Blood Sisters(62)

‘Stay where you are, old man,’ hisses Martin.

But Stefan’s hand appears to be reaching out for something on the dirty brown carpet tiles. A piece of glass which glints in the dusty sunlight. A glass offcut from my college workshop which I’d wrapped in one of my linen handkerchiefs when I’d last worn this cardigan. It must have fallen out just now when I’d got it out.

It’s only a small narrow strip – which is probably why it had got through this morning’s search – but still sharp.

With a surprising agility, given that he’d been on the floor only just now, Stefan lunges at Martin’s neck.

To my horror, Martin throws Stefan to the ground like a rag doll. But the old man staggers to his feet, snatches back his stick and whacks Martin on the head. ‘You do not touch my daughter. You hear?’

‘I told you before. Get off.’

There’s a scream. High-pitched. Like an animal in pain. Then a thud.

‘No.’ I howl. ‘NO.’

Stefan is lying motionless. Blood spurting from his throat like a fountain. I scream, dropping to his side. Is he breathing? It’s hard to know.

‘He needs help,’ I cry.

‘Too late for that.’ Martin grabs me, the sliver of glass still in his hand. ‘Your turn now,’ he growls. ‘You’ve had this coming for a very long time. My mother died because of you. And you are going to pay for that, the same way that the bastard who did this to my face paid.’

‘You’ve killed before?’ I gasp.

His eyes glint. ‘Merely mutilated. I wanted him to live so he had to look at himself in the mirror every morning.’

I am too shocked to feel fear. All I can do is stare in horror at Stefan’s throat as the blood continues to gush, spattering my trousers. Can anyone survive that?

Then there’s another sound. The click of a key. The door opening. The rush of feet. A fierce, don’t mess with me voice from the prison officer who is running up to us.

‘Let go of her. Now.’





49


August 2001


Ali


They brought my sister out of her coma. This was it, I told myself. This was when Kitty was going to tell everyone exactly what happened.

Her eyes were open. They looked at Mum first. Then me. Then David.

We were all waiting. Holding our breath. Praying. Desperate.

Kitty’s mouth opened. I went cold. And then hot. My mouth was bone dry and my legs started to shake. My sister was trying to talk. But the only thing that was coming out was a gurgle. A mish-mash of incomprehensible sounds and rolling eyes.

How often had I wished that Kitty would get her comeuppance for all those cruel barbs over the years. And now she had.

Brain damage. Substantial.

Full recovery unlikely. Any improvement would probably take place in the next twelve months. But don’t hold your breath.

Future: uncertain.

Someone called a Patient Coordinator then sat us down in a small office and outlined the next set of practical steps.

Spinal ward.

Possible brain operation.

Rehab.

Likelihood of seizures due to brain injury.

Physio.

Assessment.

Occupational therapy.

Speech and language therapy. Many patients with head injuries come out with rude things even if they never used to swear. They might say it as it is, without the social niceties that the rest of us observe. For example, if they see a fat woman, they might declare something like ‘She’s had too many pies’.

The Patient Coordinator said this as if we were meant to laugh. We didn’t.

Some people with severe head injuries become sexually promiscuous.

Many undergo complete personality changes.

Taste buds can change. She might like food she didn’t care for before.

Twenty-four-hour care.

Excessive giggling or aggression or both.

Extreme difficulty in retaining information.

Or in recalling past events.

Then there were the phases that we, as Kitty’s loved ones, would go through. In fact, we’d already started.

Shock.

Denial.

Deep distress.

Guilt even though the accident hadn’t been their fault. (I tried to ignore that one.) Frustration.

Depression.

Desperation (clutching at straws, hoping for a miracle cure).

Integration (trying to work out a way of living with this strange new Kitty who couldn’t talk or walk).

But all this paled into insignificance in comparison with the trial. When I would have to lie. On oath.





Squeaky-clean school shoes.

Shoulder bags bobbing.

Blonde plaits flapping.

Two pairs of feet. One slightly larger.

‘Come on. We’re going to be late.’

Nearly there. Almost safe.

Pavement edge.

Another pair of feet.

No!

A scream.

Silence.

Blood seeping on the ground.

Spreading and spreading.

All because of a secret which I had to tell in order to protect another.

Some of it is coming back now.

But there’s more.

I can feel it.





50


May 2017


Alison