The Last Thing I Remember Page 6

  My mum comes back with a plate of digestives. She goes to each person in turn with the plate to buy time while the tea settles (that’s the word my mum uses), and they politely decline apart from the silent policeman who takes one then gets a look from Langlands as if to say, what the fuck are you doing eating a fucking digestive, you fucking cock? My mum staggers back in again with the tray. Langlands is going through his notes. Tea and tampons is carefully writing a list with a purple ink pen in one of those cheap spiral-bound pads you get at Sainsbury’s. And the other policeman is munching through his digestive as quickly as he can and with some difficulty, looks like. It is actually really hard to eat a digestive if you don’t have a drink to have with it. I always have mine with my Ribena.

  ‘Mrs McCarthy. I’d just like to speak with you, thank you,’ says Langlands. ‘I’m sure your daughter here has far more fascinating things to be doing.’ Cock. My mum kind of nods her head towards the stairs, which obvs I ignore and carry on standing by the open door, against the radiator in the hall.

  ‘Mrs McCarthy, first of all can I establish how long you have been living at this address?’ My mum coughs a little cough and then launches into the entire fucking McCarthy ancestry – all the way back to Ireland and the fucking potato famine. Can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to suffer listening to that one. Great Uncle Alan and Great Auntie Orlagh. And Grandad Alfred and Grandma Mabel. My mum obvs catches that look on my face that says WTF. And she goes, ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Kelly Louise Jane McCarthy’, which is a lot of names for one sentence. ‘Would you kindly go to your room, right this second.’ So I go up the stairs and the door gets closed between the sitting room and the hallway so from the stairs all I can hear is like a murmur of conversation. My mum is doing most of the talking, lapsing in and out of her fucking Queen Mother voice every so often.

  So eventually there’s a rattle of cups and saucers and the door opens and out comes the silent policeman and Mrs Brannon followed by my mum and Langlands. Langlands now has a digestive too. And he says, ‘And you can’t corroborate that there were any financial problems – any outstanding debts that the couple were concerned about at all?’ And my mum says that, yes, she had heard about the Cypriot TV guy in Green Lanes and the Iranian guy from Finchley and she says, yes, there was trouble with the Indian newsagent. But says she didn’t realise that all that stuff was anything more than hearsay. Gossip. She says she knows the Indian lady from the corner shop and that there is quite often a nasty-looking chap over the road waiting for Adam. She says, ‘But isn’t this just a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time’, like she’s the fucking detective!

  I’m standing on the bottom step of the stairs, holding onto the bannisters and sliding in my socks over the lip of the stair and plopping onto the floor. Then climbing back onto the step and doing it again. Clare used to say it’s good for your calf muscles. Anyway, my mum has the front door open and they are filing out and Langlands peers back at me over his notebook.

  ‘Have I met you before, Kelly?’ he says.

  ‘Nah, I don’t think so,’ I say, hopping back up a step and sliding off again.

  And he goes, ‘You’re at South Haringey Secondary, are you?’

  And I go, ‘Yeah’, but politely, you know, obvs. Not just like, ‘YEAH’ in a rude way.

  And he goes, ‘Perhaps I met you there after the arson attack?’

  And I go, ‘I don’t think so, Detective um Langlands. What’s arson mean?’

  And he didn’t even reply. He just went off with his fucking digestive. Cock.

  15

  Sarah

  Day Two – 6 p.m.

  I’ve been awake for ages – if I can call it awake. I mean conscious in my own head . . . Anyway, for ages it has been silent. Not the usual sound of the ward and the nurses. Dying from the outside in. Then just now the volume came on again. I can hear the familiar hum of the life-support machine and a new clicking sound. Above the heaving of the respirator and the buzzing and the beeping. A gentle but repetitive clicking. Sometimes I am here and sometimes I’m not.

  ‘Brian? Brian. What are you doing?’

  ‘June, I’m reading the paper. What does it look like I’m doing?’

  ‘They said to talk to her, Brian.’

  ‘I thought you were going to talk to her.’

