The Nurse(7)

‘Oh, darling,’ my mother said. Her voice had thickened. I knew if I looked up, I’d see tears in her eyes.

‘What happened then?’ The detective’s voice was encouraging. I wondered how fast it would change if he knew the truth.

‘I walked over to show it to Marie and Jemma.’

‘They’re both friends of yours, are they?’

I could have lied, said we were besties, but Mrs Mangan would know the lie.

‘No, but they were the nearest to me and I wanted to show off my p-pretty p-prize.’

‘Right, and what happened then?’

‘I fell.’ Another hesitation for a bit of lip trembling. I lifted my arm. ‘The b-bottle broke and cut me. I got up, then I saw the blood on my arm, and it must have made me weak because next I knew, I was lying on top of Jemma, so I hurried to get up.’ I frowned as if puzzled by what I was remembering. ‘Jemma didn’t, I think she must have b-banged her head or something when she fell. Marie was screaming so loud that the playground monitors came rushing over. When the teachers came out, we were taken away.’ I didn’t mention Jemma’s eyes. I didn’t want to think about them. I saw the detective frown. Was he looking through me, seeing the blackness of my soul, the rot at my core?

‘When you got up, after falling the first time, why did you hold on to the end of the broken bottle?’

A question I’d anticipated. ‘D-Did I?’ I took a shaky breath. ‘I didn’t know I had, why would I do that?’

‘You don’t remember falling on top of your friend with the glass in your hand?’

She wasn’t my friend. I wanted to shriek the words; the desire so strong that once more I turned my face into my mother’s chest.

‘Lissa has said she doesn’t remember, Inspector,’ Mrs Mangan said. ‘You can’t badger the child.’

My mother had gone rigid. I didn’t look up to see the shock on her face. I knew it would be there as the realisation sunk in. ‘Are you saying that it was glass Lissa held that…’ She didn’t finish. I pictured her lips trembling. It was where I’d learnt my act from.

‘It was a tragic accident, Mrs McColl. The glass caught Jemma across the neck. There was nothing they could do for her.’

A tragic accident. I slumped in relief within the cradling arms that held me. After some talk about signing a statement, words that floated over my head, we were allowed to leave.

At home, my mother brought me straight to my room and, for the first time in many years, she helped me off with my clothes and into the childishly patterned pyjamas I had stuffed under my pillow that morning. A lifetime before. When I had been a child. Now… I didn’t know what I was.

My father wasn’t due to return for a couple of days, but Mother must have rung him and begged him to come home early because later that afternoon, to my delight, I heard his voice. I wanted to run down and tell him what had happened, explain that I hadn’t… really hadn’t… meant for my plan to work. He would take me on his knee, and I’d tell him about Jemma’s eyes, how I could see them when I shut my own, ask if the memory would fade with time or haunt me forever. Of course, I couldn’t do any such thing. Instead, I lay tucked under the duvet and listened to the low-pitched words that drifted up the stairway.

They looked in on me, minutes later, but I kept my eyes shut, my breathing slow and regular, even when, one after the other, they leaned down to press a kiss to my forehead. When they’d gone, leaving the door ajar so they could peek in on me later, I opened my eyes and sighed.

When night came, if the cloud cover was heavy, the velvety blackness was absolute. That night, the sky was clear, twinkling with a million stars and strangely bright. I threw back the duvet and crossed to the window to look out.

A harvest moon, a big fat circle of light cut into the darkness, peered down on me. Usually, it would have fascinated me.

But usually, the moon didn’t have Jemma’s eyes.

Eyes that looked down on me and promised retribution.





6





It was agreed between my parents and the school that I’d take time off. Convinced I had to be traumatised by my part in Jemma’s death, it was also decided that I should speak to a counsellor. These decisions were taken without my input. They looked upon me as a child, had no idea of my capabilities, of what I’d done. It was in my interest to play along, to be the innocent child they assumed I was. So, I attended the counselling sessions when I was told.

They were held in a room in a local medical centre. A large modern complex, it was a cold clinical place with icy white walls and cream plastic chairs. Luckily, my father had decided that the seriousness of the situation required that he stay at home, so both my parents brought me to the first session, holding my hands tightly as we entered the building. My mother had barely let me out of her sight since Jemma’s death four days before and her constant reassurances were driving me crazy. It was hard for a woman as emotionally fragile as she was to understand that her only daughter was as unlike her as was possible.

Some attempt had been made to make the room I was brought to less chilly. Chairs were upholstered in a garish floral pattern, matching curtains hanging from the one opaque glass window. An obviously fake green foliage plant sat in one corner. Light sliding through the window hit it and highlighted dust on the plastic leaves.