Blood has a smell.
I look around me. I’m sitting on a bench.
It comes again.
It’s visceral, like meat.
I gaze down at my hands. I don’t recognise them; they lie upturned and curled in my scarlet-stained lap. Every crease is dark with what looks like rust. My palms open like flowers and I feel the skin stretch and tighten. A cold breeze skims the wet patches on my dress. The wool sticks unpleasantly to my skin and a chill slides down my spine.
I close my eyes.
Behind the lids the dying winter sunlight zigzags in orange and purple flashes. Somewhere beyond the bushes I can hear the girls, giggling. I squint; I can’t see them now, but I know they’re there.
‘You can’t hide in here forever you know!’
There’s a woman’s voice. She’s getting closer.
‘I think it’s time we should be going though, don’t you? Come on!’
I squint. The viburnum bush trembles; its propeller-headed flowers nod and bounce in bright pink bells against the thicket of black. I imagine her reaction as she walks past. She’ll see the state of me and I’ll see her face: the shock at my matted hair and dishevelled clothes. She doesn’t know who I am and I wouldn’t want to scare her. ‘You don’t know me—’ I’ll say. She’ll look at me wary and unsure.
‘—But can I tell you what happened? I think you’ll understand when I explain.’ I’ll hold out my hands and she’ll see the state of them.
I know my story is also her story.
I’ve done this for her, for the children, for all of us.
I turn my face into the last rays of the sunlight and let it seep under my skin.
That’s why he’s dead.