I couldn’t move.
Paralysed?
The word echoed in my brain. Took on its own weight, forced my head back down onto the uncarpeted floorboards.
He’d cracked the base of my skull with those sledgehammer hands, caught me beneath the ear.
There are tiny bones in the ear that help with balance and co-ordination. What happens if they get broken?
My body was heavy, sluggish. A burden.
My neck screamed in protest as I turned to see where he’d gone.
How long had I been lying there?
All I could think was: I’ve failed. Again.
The over-arching pattern of my life.
Who was I kidding thinking anything had changed over the last year? Was I somehow a better person because I could pretend to be at peace with what had happened to Elaine? Because I no longer spent my time trying to figure just how it was my fault that someone I loved had died?
His footsteps echoed back along the floor. His voice – dulled and unclear through the cotton wool that had clogged my brain – roared threats like some animal closing in for the kill.
I needed to move.
I closed my eyes, concentrated, rolled over, made it onto my stomach. Let out a cry from the effort and stayed still for a few seconds to regain my strength. Enough at least to raise my head.
I could see back into the kitchen. Mary was slumped against the units, her body loose, her head lolling to one side. Blood dripping from her nose.
Dead?
Oh Jesus, after all this, dead?
I flexed my hands, pressed down and tried to lift myself off the floor.
A couple of inches. My muscles trembling.
I collapsed again.
Vomited.
The bile burned my throat and the back of my nose. Threatening to choke me. Talk about undignified. But no one dies like a hero. Not in real life.
My skull was vibrating. My vision was blurred. My muscles ached, unwilling to work for me.
A punch to the head.
After everything that had happened, I could die because some prick gave me a sucker punch to the head?
My eyes were blazing. On fucking fire.
I looked at Mary.
Her right hand twitched.
She was alive.
She was alive.
I lifted my head. Blinked out the blur.
Fuck this.
I wasn’t going out. I wasn’t giving up.
I swallowed hard. My ears popped.
The sounds of the outside world rushed into my skull. Tried to knock me down again.
“This is on your fucking head. Do you understand? All of this is your fault!” Wickes. Not talking to me. I guessed he was talking to Deborah. Out of sight behind the kitchen doorway. Punctuating every word with a dull thump. Sounded like he was hammering a head of lettuce.
My stomach churned.
Fuck this self pitying crap.
I reached out, grabbed the wall. Hauled myself to my feet.
Didn’t look behind me. Told myself that Susan was fine. She’d rip me a new arsehole if I attended to her first.
Aye, protect the innocent first and foremost.
My left leg was useless. The old wound playing up. As though the muscles had snapped. I imagined them like pressured strings on a guitar, tensed to breaking point.
I roared.
Struggled.
Hands on the walls to steady myself.
My eyes on Mary.
That one hand clenching. Eyes flickering. As though she wanted to wake up, couldn’t quite figure it out.
I pushed the walls for momentum.
The rhythmic thumping from the kitchen pulled me along.
Through the door, I stopped, one hand on the wall, barely able to keep upright when I saw the source of the noise.
Wickes had a grip on Deborah’s hair. Her body was limp, legs bent at the knees, spine curved. Her arms flailed, useless, and for a moment I might have convinced myself that the big bastard had a grip on some kind of rubber doll.
Smashing her face against the worktop.
The veins popped out on his neck. His skin flushed red, his eyes bulged.
His movements were brutal yet mechanical. I couldn’t say for sure if he even knew what he was doing.
One last thump and he stopped.
Let go. Looked up at me.
Loosened that grip.
Deborah dropped.
No resistance.
Her head smacked against the worktop, bounced off the floor once and then she was completely still.
Blood pooled.
“Think she gets it,” he said. “She understands.”
He was trembling.
Remorse?
Was this fucking monster even capable of such a thing?
He said, “I loved her, you know. Believe it, McNee. I loved her.”
“You killed her.”
He said nothing.
“You killed her.” The repetition no longer for his benefit. I felt empty, as though something had been stolen from me. My voice threatened to crack. I swallowed, turned my full attention onto him. “Because she loved her daughter? Because she didn’t want to be yours alone?”
My legs were shaking. I could feel the world spinning on its axis.
How long could I stand?
If he turned on me, could I fight back?
“You didn’t love her, you fuck. You wanted to possess her. If she couldn’t be yours, she couldn’t be anyone’s, right? That’s why you killed the dog.”
Wickes said, “Natural fucking causes,” in this low and uncertain voice. A child who knew he was going to be caught in a lie.
“You really believe that?” My leg was still on fire, but the pain had become dull and distant.
He didn’t say anything. Looked down at the body on the floor.
The inside of my head was roaring.
“It didn’t have to be like this,” he said. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
I said, “You were supposed to protect her.”
He nodded. Took deep breaths.
Looked ready to collapse himself.
“It’s over, then,” I said. “All of this. Done with.”
He got down on his knees, reached out towards Deborah, touched the back of her head with the tips of his fingers. Caressed her hair, matted with blood.
He started crying like he didn’t know how this had happened. Was at a loss to explain any of it.