Ashleigh and Remy Brett 1982 Aged 20 #9
It occurred to Remy then that she hadn’t seen a mirror.
Aware that she was injured, she felt a leap of fear in her chest as, judging from her mother’s expression and demeanour, she figured it must be bad.
It was some small consolation that her mum was a little prone to exaggeration, if not hysterics.
With this in mind, she managed to remain calm.
It was, however, the sight of her dad, whose knees seemed to buckle when he saw her, reaching for the edge of a sink, leaning on it hard as he pushed his thumb and forefinger into his closed eyes and breathed deeply, that worried her.
‘Mum!’ She spoke softly, her voice now scratchy, coming from a throat riven with exhaustion.
Ruthie took her tenderly into her arms. ‘My little dove, my darling. I love you Remy, I love you so much. I’m sorry! I’m so, so sorry!’
Remy wasn’t sure what she was apologising for but welcomed being held. It was everything.
‘How did you know I was here?’ she managed to ask when her mum released her hold and took her hand.
‘The police came to the house. I was in my nightie, just cleaning my teeth, when they knocked on the door.’ She broke away to shake her head and cry some more. ‘It’s every parent’s worst nightmare, and there they were,’ she howled. ‘I thought we’d lost you. I thought there’d been a crash or—’
Oi! There it was again, and her body jolted.
‘Not a crash, no,’ Remy whispered. ‘How’s Tony? They won’t let me see him.’
‘He’s holding on, my love. He’s holding on.’
Holding on . . . it sounded fragile, and she again offered a silent prayer into the ether.
‘He’s my best friend, Mum.’ Her tears came again.
‘I know, my love, I know.’
Her mother tentatively stroked the hair from her face. Some of it caught, trapped, she would discover, stuck fast to her skin with globs of dried blood.
‘Ouch!’
‘I’m sorry! I’m sorry!’ Ruthie shook her head once again.
Remy looked over at her dad, who had gathered himself, a little.
‘Hi, Dad.’
He stood on the other side of the bed and let his tears drip down his face.
‘I’ll kill them! I swear to God, I will fucking kill them!
’ His voice was high and unnatural, each word dragged over vocal cords plucked tight with anger and distress.
It was the first time she had ever heard her dad use the F word, the first time she had ever seen him cry like this. It felt appropriate, all of it.
‘We’ll have no talk of killing.’ Ruthie pulled a tissue from her sleeve and wiped her eyes. ‘There’s been enough violence tonight to last us all a lifetime.’
‘What have they done to you?’ her dad asked softly, and she knew him well enough to know he didn’t actually want the details. All in good time.
‘We’ve left a message for your sister with her flatmate.’
‘Right.’ She was glad Ashleigh wasn’t home to get the message, hoping she was at her ball having a fabulous time.
‘God, I hope she’s okay!’ Ruthie spoke to her husband, her face contorted. Remy, who ordinarily would have laughed at her overprotective mother, did nothing of the sort, understanding that if something like this could happen to her . . .
The door opened, and in stepped a doctor, his white coat open to reveal a brown cotton shirt and beige Farah slacks and a black rubber stethoscope hanging around his neck.
A fancy-pants career for sure. And even though she didn’t admit it, not yet, somewhere at the back of her bruised and bashed head she understood that what had happened tonight had changed her, changed everything.
She wouldn’t be going off to university, wouldn’t be taking up the law, but would stay close to home, where she’d coil in bed, take warm baths and sit with her mum and dad on the sofa.
She would seek out peace and safety. A quiet life, away from those boots and that noise, Oi!
, and that fear. That awful, awful fear.
That was all she wanted, that and for Tony to pull through.
Tony . . . please . . .
‘Right, Remy.’ He studied the clipboard with her chart attached, before smiling at her briefly. ‘You’ve been in the wars.’
She nodded, reassured by his presence, this man who was unemotional, calm and who would help make her better, fix her up enough so that she could go home.
‘Can I go and see my friend? I really need to see him!’
‘Um, I don’t see why not. Let me go and grab a wheelchair. We need to get you down to X-ray anyway, but you can stop by on the way. But literally just to say hello.’
‘Thank you!’ At last someone had listened to her. She cried now, but these were tears of gratitude and tasted different.
It was awkward, painful, and cumbersome transferring into the chair, which her mother pushed. Her dad, by her side, kept reaching out to touch her good shoulder, letting her know he was close. It meant a lot, knowing he was right there. Her dad would never let any harm come to her.