  ‘I’m too busy worrying, Brian. What do you think we should do about Adam?’

  ‘Adam?’

  ‘Adam!’

  ‘What do you mean what should we do about Adam? We can’t do much for Adam now. He’s dead.’

  ‘I mean about Sarah and Adam. Shouldn’t we go and sort out the house or something. Someone’s got to go and sort out all the bills and things, haven’t they?’

  She pauses and the clicking continues. I think she is knitting. Knitting sounds about right.

  ‘I mean, has he left a will? Or does it all just go to Sarah because she’s his wife, or not?’

  ‘If they had a will, they will have left everything to each other, I expect. And if they haven’t, it all goes to her anyway.’

  ‘What if . . . you know?’

  ‘Then usually it goes to the parents, I think. Unless they have a dog home in mind. Some people don’t have the sense they were born with.’

  ‘Carol has spoken to Adam’s parents. They wanted to come to visit but they’ve gone back to Cheshire. Trouble with work. The police are taking care of all that, June. The bank will let us know if the cards are used. That Gill lady said not to worry. Let’s just focus on getting Sarah back. As far as a will goes, I think it always automatically goes to the wife.’

  ‘It’ll all be debt. That’s what it’ll be.’

  ‘We don’t know that, June.’

  ‘He should never have smoked.’

  ‘I don’t suppose that made much of a difference in the end, did it, June?’

  There’s a pause. The knitting needles click.

  ‘I shall pray about it.’

  ‘Why don’t you do that back at the Travelodge, dear?’

  I don’t think there can be a God. There isn’t one in here. It’s so dark, so completely fucking dark and I’m alone. I can only imagine putting my arms out in front of me, searching for something to make sense of my world. It’s like I’m suspended in nothing. Voices echo through the darkness. Sometimes I can hear them perfectly and sometimes I can hear a bit and sometimes, when it’s worst of all, it is just silent. The voices seem to come from somewhere way above me. I’m an ant stuck in a big empty bucket. No, smaller than that. I am plankton stuck at the bottom of a deep lagoon. I have no idea which way is out.

  So I need to make a channel in my brain from A to B. That’s what the doctor said. But how am I supposed to do that? They didn’t say how. It’s fine for them to say to do it, but they didn’t say how.

  And Adam? I can’t remember Adam.

  Beth and Lucinda are here.

  ‘Are they running on time?’

  ‘He’s doing the rounds with the students.’

  ‘God, we’ll be here all day. Have you done the chart?’

  ‘All done.’

  ‘The swelling is really improving.’

  ‘She’s pretty underneath.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have said that on Friday morning.’

  ‘Have you seen that wedding picture that was on the telly? She’s not normal for Tottenham.’

  ‘Why would anyone do that to her?’

  ‘It’s Tottenham. You know what it’s like up there. It’s a jungle. My gran used to have a friend in Tottenham. Turned out she was actually living next door to a crack den.’

  ‘What, your gran lived next to a crack den?’

  ‘No, my gran’s friend. She’d lived there all her life, right, and one day she decided to get a man round to cut down her hedge cos since her husband had died no one had done it for ages and by accident the bloke cut down the hedge at the side as well as at the front and the bloke from next door, he was African or something, h
e comes round and has a right go at her cos his front door was in full view and how was he supposed to run his business? How was she supposed to know? It’s not something you usually consider before you trim your privet.’

  ‘Did she move?’

  ‘I don’t know. My gran died. She was old, though. Tottenham’s just a multicultural soup, isn’t it? That’s what they say. The Greeks hate the Cypriots. The Iranians hate the Iraqis. The Irish hate everyone. Actually everyone hates everyone.’

  ‘Here comes Malin.’

  There’s a cough.

  ‘Right now, gather round now. Uh huh. Good. Now we have here a patient, Sarah Beresford’ – yes, that’s me – ‘who is in a comatose state after a head trauma, which we believe has caused an intra-axial haemorrhage.’

  Why can’t he explain what it means?!

