Ashleigh and Remy Brett 1982 Aged 20 #10
‘No,’ Fran shook her head and walked into the hallway. ‘She was quite insistent. She said that you needed to call her the moment you got in from your party.’
‘Why?’ She couldn’t think of any good reason for such an instruction and her heart lurched at all the possibilities. Was her dad okay?
‘She didn’t say. She just made me promise to tell you to call when you got in. So here I am.’ Fran raised her arms and let them fall by her sides.
‘Well, I can’t call now. She goes to bed before nine p.m., and it’s three in the morning!’
‘She said to say, call her even if it’s two or three in the morning. Those were her actual words.’ Fran shrugged and sighed; message delivered.
‘How did she sound?’
‘She sounded like she wanted you to call her!’ Fran displayed understandable impatience at the fact that this conversation was happening at this time of the morning, and finished with a slight shake of her head.
‘Okay, thanks, Fran. Sorry!’
The girl sloped back to her room and Ashleigh stared at the phone on the small table by the door, unsure if she wanted to hear whatever it was her mum had to tell her.
If it was something bad, she’d almost prefer to leave it until tomorrow, unwilling to spoil the joyous fairy tale that had been her evening, yet understanding her mum well enough to know she wouldn’t settle until she had relayed whatever it was she had to say.
On the other hand, knowing Ruthie as she did, it could be something and nothing.
Maybe a letter had arrived for her; did she want it opening?
How was the ball? Did people say her dress looked nice?
It was a relief to think this was more likely the case.
Her shower would just have to wait.
With her face screwed up in anticipation, she lifted the receiver and exhaled as she dialled her home telephone number.
Holding the phone under her chin, she cringed, imagining the ring echoing all around their little house in Church Lane, disturbing the quiet, raising her parents from their bed.
She pictured her mum sitting up in bed and running down the narrow stairs while she struggled to get her arms into her wool dressing gown, as her dad boomed, ‘Who the bloody hell is that at this time of night!’
The phone rang.
And it rang.
She gripped it tightly and willed them to answer.
It was at that point that Ashleigh felt the pleasant haze of joy, the warm and comforting, sleepy kind of high spiral from her body. And in its place: a cold and sobering intensity that was as scary as it was unwelcome.
They didn’t answer.
They weren’t home.
It was a little after three in the morning.
Where were they? Of course, she had no way of knowing where they were, but one thing was for certain, it was nowhere good.
How could it be? It was at this realisation that the strength left her legs.
She put the phone back into its cradle and slid down the wall until she landed on the wooden floor.
Her dress bunched up around her waist, her head buzzing, and a feeling of dread in her limbs that made the prospect of moving unpleasant.
‘Where are you?’ she whispered into the stillness, as her thoughts raced.
Was one of them ill? Had one of them died?
Had they been burgled? Were they being held against their will?
With her hand on her stomach, she did her best to control her desire to vomit, and considered calling again, but didn’t want them not to answer, knowing it might just send her over the edge.
With an ache to be at home, curled warmly in her childhood bed with her sister in the room next door and her parents snoring through the wall, she wished she had called more often.
Wished she had visited. Wished she and Remy were closer.
Wished she’d told them all she loved them, wished she knew where the hell they were.
The phone rang.
‘Thank God!’ Jumping up, she felt a new surge of energy fuelled by relief – they were home, and she had woken them, and they had just taken a little while to get to the phone.
Her mum would no doubt give her an earful, but she’d happily take it!
Beaming and desperate to hear the voice of her mum or dad, she lifted the receiver.
‘Hello?’
There was the unmistakeable sound of coins dropping, a payphone. A call from a payphone . . . Her heart raced.
‘Ash.’
‘Remy!’ Ashleigh sang. Thank God. Remy was on the phone. ‘I’ve just phoned the house! I would never have called this late, but Mum left a message with Fran, and I had a bit of a panic, and so . . .’ It was that burbling-when-nervous thing again.
‘I didn’t know you’d called. We’re not at home.’
We . . .
‘Not at home?’ She gave a short, sharp, nervous laugh. Unable to fathom where her family might be at this hour, together, the three of them, but without her. ‘Where are you then?’
‘I’m at the hospital.’
Oh God! Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!
‘Rem!’ She exhaled.
‘Mum and Dad are here. They’ve just gone to the machine to get a cup of tea. The nurse has brought the phone to my bed.’
Nurse?
‘Okay.’ Her breathing calmed, a little. ‘Okay.’ If her mum and dad were off getting a cup of tea, then they were not ill and certainly not dead, and if Remy was on the phone, ditto that.
