I spit river water into his face. That should wipe off the bullshit coming out of his mouth.
‘I’ve had worse than that,’ he says. ‘You really should try being educated at a boarding school.’ He leans into me like I’m a specimen under a magnifying glass. ‘Perhaps it was unfair to compare you with Miriam. You really are a chip off the old block, Danny Greene’s daughter.’
He doesn’t know how prophetic his words may be as I change the positions of my hands under the water. I hunt for the bread knife I took from Miriam’s house in the side pocket of my combat trousers.
Too late. My head is forced back underwater, my hair pulled tight in his hands. My strength seeps out of me, washing away with the river’s ebb and flow. I’m really drowning this time, I’ve nothing left.
Above me, Danny’s shadow dances. But wait, is that another shadowy dancing figure above me? I must be hallucinating. No! Yes! But who is it? And then I know. With one hand I reach my fingertips towards the second shadow. The black shape rippling on the water stretches out their fingertips to me.
Mummy. Hope.
Energy comes flooding back into me. I find the knife. There is a possible way . . .
No! I can’t do that! Can’t.
Yes you can!
Do it! Do it! Do it!
My inner voices war with one another. And Danny keeps pushing me further to my death. I don’t think any more. I just do it.
With the knife I lash out and slice through my hair. I slash and hack again and again at my scalp, at the roots of my hair until it comes away in loose clumps. The water scalds my raw and torn flesh. Images of myself as a child flash before my eyes. I’m being held down, my hair is being shorn from my head. I’m screaming. But then, I’m free. Danny’s hands slip away.
Using my feet, I push hard for the surface and emerge into the soft warm embrace of the night air.
Danny is standing a few feet away holding strands of my hair, looking at it in disbelief. ‘You utter bitch.’
He leans over and grabs another fistful of hair and down I go under again. I slash away again and this time, by accident, the blade runs across his hand as well as the roots of my hair. His grip is loosened and once more I come to the surface, gulping stray hair as well as air back into my lungs. Danny is howling, staring at his bloody fingers as I yank myself on to the jetty and out of the water. I still have the knife and I lunge for his ankle, slicing across the Achilles tendon. Danny slams down to one knee. I sever the tendon on his other leg. He’s bawling in pain, shouting, ‘What have you done?’
Dripping, I make my way over to Miriam. She’s still unconscious. I check her pulse again and use the light on her phone to check her over. She’ll be OK.
I run back towards Danny. He’s sitting up, leaning back on his good hand, trying to examine the damage to his ankles. He’s panting, furious. ‘You really are a piece of work, a proper street kid with a knife.’ He looks me up and down, sneering, ‘Still, that’s only to be expected considering where you were dragged up for the first eight years of your life.’
I kick his good hand away so he slumps backwards. He looks up in alarm. ‘You’re not the sort of person to leave a man injured. I know you’re going to bandage me up and then call the police and an ambulance. That’s who you are. Why don’t you go and get on with it? Call who you like, I’m not worried.’
I crouch down and hold my knife to his throat. ‘I’ll tell you what I want. I want you to say my mother’s name. Go on, say it.’
He squeals with laughter. ‘A street kid and a sentimentalist? You’re quite a combination.’ He raises his head to one side so his throat is exposed. ‘Go on then. I dare you.’
My resolve weakens; he’s right, I’m not that sort of person.
In the distance there’s the sound of disco music, shouting and laughter. I stand up and look for where the noise is coming from. Coming sedately down the river hundreds of yards away is a pleasure boat with a party on board having a grand time of it.
Danny growls and grunts in pain when I grab his injured ankles and use all my reserves of adrenaline to drag him the short distance to the bank. I shove him into the rowing boat he keeps moored there, and scramble in after him.
‘What are you doing?’ He sounds scared now. He should be.
I say nothing and row. The boat weaves and lurches into the middle of the river. Danny is lying prone on the bottom of the boat in the rainwater and stray leaves. ‘I’m losing blood. I’ll die if you don’t call an ambulance. Stop playing games.’