  ‘Nurse, are the meds up to date? Good, uh huh. As you can see, she has also suffered severe bruising about the face but has, in fact, no other significant injuries.’

  Bruising to the face, eh? Lovely.

  ‘These bruises along the lateral cheek and this swelling around the eyes, these are not the result of direct impact. These are ruptured blood vessels caused by a blow to the back of the skull that resulted in a compound fracture. We got inconclusive results from the last MRI. When is the next MRI scheduled for? Uh huh. Good. Does anyone have any questions? Yes?’

  I have a question. When am I going to wake up?

  ‘The blow to the back of the head, yes. Good point! The police believe the trauma was caused by impact with the pavement. It appears the victim, um, yes, Sarah’ – he forgets names quickly – ‘was probably pushed from the front and hit her head upon contact with the ground. There are no other injuries, either on the hands, as we might expect from fending off an attack, or from breaking her fall or, indeed, from the initial push. It appears the push must have been very fast indeed and caught her off balance. This is consistent with the initial police report that suggests a hit-and-run-style mugging. Maybe the muggers approached on bikes – this is more and more prevalent in socially neglected parts of London. It’s silent and quick, and cheap to get a bike. Or perhaps the attackers were hidden in bushes. The entrance to the park is very close to the crime scene.’

  I was off balance. I was pushed from the front. I hit my head on the pavement. Who pushed me? Why would someone hurt me? I didn’t hurt anyone, did I? I don’t hurt people. That much I know. Did my brother have anything to do with it?

  Someone – one of the students I guess – is asking a question and I can’t quite hear.

  ‘That is a matter for the police not the medical profession. The facts of the crime are only necessary if required to assist with diagnosis or treatment. We are here to make people better, not to be detectives. Medicine, Mr Pickard. Stick to medicine.’

  People are mumbling and shuffling and suddenly the only sound is the echoing beep and the heave of the respirator. Funny how everyone is happy to explain how I got in here but no one will tell me how to get out. The door clicks open.

  ‘Has he gone? What’d he say?’

  Beth and I guess Lucinda are back.

  ‘Only that she was pushed over. We knew that, didn’t we? Must have pushed her pretty damn hard. Are Mum and Dad here or have they gone?’

  ‘They’re with victim liaison at the Travelodge. Something about the missing credit cards.’

  I wonder what else was stolen. I wonder if they took my house keys. I wonder if I have house keys. I wonder if I have a house.

  16

  Kelly

  Day Two – 7 p.m.

  Usually when I’m up to my ears in shit, I text Clare. This is not your average amount of up-to-my-ears-in-shit, though. This is mega. This is fucking swimming in shit.

  I was thinking about Clare today, again. I do a lot after what happened. We had stopped being friends (not actually stopped being friends but, you know, not on the phone every ten fucking seconds), a long time before anything happened with her and Wino. And even though everyone said it wasn’t my fault what happened with him, I will always think that it was. If I’d been with her nothing would have happened. I could have stopped him. Clare was never as mouthy as me.

  Did I tell you that Clare’s dad committed suicide? Not like recently. Like ages ago. Like when she was nine or something. My mum said Clare’s dad was presupposed to suicide. I don’t know what that means. Maybe that isn’t the word. I think it means he was a bit of a schizo. And he was made that way. Mum says.

  I sat next to him at dinner this one time, when I was over at Clare’s. They always had a proper sit-down dinner – every night. My mum always says she wants us to do that. But since my dad left we just have it on our laps and watch episodes of Come Dine With Me. He was a scientist or something, Clare’s dad. He looked like he was. Like super intelligent. You know, kind of small and with little round glasses that were all dirty and fuck knows how he saw out of them, and a goat beard. I told him I was learning the recorder, at school, you know, and he said that when I’d learned it I should look at taking up the bassoon. Who the fuck wants to play a fucking bassoon? Have you seen how fucking big they are? And anyone you ever see who plays a bassoon is a right fucking ponce – when they’re playing it and when they’re not playing it. You look like a ponce just carrying a bassoon. So I said, ‘I’d rather play an oboe.’ And he shook his head and said, ‘Oboes are too penetrating. They get into your skull.’ So I said, ‘But bassoons are really fucking loud.’ And he laughed and said if his daughter said a word like that, at nine, he would wash her mouth out with soap, lock her in a room and throw away the key. But he was still laughing when he said it. He committed suicide like three days later. I always slightly wondered if my thoughts on fucking bassoons had got anything to do with it.

