‘Lissa’s right,’ Marie said, and followed me. When I looked back, seconds later, Ashling was standing alone.
For the remainder of my time in primary school I kept out of trouble.
7
Despite the passing of years, Jemma’s eyes continued to haunt me. I struggled to understand what she’d been trying to say those last few seconds as she lay dying. Maybe she’d been asking for my forgiveness… I like to think that was the answer, but I wasn’t sure and perhaps that was why I couldn’t shake her off. Or maybe haunting me was her retribution.
It should have been enough to stop me ever killing again but then needs must when the devil drives.
Mostly, I gave what happened in the playground little thought. Life had quickly returned to its usual routine: my father resumed his schedule of three to four nights a week and alternate weekends away, my mother to her cycle of neglect and indulgence.
And it would have probably continued that way, if life had a channel carved in stone to run along. But it doesn’t, it changes course unexpectedly.
I was sitting at the desk in my bedroom working on an essay for my English class when the doorbell brought my head up with a grunt of irritation. My mother was at the supermarket. I hoped whoever it was would give up and go away. We didn’t get many callers though, and curiosity dragged me from my desk to pull back the curtain and peer around the edge.
A police car was pulled up on the road outside. Surprised, but not yet worried, I moved to the other side of the window which gave a better view of the front door. Two uniformed officers stood on the step.
It had happened before. My mother had been caught speeding by a neighbourhood team with a speed scanner. The police weren’t allowed to give fines, but they did call around to advise her to slow down.
It would be the same again. She’d be upset. Again.
Perhaps, if I went down, they’d be happy for me to pass on their message. Surely, they had more important things to do, so wouldn’t want to return.
Convinced I knew why they were there, I had no worry about opening the door. ‘Hi,’ I said, smiling at the two grim-faced officers.
Although I was sixteen, I was small and slim and could have passed for younger. It was obviously what they thought too, as they hesitated before one said, quietly, ‘Hello, is your mother in?’
‘She’s out at the supermarket.’ I smiled and shook my head.
‘Is it okay if we come in?’
Surprised, I laughed uncertainly. ‘Is that really necessary? She might be a while and I have schoolwork to get done.’
‘Can I ask how old you are, miss?’
I was tempted to be smart, to say they could ask but I wasn’t obliged to answer, but there was something in their grim-set features that stopped the words. ‘I’m sixteen.’
The officers looked at each other, the older nodding and repeating his question. ‘Is it okay if we come in?’
Thanks to my mother, I’d watched more than my fair share of detective programmes on TV. ‘Mum, is she okay?’ She was a crazy driver, easily distracted. I imagined her car a mangled mess, her body twisted. ‘Mum!’
My cry hadn’t died when I saw her car pull into the driveway and I slumped against the wall in relief. She climbed out, hauled a carrier bag from the passenger seat, and stood with it hanging heavily from one hand as she glanced at the police car. Then she walked towards the door where the two officers stood, their expressions set into lines of uncomfortable determination.
The awful truth seemed to hit us at the same time. Mother dropped the bag of groceries as she raced forward shouting ‘Mark’， at the same time as I uttered a disbelieving, ‘Daddy?’ Mother grabbed the first officer, her hands pulling and clawing at his uniform until he grasped both of her hands in his and held them still. I stumbled away from them, back into the house, my mouth open in shock.
Stunned disbelief rendered me silent but Mother screeched… an ear-splitting litany of keening words, the pitch growing higher and higher. One of the officers tried to persuade her to move into the house and, when persuasion failed, resorted to lifting her bodily and carrying her through. He put her down beside the sofa. She stood rigidly, refusing to sit as she continued her keening, eyes wide, the fingers of one hand entwined in the other.
Then she stopped, her sudden silence almost as overwhelming as her keening. She flopped onto the sofa behind, and stared up at the officer who had carried her in. ‘Tell me.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘Your husband was found earlier today. In his car. A member of the public noticed he hadn’t moved for several hours. When they failed to get his attention by knocking on the car window, they called emergency services. The paramedics who attended reported there was no sign of life and Mr McColl’s body was cold. They estimate he died sometime late last night. There’ll be a post-mortem, but their professional opinion was that he’d had either a massive heart attack or a stroke.’
I pictured my big happy, smiling father, in his car, dying alone. That he was dead was horrifying, that he had died alone, far from those he loved shattered me. One of the officers had gone into the kitchen. I could hear him opening and closing cupboard doors. Was he making tea? It seemed such an odd thing to do, but then what did I know? Maybe a cup of tea would make everything all right, reset the world, make the death of my father seem normal.
The other officer, he who had given my mother the bad news, was sitting in the chair opposite her. I thought he’d forgotten about me, but then he glanced my way and I could see the panic in his eyes. It drew me over and I sat on the sofa beside my mother. She was staring directly ahead, barely blinking. She didn’t turn to look at me, to comfort me, or to share our grief.
The officer got to his feet and knelt in front of her, shaking her gently. I could have told him there was no point. I could have explained about the cycles of neglect and indulgence – how she’d found it so hard to cope with my father’s absence that she’d struggle for one long day, turning inward and barely noticing the world around her, including me. I could have explained that it was only the thought of my father’s impending return that made her resume living.
I reached for her hand, prised it away from the grip of the other, and held it. There was no life in it, no warmth. She’d gone away and this time she had no reason to return. My father had left her for good. I wanted to scream at her, to tell her that I was worth staying for, that I was still here. In desperation, I tugged on her hand, but her whole body swayed and her eyes remained fixed ahead.
‘Do you have a doctor we can call?’
‘Yes.’ I released the hand I held, watched for a second in dismay as it immediately sought the other and her fingers were once more entwined as if I’d never parted them. I brushed tears from my eyes and went out to the hall table. An address book, filled with my mother’s neat writing, was kept in the drawer. It held the details of everyone we knew. Flipping it open to the correct page, I handed it over without a word.
While the officer made the call, the other came through with a laden tray. He’d used the fine china tea service my mother kept for visitors. She’d have been horrified at the way he had the cups stacked together. I was tempted to reach out and separate them to keep her happy, then realised what a stupid thing it was to consider. My father was dead; nothing was going to make her happy again.