Chapter 47 Ex Number Three
Ex Number Three
George
The skirmish with George is messy, animal. Care and I both seem intent on throwing our bodies as shields into the other’s path. But we don’t know what we’re doing, and George is winning.
Until he isn’t.
The punch he landed is still hot and angry on the side of my face, the other cheek cold against the tiles.
When I peel my torso off the floor, sit up, glance around, I’m almost shocked to see George’s still figure slumped across from me.
I remember the feeling of the knife handle in my hands.
A few feet over, Claire sits propped up against some cabinets, glaring at his corpse.
“Oh fuck” is all I manage to say.
I expect a similar expletive in return. Nothing.
“Care?”
And then I look at her properly. See the unnatural tilt of her head. See the blood pooling beneath her.
I scrabble over to her. See the split skin and bleeding red on her temple. Hear again the crack of her skull against the countertop as she went down. See the sharp corner with a small slash of red so delicate it couldn’t be part of something so ugly.
“Care?”
Her eyes are open, searching.
“I’m here, Care.”
A low, gravelly groan comes back to me. “Natty.”
Desperate, I crawl closer. I try not to touch the blood.
Try not to look into the eyes that have a hard time locking onto me although I’m right in front of her.
My hands cup her soft face, so warm. My desperation is clawing its way up my throat.
I want to scream. And the pain and panic are only intensified by the knowledge that this is my fault; I keep being drawn to monsters like a moth to a flame, and this time, it’s left my sister bleeding on a kitchen floor.
I know I’ll have to come clean when she recovers. I know she’ll never forgive me.
Fix this. I have to focus, fix this.
I’m up on my feet lightning fast. Phone. Where’s my phone?
Aha. The counter.
And then, 99…
I freeze before the final digit. There’s a dead man in my kitchen, after all. I take a brief second to think. Time is not on my side. I have to get help. I have to save Claire.
And so I dial. I don’t know how I do, but I dial, and after a few rings, she picks up.
“So you’ve remembered your mother exists, then?”
“Mom.” It’s more a guttural choke than a word.
“Baby? Baby, what’s wrong?”
“It—it’s Claire.”
Perhaps it’s her mother’s intuition. Perhaps it’s my obvious distress. She goes quiet for a beat and then says, “Where is she? What’s happened to her?”
“She’s hurt. I need you to tell me what to do.”
Immediate denial. “What are you talking about?”
“She came over to see me. I hadn’t seen her in so long. And I was in trouble, Mom. George was meant to be out, but he came home and…I don’t know how, but things got so out of hand, and he shoved her. I didn’t think it was bad, but she hit her head on the way down…Mom, I don’t know what to do, I—”
“She’s not going to die from a silly fall. Is she conscious?”
I can feel the muscle memory of my mother’s time on the wards snapping into place. Thank god. This is what I need. I rush back to Claire’s side, try saying her name, louder this time. She gives a soft groan.
“Yeah, bu—”
“And she’s breathing normally?”
The back of my hand goes to her pillowy lips. Soft breath fogs on my skin in a regular rhythm. “I guess so, Mom. But you don’t get it. Her head’s bleeding. Like, a lot.”
“It’s what?”
“It’s bleeding.”
“Natalie, you need to get your sister into an ambulance immediately. Why are you wasting your time calling me? I’m hanging up. Keep me—”
“George is dead, Mom. Here.”
“How—”
“I killed him. Mommy, he was out of control and…and…” And I don’t know what else there is to say.
“One thing at a time, Natalie. Let me see her,” she insists.
“Mom, I don’t think—”
“Let me see her!”
“O-okay, I’ll call back on video. But I think we need to be quick. One…one sec.”
And I do what I say I will, trying to ignore the wailing alarms in my head. Trying to ignore the hollow gurgle in my stomach. Claire groans.
“Nat?” It’s soft, sort of falling out of her mouth.
The call connects and my mother’s face comes to life on the screen. The years have drawn the anguish on her face in harsh, unmissable lines. It’s pain that can’t be ignored. Suffering that cannot be subtle.
I tap the video, switching the image to the back camera. Claire’s figure comes to life on my screen. Was there always this much blood? Her eyes. God, I can’t look at her eyes, now seemingly staring into nothing.
A sob erupts from me so loud and so alive, its own beast, that it takes me a while to register my mother’s screams. It is primal, so deep, it must begin in her toes and end at her gaping mouth. It’s all too much. I take the camera off my sister.
“My baby. Oh my god, my baby.”
She repeats this. It feels like it’s endless. It feels like it’s punishment, each cry a lashing against my skin. Because I know I have done this to her. I have done this to us. Both of us.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “This is stupid. I’m wasting time. I’ll call an ambulance.”
“Wait. Turn your flash on. Show me her eyes.”
“Mom, we have to get to hosp—”
“Show me.”
I do as I’m told. The call goes deathly quiet.
“Mom?” Nothing. “What is it? Say something.”
She sniffs. “This is your fault. I hope you can live with that.” And the call goes dead.
What the fuck?
I try redialing. Nothing. Look at Care. Still.
What did my mother see? Or not see?
“Care?” I ask.
Silence.
I pull up my phone torch, flash it in her eyes. And then I see it. Her pupils are blown out wide like she’s flying high, jaw slack. And no matter how near or far I hold the light, her pupils don’t change size.
I collapse to the floor, reach for Claire’s wrist. Two fingers press firm and urgent into her skin, heat already leaching out of it. Nothing. I try her neck, nothing.
I want to scream, but it’s like I’m trapped in a nightmare, my mouth yawning wide but no sound coming out.
And this is a nightmare. The worst nightmare.
I collapse back, and I look at her unmoving face, and I do scream this time, not caring who might hear me.
Because my world has ended. There is no surviving this.
My whole heart has been carved from my chest and left on the floor.
And I know I need to move, but I don’t know how to move, don’t know where to go. The only person who might have helped is our mother.
Our mother.
My god.
And in an attempt to look at something other than my sister, my eyes find their way to George. My mind flashes to plastic tarp stashed in the flat, the saw in the shed, the burial spots I’ve marked out.
I’m not thinking clearly but think maybe I should deal with him. That everything will be easier after that.
With legs so shaky I don’t know if they’ll support me, I struggle to my feet. I take two steps, collapse, heave, shake, scream.
There’s nothing smart about trying to hide what’s happened here. After all, if by some miracle I rid myself of George’s corpse, what am I going to do with Claire?
Nausea overwhelms me. Vomit, acid and sour, races up my throat. Slips through fingers, a hand clamped to my mouth. Splatters against cream tiles.