Her Perfect Family(3)

I just smile. I don’t understand . . . but I deliberately turn the smile up to a beam.

Then she turns towards the guy holding out her certificate so that we are looking at her back as she reaches out her right hand to take her prize.

There is this noise from behind the trumpeters. A sort of thud as if someone has dropped something heavy, like a large music book, at the back of the choir stall.

It startles poor Gemma and the very thing she has feared all her life – at sports days and presentations and the like – happens right this moment. She stumbles.

My hand is immediately up to my mouth. She is flat on the floor and everyone sort of leans forward.

I am all at once mortified for her and also overwhelmed with love for her. I want to be beside her telling her that it doesn’t matter. That no one will care. Just get up and smile. No one will care. A part of me wants to run to her but I know it will make things worse; magnify her embarrassment.

There’s a beat as we all wait for her to get up so that we can cheer her on; signal that it really doesn’t matter. But the beat is too long. I stand now, worrying that she may have fainted. Or banged her head?

Two professors sitting nearer have now moved also. All at once they are crouching beside her. Next there is shouting.

‘A doctor. We need a doctor.’

I am aware only that I am suddenly pushing. Ed too. I push, push, push past the three people seated in my way and reach the aisle just as they say it . . .

‘She’s been shot.’

Next come ugly, unimaginable words. A bubble of bile suddenly surrounding me.

‘An ambulance. We need an ambulance. She’s been shot . . .’

And now slow motion. People screaming. Run. Run.

There is a chaotic surge of bodies – parents and students and ushers too. A starburst of panic blocking my way as everyone rushes to the various doors.

I have to shoulder people aside. No longer pushing – shoving. Get out of my way. Out of my way. It’s my daughter . . . I need to get to my daughter.

When finally I near the huddle around Gemma, a woman is barking instructions. Give me some room. I’m a doctor and I need something to press against the wound. That shawl. Give me your shawl.

Someone’s handing the doctor a green shawl as I crouch down to stroke my daughter’s hair.

‘Gemma. It’s Mummy. I’m right here, darling. Right here . . .’

She’s head down, utterly still, and I try again to push the hair back so I can see her face as I take it in – the wrong dress.

This dress covered in blood that is seeping into a large and terrifying pool on the stone floor beneath her.

Not the pink dress – not even a lemon dress any more.

Dark red.

Everything blood red now.





CHAPTER 2


THE PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR


‘Do you want a flake, sweetheart?’ Matthew Hill holds out a five-pound note to the ice-cream seller as his daughter Amelie frowns. It’s a simple enough question but Matthew’s learned that nothing in life is simple with a child of Amelie’s disposition. She tilts her head as if world peace is on the line.

‘Quick, quick, lovely. Chocolate flake – yes? There are lots of people waiting.’ The ice-cream van’s on the high street and Matthew is shocked by the queue behind him and the crowds in general. He’d quite forgotten it’s graduation season. Would never have come into the centre of Maidstead if he’d remembered.

Amelie is off nursery with a stomach ache that miraculously disappeared once a stay at home was confirmed. She’s starting proper school soon and they wonder if that’s worrying her. She used to love nursery so Matthew and Sally are ‘going with the flow’, hoping it’s not to be a new fad.

Amelie’s good at fads.

‘Yes to the flake,’ Sal adds suddenly. ‘I’ll have it if she doesn’t want it.’

And then, just as the man takes the money, there’s suddenly shouting and some kind of commotion off to their right.

‘Run. Run.’ A male voice, loud and desperate, from the midst of a small group running from the narrow street that leads to the cathedral. ‘There’s a gunman. There’s a gunman in the cathedral.’

The speed of the ensuing panic is extraordinary. Very soon there’s a lot of screaming. More people are running from the alleyway. People on the high street start running too. Matthew feels the familiar shot of adrenaline as he turns to grasp Sally by the shoulders.

‘Right. You need to take Amelie out of the city centre. Fast as you can. Jog so you don’t fall. Go to the Asda car park on the outskirts. I’ll meet you there.’

The look of horror on Sally’s face is like a physical blow. ‘You’re not coming?’

‘I’ll be right behind you. I just need to see if I can help first.’

‘No, Matthew, no. You come with us. You come with us now.’

‘There’s no time, Sally. Just go. I’ll follow you, I promise. Soon as I can.’

A terrible expression sweeps across his wife’s face. He can’t quite read it and just watches as she pauses for a beat before grabbing Amelie’s hand and starting to flee. He stares at their backs – Amelie crying over the lost ice cream – as Sally scoops their daughter on to her hip and jogs just as he instructed. A strong and steady pace down the high street.