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She reaches the far side of the bed. Her phone is there after all. But the curtains are drawn. She did not draw them. Hasn’t been upstairs, not since after lunch when she went for a bath. She dressed in the bathroom. She did not return to the bedroom at all.
A movement in the folds of the curtains. She raises the poker over her head.
‘Out you come,’ she says, her voice small but loud enough. ‘Out you come, come on. I won’t hurt you, but you need to get out of my house.’
The curtains sway. Open. A girlish lad, or a laddish girl, steps from behind them, head slightly bowed. She doesn’t recognise him.
‘Sorry, miss,’ he says.
‘Get out,’ she hisses. ‘Go on. Off you go, before I call the police.’ She adjusts her stance, feet wide. He will not intimidate her, not here. This is her house. ‘Off you go, go on.’ Her voice betrays her, high and warbling with fear.
The lad takes a step towards her, holds up his hands. There is something feminine about him. In his earlobe, one diamond stud. It’s so hard to tell nowadays.
‘All right.’ He still has his hands in the air, an expression of ironic amusement on his smug little face. ‘Calm down. I’m going.’
You’re a disgrace, she thinks, but she is too frightened to speak, has no idea how she spoke only seconds ago. Her legs have started to shake uncontrollably; the poker is becoming heavy, too heavy. The lad has not moved. His smile widens, becomes a grin, and this makes her even more afraid.
‘Please go,’ she manages, but he is not looking at her. He is looking over her shoulder. A creak on the floorboard behind her; something lands hard on the back of her head, the thump of her shoulder then against the floor. Blackness.
She opens her eyes. The room spins. A big shoe… shoes… circling, dancing, inches away from her nose.
‘Is she dead?’ It’s the lad’s voice.
‘She will be.’ A voice she… Does she know that voice? ‘I’ve trashed the telly, opened a few drawers in the kitchen. It looks pretty convincing.’
A bang, far away. The front door.
‘Joyce? Gran?’
Sam. He is here at last. Thank God.
‘Fuck,’ the lad says.
The shoes are still there, sometimes many, sometimes two. They are waiting for her to die, waiting to see if she needs helping along. She makes to grab an ankle, but her arm doesn’t move, doesn’t do what she’s told it to. The shoes move, out of sight.
Sam’s voice, calling her name.Sam. Oh, Sam. Fast footsteps fade.
She closes her eyes. A dark kaleidoscope. The shoes. The voice. Dear God.
CHAPTER 41
Blood beating in his temples, Sam pulls out his phone, dials 999.
‘Ambulance,’ he says, fighting to keep his voice clear. ‘My grandmother’s been attacked. We’ve… I think we’ve been burgled.’ He places his hand to Joyce’s back, feels an almost imperceptible rise, keeps his hand there as he gives the address. ‘Alive? Yes, yes, I think so… No forced entry. The back door was open.’ His eyes acclimatise to the darkness. ‘I think she’s been hit,’ he half sobs. ‘Head injury, oh God, come quickly. Come quickly, please.’ He puts his shaking hand gingerly on Joyce’s head. Sees a blackish patch at the corner of her mouth. The woman is telling him the ambulance is on its way, to try not to panic, to stay with her.
‘There’s blood,’ he says. ‘There’s blood at her mouth, I think. She might have been hit with something and then fallen… Yes, I’ll try, I’ll stay with her, yes… Yes, of course. I won’t move her… Talk to her? Yes. Yes, OK.’ He closes the call.
‘Hey.’ His voice is a tremor. ‘It’s me, Sam. The ambulance is on its way and you’re going to be OK – you’re going to be all right.’
She stirs, groans. He returns the flat of his hand to her back. ‘Don’t move. Stay still if you can. It’s going to be OK – soon have you up and about.’ He pulls the duvet from her bed and covers her, eyes the pillow, but the woman said not to move her so he leaves it.
Joyce groans, louder. He has the impression she’s trying to speak.
He lies down next to her, ear to the carpet so he can see her face. Her forehead is beaded with sweat, her eyelids low but not closed, her mouth open, her breathing a laboured rattle. Her nose is bloody and wide. Broken, he thinks.
‘Hey.’ He reaches under the duvet, finds her hand. It is clammy, hot. He holds it, feels a response – weak but there. ‘Hang on. You’re tough as boots, aren’t you? Toughest woman I know. Ambulance is on its way. I’m right here, I’m here with you, soon have you up those ladders, come on, don’t close your eyes now, open them, can you open them, that’s it, keep them open, don’t go to sleep, Joyce, OK? Stay with me, come on, keep your eyes open, those upstairs windows won’t paint themselves.’ He laughs, tears coursing now down his face.
Joyce’s mouth moves but all he hears is a strained noise.
