-Will-
I join Sophie on the floor. I don’t have a choice. My legs will not hold me. I killed my father. I have a son. Who may be dying. As may my mother. Who I killed. There are too many thoughts. My head, it will split, like Sophie’s. I look at her. I need to sort her out. I need to make her not die. I assess the damage. She is bleeding profusely from her head. But head wounds, they always bleed a lot. It doesn’t necessarily mean she is badly hurt. The crater in her skull probably does mean that though. Shit. I need to stop the bleeding, I need to keep her conscious, and I need to get her to hospital.
“Sophie, Sophie, can you hear me?” I ask, as I grab a kitchen towel and moisten it.
“You killed him,” she mumbles.
“I know, I know, I killed him,” I say. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper. I almost prostrate myself upon her. But no, that won’t help. I must focus on reality, now. I go to press the towel against Sophie’s skull. But no. Shit, no. It is an open wound. I’ve penetrated the skull.
“Sophie, Sophie, Mummy,” I say, because she can be that now. “Do you have a first aid kit? Do you have any gauze?”
She starts to shake her head. I stop her. “No first aid kit.”
Shit. “OK, we need an ambulance. Do you even – how do I get an ambulance here?”
“15.”
“What?”
“Dial 15.”
So I do, I dial 15, and I manage some Franglais, or rather they manage some English. Not enough to tell them how it happened though. Just that they need to come. Now.
“Call Alain,” she says.
“Who?”
“Alain. Call Alain.” She dictates a number. I just about catch it. “He must know, now. I cannot hide any more.”
She’s burbling. She must be drifting out of consciousness. I call Alain. I don’t know who he is, but I know who I am.
“Alain, I’m with Sophie,” I say when he answers. “I’m her son. There’s been an accident.”
“Her son?” he asks, in a heavy French accent.
“Her son,” I confirm. “I’ve called an ambulance. You must come, to her apartment.” I hang up. There is too much to do here to worry about who this Alain is, and why he is so surprised Sophie has a son. Because now I have a son. And a wife. And I need to go to them.
“Mummy,” I say. There is a faint ‘Hmm?’ from her. I check her breathing. It is faint. I should be doing CPR. I roll up my sleeves to start. But I also need to preserve myself. For Ellie’s sake. For my son’s sake.
“Mummy, I had some news. You’re a grandmother. I have a son.”
“Hmm,” she says again.
Right. CPR. I put the heel of my hand on her chest and I pump. 1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3. No Max. Not now. Not this rhythm. Don’t make me kill her. I need a different rhythm now. I need just to count to thirty. I can do it. I do it. I sweep back that dark hair, made darker by blood. I place my mouth on those pouty lips and give her two rescue breaths. Come on, Mummy, mother, mum, maman. Come on, so I can go home to my boy.
“I’m sorry,” I say, as I pump, to my own rhythm now. “I’m sorry for everything. I understand. I understand why you had to go.”
She doesn’t respond. I do two more rescue breaths, then keep pumping.
“But I have my own son now. I need to look after him. He’s in England. He may die.”
And then, it seems, she can get her breath. Because she says, “You should hope that he does.”
I move back from her. The old anger starts to return. How can she say that? How can she say that about my son?
“Look how you turned out,” she whispers.
And I can see, of course, what she means. I am the son who killed his father. Her husband. I am the son who may have killed her, if the ambulance does not arrive soon. But she can’t wish I was never born, can she? She must still have some motherly love for me? After all, it was not my fault. I was four. It was not my fault. I press on.
“And the thing is, my son, if he lives, he needs a father,” I say. “He needs a father, and a mother. He needs me not to be in jail.”
I let me words hang. I need you to protect me, is what I mean. I leave the CPR position. Very gently, very very gently, I put my hands on her wound. She gasps. I rub the blood that I have on my hands onto the edge of the sink. Then I splash some water on the floor. I take off her shoe, and I run the sole through the water. Then I put it back on her foot. If anyone looks closely, they won’t be fooled for a moment. But if she plays along – maybe.
“Mummy, Mummy, I think what happened is that you slipped. And hit your head, on the sink. I am so so sorry that it happened. I am so sorry – so sorry – about Max. But for my son, I think you slipped. Didn’t you?”
There is a silence. I think maybe I have lost her. Maybe now it is murder. But her lips part and her eyes flutter. I lean close to her.
“Get out,” she breathes.
That’s it. Nothing else. I want to ask her if she means ‘I hate you, get out’ or ‘I’m releasing you, run.’ Is she protecting me, or herself?
But I don’t have time to ask. Because I hear the intercom buzz. The ambulance, or Alain, or both, must be here. I grab the hammer. Should I rinse it? No, they’d find the blood in the u-bend, if they looked. I must just put it back in my jacket, and hope the blood won’t leak through, then throw it in the Canal outside The blood on my hands, I don’t need to explain. It’s obvious – I’ve been trying to help her. I go to the intercom and buzz in whoever it is. She slipped, she slipped, she slipped, I say in my head. She was at the sink and she slipped.
The ambulance crew come in, flanked by a worried-looking grey-haired man in a pinny. He must be Alain.
“Sophie!” he cries, when he sees her. “Qu’est-ce qui se passe?” he asks of no one in particular. And he collapses on his knees in front of her.
“She slipped, and she fell,” I say. “I’ve given her CPR.”
The ambulance crew look me up and down. I start to say again that she slipped, but it will be too much. I must just go. I must go to my son.
“I have to go,” I say. “My wife, has just given birth. My son, he’s premature. He may die. I have to go.”
I don’t know if they understand me, but I’m not sure I care. I write my details down on a bit of paper and give it to Alain. “Call me,” I say. “Or email me. Anything. Let me know how she is.” There is blood on the paper, I see, as I hand it to him. He stares at me, and I can still feel him staring at me as I run out of the door.