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A shuffling sound coming from the other side of the door. Someone taking care not to be heard.
My heart beat louder, so too the noises in the corridor. I wanted my mother, the sanctuary of her arms. But how to get to her without being eaten?
Oh God. . .
I took a deep breath, willed myself to the door, inched it open. Every fibre taut, adrenaline surging through my veins.
‘It’s you.’
My shoulders dropped, my body becoming suddenly heavy. In my nose was a fizzing as if I were about to cry.
Matty was crouched by the window, shirt rolled up to the elbow, examining his forearm. On his skin, a deep red scratch illuminated by the street lights.
‘You hurt yourself?’
A whiff of cologne drifted over. The only time I’d ever known him to wear it.
He put a finger to his lips.
‘Don’t tell your mam. She’ll only worry.’
I rolled my eyes. Tell me about it.
‘She worries about everything.’
It felt good to know something my mother didn’t. Our club of two.
‘You want a Band-Aid?’
‘What I want is for you to go back to bed. You won’t grow if you don’t sleep, pumpkin.’
I didn’t think about that night again until four years later when the police showed us the photos. And by then it was too late to share Matty’s secret with anyone.
