Page 98 of The First Time I Saw You
‘Good, the roads are clear. Are you OK? You sound weird.’
‘I’m fine, just, you know, a bit shook up.’
We chat for a while, Charlie saying it will help him stay awake, but another twenty-nine minutes passes and the elastic band begins to pull, wrapping its way around my tummy and sinking into my back.
‘You should have tasted the scallops, Soph, they were amazing . . . Soph?’
‘Mmmmm,’ I say, glad to only have to be making a sound rather than a word.
‘You sure you’re OK?’ I exhale as the band begins to slacken and release its grip.
‘Mmmhhmmm, just tired. I think I’m going to get some rest. Drive safely, but hurry home . . . I miss you.’
‘Right. See you,’ Charlie replies.
I hang up, and then look at the clock reproachfully.
‘Not yet, Bean. Please.’ I run my hand along the crest of my bump just as the door knocks again.
This time at the end of the spyhole is a face that is strangely familiar to me.
‘Hello?’ I shout, my lips close to the door.
‘Ah, hello!’ shouts an accent that I recognise, one that stretches and retreats at the end of every sentence. ‘Is that you, Sophie?’
‘Um, yes,’ I reply into the wood and then glance through the looking glass where the man is frowning and leaning towards the door.
‘Grand! Would you mind opening the door? Bloody Russell is blowing the hair right off my head!’ I unlock the catch. ‘Ah, there you are.’ He leans forward. ‘He was right, you’ve got weird coloured eyes and no mistake.’
My heart begins punching my ribcage, trying to get out. I push open the door as this tall Irishman enters my home with a clap of the hands, with huge strides and a smile that I’ve desperately been trying to find.
‘Now where is my great eejit of a son?’
Week Thirty-Five
Contractions Thirty Minutes Apart
Samuel
The darkness smells like rotting vegetation and decay. It climbs in through your pores and sticks to your insides.
My foot is stuck, quite literally, between a rock and a hard place and has something wrapped around it which I am trying to untangle. My tongue licks my dry lips and tastes blood, while my ankle scrapes and scratches against the rock every time I try to move it. Time passes. I think time is passing: the moon flashes a smile at me every now and then, things scurry about; vegetation moves and snuffles, heaves and turns. Far, far below me is the main road that leads into town and I occasionally hear the sound of a truck, of a car, of life going on as I lie here in the shadows.
‘Help!’ I shout again, but my voice is hoarse and shaken as the damp bites into me, teasing the skin along my arms and legs into bumps as though I have an allergy – maybe I’m allergic to the cold. Barbs sink into my palm as I pull and try to manipulate my foot free. I put my chin on my chest and pull as hard as I can to release my ankle. A guttural sound emits from my mouth, my heel pushing against the pain. A crack, a shift, a wave of dirt crashes forward and my foot is free.
My weight is too heavy for my ankle and it buckles as I try to stand, my feet sliding downwards again, but I manage to grab the branches of a tree, stopping myself from falling.
Michael is out here somewhere but I can’t find him. He could be anywhere, suffocating under dirt, being crushed beneath the wheel of a truck, snapping and splintering into pieces, his carcass discarded along the roadside like rubbish left to decay and rot. His demise opens a crack in my chest and the security he gave me is now filled with panic. My hand grips on to the branch, one leg crooked and bent as I try to shift my weight on to the other one. My hand follows the branch towards the trunk, and my feet take tentative steps towards it. I follow it down to its base where I begin feeling around for a replacement for Michael. I can’t find my way out of here without him. Another car passes; the moon winks – until I see him: Michael the Second. He’s broader and made of darker wood and is a bit gnarly around the edges, but he can swish and tap just as well as his older brother.
‘So, Michael the Second, where the feck are we?’ I lean on him for a minute as we alter the lens at the edge of the telescope, twisting and turning it until we can see some of the terrain. Trees tower above us, their trunks sinking deep into the bracken, their branches waving and pointing to the top of the forest, to where I fell, to where – somewhere up there – Sophie is waiting for me.
‘After you, Michael,’ I say, trying to keep the fear out of my voice, but it betrays me, and Michael the Second isn’t fooled. My leg limps, my mouth grimaces, but the trees keep pointing:Up there, they say, up there. Hold on.
Week Thirty-Five
Contractions Twenty Minutes Apart
Sophie
