I grab the roll of kitchen towel, kneel down beside him and try to staunch the bleeding but it keeps coming and I realize I’m going to have to remove the knife if I want to apply the necessary pressure. I whisper an apology and ease it out. Tom screams. I put my hand over his mouth and stare into his eyes. He stares back, his face contorted with agony.
There’s a plastic basket of ironing within reach and I drag it over, pull out shirts and tea towels and wad them against his wounds. To my surprise I feel a sense of urgency but no panic. My training kicks in as I remember the drill. DR ABC.
D is for Danger – too late to assess. I can feel its threat but I’m beyond worrying.
R is for Response – there was none when I shouted his name. I say it again anyway, over and over.
A is for Airways. I check his mouth for obstructions; make sure he isn’t choking on his tongue.
B is for Breathing. He is. I sigh with relief.
C is for Circulation. I hold his wrist and wait for a pulse. As I feel for it, his body starts a slow slide to the right. I consider pulling him into the recovery position but decide he’s more likely to go to sleep that way, and he mustn’t, so I pull him up and try to balance him against the cupboard door. I shake his shoulders when he starts to fall sideways again. There is blood everywhere, on the floor, on me, on the units.
‘I have to leave you for a minute, Tom. I have to call an ambulance.’
The telephone isn’t in its cradle and my mobile is in my bag in the hall. I calculate how many seconds it’ll take to find my phone and get back to him, how many pumps of his heart that would mean, how much more blood he can afford to lose.
‘Stay with me, darling. Don’t pass out. I need your help. I need you to press down on this.’
I place my hand over his but when I release it, it slips to the floor and his fingers trail in the puddle of blood. I repeat the process and touch my forehead to his like I do with Josh when he’s distressed. I want to give him my strength, let him know that I’m here for him.
‘Amber,’ he mutters.
‘Where is she?’ He doesn’t reply, so I shake him gently. ‘Tom. Where is she?’
His eyes open a crack and I hear something. It’s a tiny noise. A bump. I put my finger to his lips to warn him and this time, when I lay his hand over the wound, it stays. I only have seconds before his strength gives out. I crawl across the cold stone, round the side of the island to the drawers, pull one open and reach in. My hand closes round the wooden rolling pin. Then the lights go out and the fridge is silenced, the green digital clock on the front of the oven goes blank and the house seems to expel the air from its lungs.
The fuse box is in the cellar. That’s where she is.
There’s a three-quarter moon, so even without electricity there’s enough light to see. I cross the room, holding the rolling pin at shoulder height, wait for a moment at the door, then when I hear nothing, edge out into the hall.
‘Amber. I know you’re there.’
There’s no answer. Outside the kitchen the yellow glow of a street light through the stained-glass throws the staircase into eerie relief. It feels like my house and yet it doesn’t. It could be a film set; perfect in all respects and yet temporary, flimsy and incapable of keeping us safe. My gaze shifts to the front door, where I’ve left my bag. It’s on its side, the contents scattered across the polished boards. My phone has gone. I hear something and whirl round.
‘Where are you, Amber? You can’t hide here all night. Tom’s hurt. He needs a doctor.’
Silence.
‘For God’s sake. Do you want his death on your hands too? Talk to me. I know what happened to you. Mum told me. I want to help you.’
A shadow moves and I spin round but I’m too late. She comes at me from the sitting room, her hair wild, snarling as she lifts her arms and flings me backwards. I go down with a cry, hard on to the stone, and hear a horrible crack as pain explodes through my head. The rolling pin bounces across the floor and comes to rest out of reach.
‘My … name … is … Katya!’
She pulls me up by the shoulders then flings me down. I struggle but I know what’s going to happen. I wish it was over and done with. I send my last thoughts to my children and then my head connects with stone and everything goes black.
42
THERE’S NO MISTAKING the smell of damp, dirt and brick or the penetrating chill of our cellar. My body is bruised and grazed, and my skull feels as though someone has taken a chainsaw to it. My hands have been secured behind my back with a cable tie, my ankles bound the same way and there’s some kind of rough linen fabric wedged between my teeth and tied at the back of my head. It’s one of the rags I use for cleaning my tools. It has a nasty, bitter, metallic taste. At the top of the wooden staircase, a thin sliver of light outlines the door.
My situation, and Tom’s, comes back to me in a wave of horror and I swear and shuffle forward, my feet dragging the rest of my body. The pain in my head is excruciating. I make tortuous progress but eventually get as far as the bottom of the stairs where I try to heave myself up, only to tip over. Once again my head hits the floor and fills with darkness.
The door opens. I twist awkwardly and look up. Amber is silhouetted by the hall light.
I grunt, ‘Tom,’ loudly at her, or an approximation of his name.
The door closes on my muffled shouts. What is she going to do with my children? Whereas I was reasonably calm and competent with Tom, the thought of them being in danger has the opposite effect. It’s hard to control it, to stop the keening noise that’s coming from deep in my throat, but I have to make the effort otherwise we are all in trouble. I control my breathing until my pulse stops racing and my mind begins to clear.
Once I get myself up I can’t cross the room without support so I have to hobble, keeping to the wall, and even then I fall twice and it takes several minutes and an enormous effort of will to get up again. At one point I knock over Tom’s skis and the clatter they make when they hit the ground is so loud I can’t believe it doesn’t bring Amber running.
I have no idea how long it takes me, but it feels like hours not minutes. I lean against the table with the edge of the work surface pressing against the tops of my thighs and bend over until my head touches the lid of my tool box. I press my cheek to the catch and keep trying until I manage to hook the edge of the gag underneath it. Then I pull up hard and it springs open, catching and tearing the skin on my lip. Blood seeps through the cloth into my mouth.