‘Just a minute, no more.’ The doctor spoke sternly and knocked on a door before walking ahead. He turned to face them as she and her parents waited anxiously. ‘In you go.’
Remy knew she would never forget the sight that greeted her.
The person on the bed had a grotesquely swollen head and face.
No discernible features, no pretty eyes, no small nose, no pouty lips that always knew what to say to make her laugh, lips that favoured Heather Shimmer.
Instead, he was a bloated, bruised ball that looked more balloon than human.
There was a white stretchy tube in his mouth, a drip in his arm and a machine that beeped, attached to his chest via wires.
‘What happened?’ Tony’s mum, Mrs Newman, who had been sitting by his side, her head resting on the small gap on the mattress, fired the question at her.
Her eyes bloodshot with distress, her skin grey and loose on her cheekbones, as if felled by the sight of her boy.
And Remy understood. This woman who had lost her husband, Tony’s dad, when she was pregnant, this woman who already knew pain.
There was something in the rhythm of her question, the emphasis on the word what, the almost imperceptible curl of her top lip as she voiced it, that coated the question with accusation.
Remy’s response was the only one that felt fitting, as she felt the ligature of culpability tighten around her throat: ‘I’m so sorry.’
Had it been her idea to go into town?
Were they laughing too loudly, drawing attention?
Why did she not advise him not to wear so much make-up?
Had her response goaded their attackers?
Was it her fault?
Could she have done more to help her friend?
Why hadn’t she stood and joined in the fight, tried to beat them, clawed them, anything?
Ashleigh had suggested she ditch the off-the-shoulder T-shirt and oversized dungarees. Maybe she was right?
In that moment she felt an instinctive need to see her sister, to be near her, to be wrapped in her arms, her other half, as if believing that in some way, that contact might help restore her broken self. Make her whole. Two halves, one egg . . .
For broken she was.
Ashleigh
With feet sore from dancing, her head a little dizzy from the gin, wine and champagne she’d consumed, Ashleigh waltzed through the front door of her flat and threw her keys on to the side table.
She was in that pleasant stage where she’d gone from drunk to almost sober.
With it enough to function competently, even passing to an unknowing ear as clear-headed, but with just enough booze in her system to coat the world in a pleasant haze of joy.
A warm and comforting sleepy kind of high that was always the perfect end to a perfect night.
For perfect it was.
Having jumped out of the cab, Archie had kissed her long and hard on the doorstep before going to buy beer from the twenty-four-hour off-licence.
She had been too cold to go with him. Plus, the last thing she wanted was beer, she was far keener to pull Archie’s shirt from his body and get to bed, longing to feel him next to her, skin to skin.
She figured she had approximately twenty odd minutes to shed her frock, shower, climb beneath the covers, and wait for him.
Although she had to admit, it felt like a shame to have to take off her fabulous dress. It had been quite the draw.
An invitation to Mulverton!
She danced her feet on the spot with her eyes closed and her arms in the air.
It might now be nearly three in the morning, but she wasn’t sure how she was going to sleep, not with her adrenaline pumping, so excited about the next few days.
The big question was what to pack. Her one decent pair of pyjamas, for sure; wellies, obviously; and a nice gift for Elaine – flowers?
Chocolates? Both? Not that she’d explicitly said Call me Elaine, but that couldn’t be far off.
‘Ash?’ Fran called from her room along the hall.
‘Oh, sorry, love. Did I wake you up? I was trying to be quiet. Archie’s gone to get beer.
We’ve had the most amazing night! We started off at the wine bar, I met his parents, who were a hoot’ – she stole the phrase – ‘and then the ball. We all arrived late, missed dinner, but the band were brilliant! My feet are killing me – whoever thought dancing in heels was a good idea! And tomorrow we’re off to stay with his parents for a few days!
I say we, because we are, officially, a we! ’
Fran appeared in the doorway of her room, hair mussed, glasses in lieu of her contact lenses, which quite changed her appearance, her pyjamas crumpled from sleep and an air of fogginess that was to be forgiven at this hour.
Her flatmate, it seemed, shared none of Ashleigh’s enthusiasm for her news, which was mildly disappointing.
‘Your mum called earlier.’
‘Oh right. Well, thank you, darling, I’ll give her a shout tomorrow.’ She knew her mother would want all the details.