‘Whatever were you doing in there?’ I asked, pressing the towel into her palm to stem the flow. Her chest was heaving as she spoke. ‘I was trying to put the glass back together on our picture.’
‘You know better than to touch broken glass, Rosie!’ I cried, wondering how the frame had fallen. Not wanting to ask, knowing she must have thrown something at it in her raging state.
Really, I didn’t care what had happened or why, as long as the blood stopped flowing. I looked at it again, assessing it, coming to the conclusion that it probably didn’t need stitches.
‘It fell when teddy hit it. It’s all my fault! I hate myself! I didn’t mean to bite Noah. I am such a horrible, horrible big sister. I hate myself,’ she sobbed, throwing her arms around my neck.
So, here was Rosie’s remorse, finally. She came to it the hard way, but deep down I was relieved it had come to her in any way at all. It alleviated my more profound concerns about what kind of child I had given birth to, before the nurturing, before my mistakes.
‘Come on, no more crying. Let’s get a bandage on that cut. I think it looks much worse than it is.’
In a strange state of after-shock, I looked into the cupboard for the plasters and couldn’t see them. Rosie’s near-miss was racing through my mind as I stared blankly into the cupboard for the box that was right in front of me.
The doorbell rang.
‘Hold on, that must be Daddy. He must’ve forgotten his keys. Stay there, I’ll be right back, that’s right, hold it tight on the cut.’
‘Silly daddy,’ Rosie sniffed.
Leaving Rosie on the loo-seat with her hand wrapped in a bloody towel, I floated downstairs, shaken to the core, hoping to see Peter at the door in his cycling gear, hoping for a big hug.
It was not Peter. It was Mira Entwistle.
Her mouth was open, about to speak.
A pink electronic diary and one silver shoe were in her hands. What was she doing with Rosie’s things? What was she doing here?
‘Those are Rosie’s,’ I said.
‘They were lying over there,’ Mira said, handing them to me, pointing to the gravel below Rosie’s bedroom. I placed them inside on the side table, and went outside to look up to Rosie’s bedroom windows, both of which were open.
Mira stepped back, one step at a time, as if she couldn’t take her eyes off me. Her grey crew cut clashed with her ruddy complexion. Her body was thick-set, stocky and rounded. I wouldn’t win a physical fight with her, but here she was, backing away from me, seemingly terrified. I was disoriented, baffled. After the shock of Rosie’s accident, I couldn’t put two and two together.
‘I’m going to have to call the police,’ Mira said.
Gemma laughed. ‘What?’
‘I heard everything.’
‘What did you hear, may I ask?’ I said, straightening, crossing my arms, indignant.
‘Everything.’
‘If you are referring to Rosie’s screaming, she had an accident, that’s all. She’s absolutely fine now,’ I said, hiding the rising panic.
‘Can I see her?’
‘No, you absolutely cannot see her. She hardly knows you. You have no right to come barging in here scaring her. Could you please leave?’
Mira’s fist jabbed repeatedly at the button for the gate. I was moving towards her, but the fear in her eyes stopped me in my tracks.
The gate closed her out and I was left quivering in the drive with the garden spinning around my head. Hormones were coursing through my body and I imagined my baby flipping about inside me like a dying fish.
The other silver shoe was suspended in a low bush.
I reached through the bare branches, and then whipped my arm back, jolted by the sight of my hands. My palms were covered in blood. I looked down at the rest of me. My white shirt was smeared with violent red swipes and smudges like an unravelled bandage.
‘Oh God.’
I ran inside to see my face in the hall mirror. More blood, wiped down my neck. A patch on my upper lip.
‘Mummy?’ Rosie called.
‘Oh shit,’ I said to myself quietly, transfixed by my gory reflection. My palms were sweating. The wetness mixed with Rosie’s blood as if I too were bleeding now.
Rosie called for me again. I was catatonic.
Noah ran out from the television den and stopped to gape at me. ‘Mummy, you’re bleeding!’
‘Rosie cut herself,’ I said blankly, still rooted to the spot.
‘You can have one of my Mr Bump plasters,’ Noah said.
‘Thank you, Noah,’ I smiled, knowing how special they were to him. If only a Mr Bump plaster could have fixed it.
‘Can I have some orange juice?’
‘Don’t spill any.’ Like it mattered.
And up I went, to dress Rosie’s wound, wrap a bandage around the cotton wool and gauze. Fear throbbed at my temples. Mira can’t have been serious about calling the police. I couldn’t even bring myself to imagine what was going on in her head when she saw the blood on me.
I had been defensive and aggressive. If only I had let her in to see the broken glass, to see Rosie. If she had spoken to Rosie, she would have understood. She works at a school, she will know all about children’s tantrums.
I decided the only thing to do was to go over there with the children and explain, or get Rosie to explain. Mira would believe me, and she’d certainly believe Rosie.
Chapter Eleven
TOP SECRET
* * *
Dear Mummy,
* * *
My diary did not break when I threw it out of the window! AND THE CROWD GOES WILD!
* * *
BUT BUTT-FACE, my hand is mega painful though :( and it stings like mad.
If it was on my other hand I would not have to do any homework and that would be AWESOME. :) ;).
* * *
Maybe I should cut my other hand. DOUBLE OUCH. NO WAY.
* * *
Now I have to go to Mira next door and tell her that I am okay. Maybe I should put a letter in the blue bucket like I did when I was little. She’s nice to worry about me. Am I okay? Not really but you will never understand so what is the point in telling you?
* * *
INVISIBLE INK ALERT: I did not give my bag to Charlotte. I loved it so, so, so much. She forced me to give it to her. If I tell on her, she said she’s going to cut off my ponytail when I’m not looking. I believe her too because she did that to her friend at her other school. MEAN CHARLOTTE. MEANIE MEAN MEAN.
* * *
The picture of me and you is broken and that makes me want to cry.
* * *
Better go, you are calling me and telling me to hurry up. Always shouting. Shouty, shouty mummy.
* * *
Love,
Rosie
* * *
P.S. No time for that!
Chapter Twelve
‘Gemma was covered in blood. We have to call the police,’ Mira cried, charging around the house trying to find her phone while Barry and Deidre stood there staring at her.
‘Stop running around like a blue-arsed fly. What do you mean, she was covered in blood?’ Deidre barked.
‘Blood was on her clothes and her hands! Blood. Covered in blood, like in a horror film.’
‘I’d better go round there,’ Barry said, putting down his mug.
‘To check I’m not making it up?’
‘No, Mira, to check the girl is okay.’
‘Don’t you think I tried? She wouldn’t let me in! Don’t you understand? That’s why we need to call the police,’ Mira cried.
Deidre pulled her phone out of her pocket and dialled.
‘What are you doing?’ Mira shouted.
‘Calling the police!’
‘I want to talk to PC Yorke. Where the bloody hell is my phone?’
Mira wanted to pull her own head off with frustration. Whirling around her mind were Rosie’s chilling screams: You can’t make me, I hate you, you can’t shut me in here, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.
‘999 will send you to the same place, love,’ Deidre said, with the phone to her ear.
‘Yes, police, please... I want to report an incident at my sister’s neighbour’s house... We think a child is in danger... Immediate, yes, I suppose so... Mira? What’s her name?’
‘Rosie Bradley.’
‘Gemma Bradley is the mother and Rosie Bradley is the daughter... domestic abuse of some sort... There was lots of screaming from Rosie... Mira, what’s the other child’s name?’ she asked.