The Things You Didn't See(6)

‘Mum!’ I shake you again, and from your nose a spray of crimson lands on me. ‘Oh God, Mum, who did this to you?’

Jet cowers at my raised voice, snarling and baring his teeth, something I’ve never known him do before. Both of us are panicked and afraid.

Help, I must get help.

The phone lives in your study, so I run upstairs.

The study door is half-open. Unusual.

Inside, it looks as though a bomb has exploded: filing cabinet drawers are extended on runners like loose teeth, papers and clip-files lie scattered on the floor. With a shiver, I see that the gun cupboard hangs open, which should never happen, though Dad organised a shoot yesterday so maybe he wasn’t careful locking up. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s been forgetful and none of us were thinking straight last night. A space reveals itself, where the rifle should be.

I’ve started to shake. Why is the study such a mess? Papers are scattered, letters about the Port Authority’s plan to buy our land and make Innocence Lane its lorry depot.

They’ve been hounding you for months, but you resolved it yesterday. You made your decision.

I spy the phone, grab it, dial.

‘999 emergency. Which service, please?’

The relief at having the call answered is like nothing I’ve experienced before.

‘Ambulance.’ I’m gasping like I’ve run a marathon. The longest two seconds of my life, then a different voice comes on the line.

‘This is the Ambulance Service. How may we help you?’

‘My mother’s been shot. I don’t know what to—’

‘Can you tell me where you are?’

‘Innocence Farm. On Innocence Lane, Kenley.’ It’s so early, the sky hasn’t woken up yet; it’s still a watery indigo. The birds are impatient, heckling the sun to rise.

‘Okay, yes, someone has already called this in. We have police and paramedics on the way. What’s the condition of your mum now?’

‘She’s breathing, I think, but not conscious. There’s a gun, a rifle, beside her.’

‘The earlier caller said she shot herself. Can you see the wound?’

‘There’s blood on her neck – it’s hard to see. But I don’t think she . . .’

‘Okay, love, I’m going to talk you through what to do, until the ambulance arrives. You need to put some pressure on that wound.’

‘I’m not with her, I’m upstairs.’

‘Can you return to your mother?’

I put the phone on speaker and stumble back down to the bottom of the stairs. The sight of you – white flesh, red silk, black blood – is a shock all over again. I feel dizzy, fear I might fall.

‘Okay, are you with her?’ asks the operator. ‘Can you put your ear to her mouth and tell me if she’s breathing?’

Dad seems to rally. He follows the instructions as best he can while I hold the phone. He practically smothers you as he checks for signs of life, pushing hard on your ribs, his mouth searching for yours as he repeats your name, shoving Jet so roughly, he cowers from his master.

I watch and pray for the ambulance to hurry. Instructions keep coming from the operator. She’s good at her job: she has all our names and keeps up a steady flow of instructions.

‘The ambulance is just ninety seconds away now, and you’re doing great. I need you to breathe into Maya’s mouth on my count. Are you ready, Hector?’

Dad is trying his best, but he’s crying too hard, doesn’t have the breath to save you. He looks up at me but I’m afraid, too afraid, to touch you. It’s the blood, black in the half-light of the hallway. And you’re so exposed, pale skin in red silk, dark hair matted with blood.

‘Hector? I need you to continue counting so I can hear what you’re doing. Shall we count together?’

He’s sobbing now, and you, sweet mother, are deathly still.

‘It’s too late,’ he says. ‘Maya’s left me.’

‘No, Dad, she’s still here!’

Something kicks in, a feeling I thought I’d lost returns and I push Dad away, pull your mouth to mine. It’s soft and cold and I push my life into you. I ram both my palms hard on your chest, feel your fragile bones give way under the cool skin, all the time trying not to look in your terrifying eyes.

The operator counts: ‘One, two, three . . .’

Oh please, oh please. Between gulped breaths, I silently beg you. Or God. I won’t stop, can’t stop, until you breathe again. Dad slips to the floor, weeps noisily, calling your name. Jet won’t leave him be, wet snout and yelps. And still the voice comes from the phone, delivering calm instructions.

‘Okay, Cass, the ambulance is very close. Keep going until the paramedics take over. Now push: one, two, three . . .’





3

Holly

Outside and all around, the season had changed, seemingly overnight. Just a few days before, Holly had tasted the air as cinnamon sticks, autumn smoke and spice. A rich clothing of red and orange leaves seemed to make every tree along the street glow copper. But the advent of November had brought with it cool silver skies and the taste of tin. The trees looked withered, as if their autumn dress had been stolen, leaving them naked and vulnerable to winter, and the sky was heavy with rain.

Holly’s paramedic uniform was a short-sleeved tunic and cotton trousers. She shivered as she got into the car, a Fiat 500, her mint-coloured bubble against the world and the unwelcome sensations it gave her. Her work bag, in the same forest-green shade as her tunic and trousers, was on the passenger seat along with her Superdry jacket. She’d likely need that later.