‘Ashleigh . . .’ Remy cried then. Her distress wasn’t loud or jarring.
Hers were not hysterical tears. Neither did they carry the suggestion of tiredness or frustration; they were instead the calm kind.
Tears drawn from a deep, deep place where pure sorrow lies in wait, rearing its head on only the very worst of occasions. ‘I have some really rotten news . . .’
‘What’s happened, little dove, what’s happened?’ Again Ashleigh sat on the floor, hands shaking, her back against the wall, waiting for her sister to explain, wishing she would explain, so that Ashleigh could take a breath.
‘We went into town, Tony and I.’ There was a pause while the sounds of Remy’s stuttered breaths came down the line. ‘We’d only just got out of the car, and, and we were attacked.’
‘What do you mean, attacked?’ Ashleigh shook her head. It didn’t make sense! Who would attack her and Tony? Why?
‘Some men.’ Her sister’s voice was a thin whisper, as if to recount it was too painful. ‘Some . . . some men.’
‘Remy, Remy, my little dove! Are you hurt?’ Her own tears came then; just the thought of her sister, injured, damaged and she hadn’t been there to help, to protect her!
‘I’ve got a broken shoulder and wrist.’ Ashleigh nodded; she had felt it. ‘And my face.’ Remy swallowed. ‘My face is very bruised. I’ve got stitches on my forehead, my temple, and my bottom lip.’
No! No! No! No! No!
‘My love! Oh, my love!’
‘I’m okay.’ Remy coughed; the beeps went. Ashleigh felt a flare of panic; thankfully, her sister deposited more coins. ‘But Tony,’ she sobbed, her voice barely audible, riven, Ashleigh could tell, with the pain of it, ‘they’ve really hurt him, hurt him so badly.’
‘Poor Tony!’ It was unthinkable. Tears ran down Ashleigh’s face, leaving inky black rivers of mascara. ‘Is he going to be okay?’
‘He’s not going to die. The doctor just told me that.’ Her sister spoke with the first glimpse of resolution to her tone, as if this were a fact she clung to. ‘But you should see him, Ash. His face.’
‘Rem!’
‘So many broken bones, his ribs, eye socket, jaw. I can’t even . . .’
‘Oh my God! I can’t believe it!’ She felt helpless and useless, wishing she were by her sister’s side, there at the hospital with her family in the world that was hers, not here, in this frock, wearing faux diamonds and drinking bloody champagne while her sister had been attacked – attacked!
‘I thought they’d killed him.’
‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘I’m scared, Ash,’ Remy whispered.
‘What are you scared of, my love?’
‘Everything.’ This one word shook down the line, and Ashleigh felt the power of her admission. It was devastating to hear her sparky sister so cowed. ‘I need you, dove. I need you right now.’
Archie let himself in with the key she’d given him and held the can of Skol Special Strength in the air.
More cans were stuffed into the pockets of his dinner jacket and a cigarette dangled from his mouth.
One glance at her, however, and he too dropped to his knees, placing his can of lager on the floor.
He put his hands on her legs, his expression one of concern.
‘It’s my sister,’ she explained with her hand over the mouthpiece.
‘She alright?’ he mouthed.
Ashleigh shook her head. No, no, she was very far from alright.
‘I’m coming home, little dove. I’ll be home tomorrow. I’ll be there as soon as I can. You just hang on. You just hang on, okay?’
‘Okay. Okay.’
After her call, they sat on the hall floor for a while, Ashleigh letting the facts permeate, while Archie, still drunker than her, did his best to offer platitudes. She was, however, glad of his physical presence.
‘I can’t come to Mulverton. I hope your parents understand.’
‘Of course they will.’ He kissed her.
‘My sister and her friend, our friend, Tony, they were attacked by a group of men.’ The words sounded monstrous, even to her own ears.
‘God, that’s awful!’ He sat back against the opposite wall, he too stunned by the terrible fact.
‘It is. Really awful. I need to go home. I’m going home. I’ll get the first train tomorrow.’
‘Shall I come with you?’
It was a sweet offer from the boy she loved, the boy who loved her back, but these were not the circumstances under which she wanted him to meet her family or for them to meet him.
‘Thank you, Archie, but I’ll go on my own.’
She took a deep breath and sat up straight, knowing that in a crisis, independence and self-reliance were important. Sometimes, they made the difference between surviving or sinking.
And of one thing Ashleigh was absolutely sure: she was not about to let herself, or her sister, sink.