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‘I don’t care. Please pull over.’
There’s a frantic edge to those last words that has me indicating and pulling off onto the side of the road.
‘I can’t be seen alone in a car with you.’ She meets my eyes briefly before pushing the door open.
‘Wilson,’ I say as she’s climbing out.
She turns back to me, waiting.
All the things I want to say to her, I can’t. ‘I’ll drive back to the beach, make sure Andy is okay.’
She nods, then closes the door. It doesn’t close properly, so she has to backtrack and try again. She looks visibly relieved when it closes this time.
I watch her walk off in her rolled-up jeans and scuffed Aerosports. She hugs herself against the cold and picks up speed. I watch her climb the embankment on the other side of the road and disappear into the trees.
I drop my head to the steering wheel for a moment, then head back to the beach.
The first thing I do when I finally arrive home is go check on Dad. I can smell the vomit before I see it. At least he did it on the floor and not all over the bed and himself. As much as I’d love to leave it for him to clean up in the morning, I don’t. The smell is all through the house, and it lingers long after I finish cleaning. I have to open all the windows and doors, dousing the place with bleach in an attempt to disguise it.
And now the house reeks of bleach.
I can’t sleep in this stench, so I snatch my duvet off the bed and head for the hay shed. Our working dog, Tess, whines at me as I pass her, so I cave and let her off her chain. She can keep the mice off me. I close the shed door, then, wrapping myself in my covers, flop down onto the hay and sleep.
