Chapter 34
The sun’s high in the sky by the time she gives up waiting. It’s beating down on her, but she can’t get warm. She needs to get back, check on Janice, make sure she’s still alive, still in bed, safe. Or as safe as Marie can make her.
Maybe it’s because she’s here. They can sense her presence somehow, won’t come until she leaves.
Best to proceed on that basis. She grabs the notebook and pen out of her pocket and scrawls a note: MEDICAL ASSISTANCE REQUIRED URGENTLY, JANICE SERIOUSLY ILL.
That will have to do. She waves it under the camera for a while before she shoves it under a rock on the pier and starts to climb back up to the house.
They should have discussed protocols. They should have put guidelines in place. They should never have delivered whisky to a recovering alcoholic.
Maybe you want her to die. She stops in her tracks.
No. That’s not right. She’s never wanted Janice to die, never resented her care of her.
Sure, there’ve been times she could have done without it, hankering for the quiet of her own company, but it’s not like she couldn’t leave the room, go and sit on her own for a bit.
Or go walking, foraging in the endless wilderness.
I don’t believe you. You’ve always hated her. That’s not true. Not true at all. She’s not going to accept that. She keeps on walking.
You’re going to have to take action when she’s gone. Can’t keep using that as an excuse to hold back. This one’s unanswerable. Fuck off, she shouts back at her head. Not now.
She’s nearly back at the house, but she needs to stop, catch her breath.
Normally she’s so fit, but panic is driving up her heart rate, making her breaths shallow, not allowing in the oxygen she needs.
There’s a rattling of stones in the distance; she hears them fall, looks round to see if someone is there, someone who could help, but it’s nothing.
Only a sheep, staring at her. Accusation in its eyes.
Fuck’s sake. She’s losing it now. The sheep is not staring at her in accusation.
The sheep doesn’t give a shit. Neither does the sky, the mountain or the massive rock off to her left, which she climbs sometimes, just for something to do.
The landscape is impassive, untouched by her.
Filled with sudden rage, she picks up a stone and hurls it at the sheep, screaming as she does.
The noise she emits doesn’t even scare the sheep, which keeps eating grass regardless.
The stone she’s thrown lands harmlessly on the ground metres in front of it.
She can’t even hit a static target. She’s useless. Completely worthless. Nothing she does has any effect. If Janice dies, it’s going to be her fault.
Janice isn’t going to die. She’s got a tummy bug, that’s all. Or gastric flu. Marie’s cleared her airways, propped her up. It’s going to be all right.
‘Sorry, sheep,’ she says, walking towards the house. It grazes on, unheeding.