“I’m okay,” she whispers, but there is blood on her nightdress and her hands.
I put my head under her arm and lift her, then we hobble together as fast as we can, away from the sound of twigs snapping in the distance behind us. I think I must be hallucinating when we literally stumble across a road and see a car. The driver’s door is open, and the key is in the ignition, as though someone just got out and left it here for us to find. But then I see the old oak tree it has clearly crashed into.
I gently lower my mother into the passenger seat, and fasten her seat belt before getting in myself. She presses on the wound on her stomach, trying to stop the bleeding, but there is a lot more blood now than before.
“Can you drive it?” she asks.
“I guess we’ll find out.”
I manage to turn on the engine, and when it starts, I feel a rush of hope. I slam the gearstick into reverse, and the car slowly rolls backward, away from the tree. I change gear, ready to drive away, then I hear sirens in the distance. I look at Mum and can tell that she hears them too.
“It sounds like help is almost here; shall I wait?” I ask.
Her hopeful expression changes into one of horror, and she screams.
When I follow her gaze, I can see why.
Cat Jones is standing right in front of the car, illuminated by the headlights like a ghoul.
There is blood on her white dress, a knife in her hand, and a crazed look on her face.
It all happens so fast.
There is no time to think.
In my desperation to get away, I hit the pedal, forgetting that the gearshift is now in drive, not reverse. There is a loud thud as the car slams into Cat, knocking her backward, before pinning her body between the bumper and the tree.
“Oh my god,” I whisper. “What have I done?”
The years fall away and all I see is Catherine Kelly in the woods that night, twenty years ago. She must have hated us all very much to have planned a revenge like this. I can’t help feeling responsible for everything that has happened, and I open the door.
“Stay in the car,” says Mum, but I ignore her.
Cat’s eyes are closed. There is a trickle of blood leaking from the corner of her mouth, but I might still be able to help her. I make myself walk toward her broken body, then reach out to feel for a pulse.
Her eyes open. She grabs my wrist with one hand, simultaneously raising the knife with her other. I try to get away, but her nails claw into my skin, pulling me closer. The knife seems to fly toward my face in slow motion, and I close my eyes. Then I hear another shot. When I turn around, I see Priya Patel standing behind the car, still pointing a gun in our direction. When I look back at Cat, a dark red stain is spreading across her white dress. Her eyes are still open, but I know she is dead.
Her
Friday 14:30
I open my eyes and see Jack standing at the end of my hospital bed.
“Apparently I missed visiting hours, but they said I could say hello,” he whispers.
“You’re okay,” I say.
“Of course; it takes more than a bullet through the shoulder to stop me.”
I hate hospitals. Apart from the twisted ankle and a lot of scratches, I’m fine. I worry someone else needs the bed more than I do, but the doctors insisted on keeping me here for twenty-four hours. Jack takes my hand in his and we share a silent conversation. Sometimes there is no need for words, when you know someone well enough to know exactly what they would say.
“Is Mum—”
“She’s fine, promise,” he says. “They’ve stitched her up and moved her onto a different ward. She’s doing really well, considering.” He pauses. “There’s something else. I’m not sure how to tell you this, and maybe you already know, but I didn’t. Something came up on your mum’s medical records when they brought her in.”
“If this is about her dementia, then I know she’s a lot worse than before—”
“It’s not that. I’m so sorry to be the one to tell you, but she has cancer. It was diagnosed a few months ago. I don’t know why she didn’t tell me—us, I mean. I think maybe she didn’t fully understand it herself. But I’ve spoken to two different doctors here now, who have both confirmed it’s an aggressive variety. I’m so sorry.”
I don’t know what to say. My relationship with my mother has been strained since I was a teenager, but I still struggle to come to terms with her keeping something like this from me.
“She probably just didn’t want you to worry, or frankly forgot—you’ve seen how confused she gets now,” Jack says, as though reading my mind.