Whit Monday morning 3 am
‘Mary?’ Mary shifted her head from side to side on the pillow trying to shut out the voice. ‘Mary.’ A more urgent tone – forcing her to listen.
She’d slept fitfully, a few minutes at a time. Now she was struggling from a nightmare: she was running along the canal path, a sharp stinging rain hitting her in the face, Linda floating away from her on oily water. As she was swept under the bridge the little girl raised one arm slowly, fingers spread, reaching out towards her.
‘Mary!’
‘No!’ Mary hit out at the hands holding her.
‘Mary, it’s Ted. Wake up, you’re dreaming.’
She was sweating. Something was wrong. ‘Ted?’
‘Yes. Jean found us and she’s still looking with the others … except for Ellen. I persuaded her to lie down on the sofa and she’s flat out, so I’m leaving her down there. I’ve just come up to check you and the kids are all right. Are you okay?’
‘Yes. No.’ She quietened. She felt odd, wrong. Putting a hand under the sheets she touched her legs. ‘No. I’m not. I’m bleeding.’
He’d rung the doctor. He paused, rested his hand on the receiver before picking it up again. ‘Is that Gwyneth? It’s Ted, Mary’s brother-in-law. I’m sorry it’s the middle of the night – could you get Peter to the telephone please?’