend I was a ghost, and then it would be fun that she didn’t talk to me because it meant my disguise was working. Some days the only interaction Amy got was from me until Dad came home.
Did your dad do anything about it?
That was the thing, when Dad got home it was like having a different Mum. She would sing while she cooked our favourite things for tea and she would play with us and read us stories before bed.
That must have been confusing for you.
I’m not sure it was. I mean, of course now I know it was, but at the time I got used to living like that. I used to call her