‘Paulie, Paulie. Where are you?’ Susan whimpered. Gingerly, she raised her head a few inches but it hurt; she felt dizzy. She must have hit it when she went flying. Even without her glasses, she could see the root that tripped her from here. But no Pauline. Susan crossed her legs, whimpered again; if she wet her pants her mum would kill her. Wincing, she gently traced the outline of a huge bump at the back of her ear. Her fingers came away streaked with blood. She wiped it on her shorts. Oh my God, they were ripped. She was going to get a smack. She must have knocked herself out. How long had she been lying here? If Pauline had scooted off home, and right now was having her tea, tucking into spam sandwiches … Some friend, huh? Susan clenched her fists, tears pricked her eyes.
She struggled to her knees, then remembered why they’d fled into the copse. Even though her head spun, she cast wary glances round. No sign of him. And still no sign of Pauline. Susan covered her face with her hands and started to cry tears mingled with blood, snot, dirt. She remembered how the man had shouted at her to get lost, to leave Pauline alone. She felt a warm trickle down her thighs. This was the worst day of her entire life. Then she gasped. Through her fingers she saw just the edge of Pauline’s sandal. The little monkey was hiding behind that tree.
She’d get a hiding alright. Susan ran the back of her hand across her mouth. A damn good slapping’s what she’d get an’ all when Susan got hold of her. Fear forgotten, she was hopping mad. Breathing heavily, she stomped over, hands on hips.
‘You’re gonna get it, you are, Pauline Bol—’ Her brain couldn’t – maybe wouldn’t – collate what her eyes saw. ‘Are you messing round?’ Playing dead? Pauline lay on her back a few feet from the sandal, arms stretched like broken wings. But the sandal wasn’t white any more. It was splashed with red. Susan took a tentative step towards her friend. Where had the jam come from? Pauline’s face was smeared with the stuff, great blobs all over her dress, her knickers. Wasps and flies buzzing round. Pauline didn’t even flinch when a great fat bluebottle landed on her eye.
‘No,’ she whispered, then ran to her little friend, grabbed her in both arms, shook her again and again. ‘Wake up, Paulie, wake up. I didn’t mean it.’ For a while Susan held her tiny body close, cuddled her, then held her out again, willing her to breathe. Everything sagged. Pauline’s head lolled like a rag doll’s; limp, lifeless. Susan gagged, slapped a hand to her mouth. Pauline dropped like a dead weight.
The noise started with a wail, then a loud howl, eerie, ear-splitting. Then another and another, endless. Susan had never heard an animal like it before. On and on it went – why wouldn’t it stop? Please make it— Startled, she pressed a hand to her cheek. The slap smarted but it was OK because the noise had stopped. Then she saw Mrs Bolton’s ashen face as she clutched Pauline to her chest. And knew nothing would ever again be OK.
Susan’s whole body shook; she couldn’t control the convulsions, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe …
Other villagers appeared; she heard more approaching through the trees. Someone swung her round.
‘What happened here?’ Her mum looked frightened but sounded cross, crosser than Susan had heard anyone sound. ‘What happened here, Susan?’ Her shoulders hurt where her mum’s fingers still dug in. Writhing, she started to sob again.
‘Mum. A man …’ She could hardly get the words out. ‘A man came …’