  When I first met Sarah, Clare got well funny with me. She was like, ‘What d’ya wanna see her for. Who’s she anyway? She’s too old. She’s too posh.’ She got totally pissed at me when I changed my hair back from White Platinum too. I think she liked us being twins. She liked it when everybody stared at us. She even sat my French Speaking test for me one time. Like two summers ago. It was a supply teacher doing it. French supply teacher, even better. They don’t check nothing. And since I hadn’t done one fucking bit of revision, Clare just went in and did it for me. Just like fucking that. Genius. It was great having a twin. Sometimes it was. But Sarah said I should just try it out going brown. Said we could always dye it back. Said maybe Clare should change hers too. But she wouldn’t.

  It was around that time that she got funny about food. Clare, I mean. She was never up for going down McDonald’s any more, and if we did she would just get a Diet Coke and sit behind it while the rest of us stuffed fries in our faces.

  Then her fucking face went hairy. OMG. D’ya know what I mean? Like furry. I said to her, ‘Your face has got fuzz all over it.’ She said she had lost like three stone or something. Two stone maybe. So none of her fucking clothes fit no more. None of my fucking clothes fit her neither. I was like, ‘Give them back to me if you’re not even gonna fucking wear them.’ She just said I was Little Miss Drama Queen of the Fucking Century.

  Mum said since her dad died, she’s just got away with murder. ‘Can you imagine her dad letting her have hair that colour?’ My mum said her mum spoilt her. I think her mum wasn’t a scientist. I think she was a dinner lady. They were an odd match. That’s what my mum said when Clare first went White Platinum. But cos she had White Platinum that meant I could have White Platinum too.

  Obvs I know that is trashy, now. Obvs I know that in order to be invisible, you have to blend in. Then you won’t get noticed. You won’t get picked on. Then you disappear. I told Clare that. I told her to change her hair back. But she wouldn’t. She should’ve. You don’t get hurt if you’re invisible.

  17

  Sarah

  Day Two – 8 p.m.

  I think it’s Lucinda and Beth that are clanking around the room. They sound busy and stressed and tired.<
br />
  ‘Wasn’t Lisa down for tonight?’

  Beth seems in a hurry.

  ‘She’s off sick. Something about period pains.’

  Lucinda sounds young, younger than Beth anyway.

  ‘Honestly! Period pains are for getting you out of hockey lessons at school. Literally, how bad can it be?’

  ‘She said we should look out for Sarah’s brother, though. He said he’d pop in again tonight.’

  It’s tonight already?

  ‘Pop in?’

  ‘Sarah’s brother, yes.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘OK, stop. Lisa said, “Sarah’s brother is going to pop in again tonight.” Am I not speaking English?’

  ‘But he’s not on the list. I checked earlier. That policeman was asking who had already been in to visit Sarah, and I told him only family. I looked on the list. He’s not on the list.’

  ‘Well, Beth, he should be. He is a family member. He is a BROTHER, right?’

  Beth, don’t leave me. Don’t let him in. I don’t like him.

  ‘But how come he’s been here twice and he’s not been put on the list? And how come, both times, he came in when the rest of the family weren’t here? Has anyone even mentioned a brother? We’ve heard about the sister. Carol. Did anyone actually ask the parents if they had a son? Jesus! What’s his name anyway?’

  The sound dies. I’m grateful.

  Later, and I don’t know how much later, I hear the tapping again. Tap tap-tap tap. Plastic on metal. Tap tap-tap tap. Tap tap-tap tap.

  I don’t even know if it’s real.

  But my fear is.

  18

  Kelly