‘Your daughter is a whore.’
She steps back with a vile smirk, and he is wrenching himself free from the officers. He has almost reached her when he is rugby tackled again. It takes two of them to hold him down, and when they pull him up he feels the steely metal of handcuffs snapping onto his wrists, unforgiving against his skin. As he is dragged across to the squad car, he yells, ‘Don’t let her go! Call my brother, Liam Turner – for fuck’s sake, someone find my daughter.’ They leave him slumped against the vehicle and return to talk to the woman, who is crying and wailing and dabbing at her bloody nose. He catches sight of himself in his own front window, his clothes dishevelled, his hair sticking on end, one of his wellingtons missing. He spots it abandoned next to the white car, the thick rubber sagging into itself now its purpose has disappeared. He considers his reflection, discomfited by the stranger who stares back. Then his gaze strays towards the woods, and he knows that somewhere in that maze his daughter needs him. He swings around to the police officers and begins to shout and plead all over again.
37
GEORGIA
Georgia doesn’t move for a while. She’s trying to process what has just happened; to keep calm despite the blood. Eventually, she pulls herself up and heads gingerly back onto the track, clutching at whatever she can for support. Everything is slimy and slippery from the rain. As soon as she has taken a few steps she dry-retches and searches for a place to sit down again. There are plenty of leaf-litters that look comfortable but before she selects one she pats it down for rocks.
She tucks herself between the trees and tries to calm down. She can’t bear this awful pounding at the base of her skull. She doesn’t want to touch it again. She’s frightened – her hairline is warm with sticky blood. Perhaps if she lies still for a moment, she thinks, gently easing herself down so she’s on her side, her right cheek pressed against soft wet leaves, breathing in earth and a combination of fresh and rotting vegetation.
She is so cold and wet that she’s merging with the ground, no idea where her skin ends and the leaves begin. She had better move in a second, but she’s exhausted; perhaps she should have a little rest and get her energy up. She allows weariness to take over – anything not to exacerbate the throbbing.
She’s sure she hears her father calling her name, but he sounds so far away. It only happens once – perhaps she imagined it. Her mind drifts as she waits, hoping to hear it again, but when it comes his voice is different – coarser.
‘Dad, I’m here,’ she calls weakly, ‘over here.’
Scraping footsteps get closer and closer, until at last they are so loud she knows he has found her. She would like to open her eyes, make an effort to show her appreciation, but she is so bloody tired.
‘Georgia, Georgia, what have you done?’ And it’s not her father at all, but Leo kneeling in front of her, shaking her awake.
‘Why are you here?’ she asks, confused. Is he angry with her? She cowers from him.
‘You didn’t finish the race, Georgia. Everyone’s looking for you. Your parents are frantic.’
Of course. How strange that she had forgotten the race. It seems such a long time ago.
She is curled into a foetal ball, and he tries to unfold her and pull her up. As he grabs her arms he finally notices the blood. ‘What’s this?’ He sounds confused as he rubs at her wrists and she realises that he thinks she might have harmed herself.
She tries to explain. ‘I walked home. A girl chased me. I hit my head.’ Was that what had happened? It doesn’t sound quite right. Has she missed something?
‘You hit your head?’
‘At the back. On a rock.’ She lifts an arm and gestures weakly at the spot. He moves around and squats on his haunches and she knows he sees it because she hears his deep intake of breath, but he says nothing.
He is behind her. What is he doing? She jumps as he puts his hand on her shoulder. His fingers dig into the side of her neck. He presses hard against the wound on her head. She screams.
Then the pressure is gone. He is in front of her again. He is holding a wad of tissues covered in blood. She retches.
‘Can you walk?’ He tries to help her up, but her legs are rubbery and she leans on him so heavily that he’s almost lifting her off the ground. She doesn’t feel right at all, her head is floating inches above her body. Perhaps this is a dream. If so, she demands of her subconscious, could you make him a bit more understanding, more forgiving.
‘Leo,’ she tries to say, but it comes out Lo, and then she remembers she’s not supposed to call him by this name any more, so she shuts up.