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Bridget’s clammy fingers wrap around mine, and she guides me forward. At first, my feet lag as if they’re made of concrete, but as we near the car, I begin to run again.
I can’t feel my feet as they pelt the road, but I keep pushing forward. Bridget’s brother comes into view. He paces behind the car. He wears a crown of dried blood, and he’s shaking and bruised. But he’s standing and walking. There’s no sign of Sketch. I can’t see him anywhere.
Bridget points a shaking finger towards the grass verge. I’m afraid to look, but my eyes have sought out the view hanging off the tip of Bridget’s finger before I have time to think. Sketch is lying flat on his back on the grass next to the open driver’s door. Broken glass is scattered all around him, twinkling in the daylight like thousands of tiny stars. His eyes are closed, and his hands are folded across his chest as if he’s enjoying a wonderful dream, not a horrible nightmare.
‘Go,’ Bridget encourages, her hand slipping away from mine. ‘Go quickly, Annie.’
Catching my breath, I race toward Sketch. I’m just about to reach my arms out to touch him when someone grabs a fistful of my hair and throws me to the ground. My knee pounds against the gritty surface first, followed almost instantly by my hip and shoulder. I look up at Pa towering tall and broad over me. He sways from one foot to the other, clasping the neck of a whiskey bottle between his thumb and a long slender finger.
‘Pa, please?’ I tremble, turning my head towards where Sketch lies terrifyingly still. ‘Sketch is hurt.’
My father tosses his head back and snorts. His shoulders round and shake, and I feel sick as I realise he’s laughing. I struggle to get to my feet, pinned between my father and the bumper of the car. I’m desperate to call out to Bridget, but Pa’s hand is around my neck, crushing my throat closed.
‘Where’s your ma?’ Pa growls, and his warm, drunken breath stings my eyes.
I try to run but Pa’s strength pins me to the spot. I gasp for air and Pa releases his grip. A huge gulp rushes into my lungs like the opening of an accordion. ‘I don’t know,’ I say, the words burning.
‘Really?’ Pa exaggerates a raised eyebrow, as he glances around at the open road. ‘How interesting, Annie, my girl?’ He snorts, the corners of his lips twitching as they form a sadistic smile. ‘You’ve managed to lose your ma and your mind all in the same day.’
My eyes drop to Sketch once again. He hasn’t stirred, but a sudden cough rips through him, shaking his chest. Tears stream uncontrollably down my cheeks at the sight of his body finally moving.
‘I’ll give you something to cry about.’
The audible snap of Pa’s teeth as he closes his mouth pulls my attention towards his face – it is growing puce with rage. Normally Pa’s high colouring terrifies me. But not now. The only colour scaring me now is the colour draining from Sketch’s cheeks.
‘I don’t like being lied to, Annie,’ Pa growls. ‘I don’t like it one bit.’
I open my mouth to speak, but I close it again. My fingers charge with electricity and I shove my father with both hands as roughly as I can. He wobbles on his feet, and the look on his face tells me I’ve shocked him, but he doesn’t fall. Then heat explodes across my face as his elbow crashes into my temple, blinding me with pain and dizziness. I steady myself and look back at Sketch. His chest is still rising and falling.
Pa gathers the whiskey bottle into his strong arms cradling it like a baby as he unscrews the cap with shaking fingers. He opens his mouth unnecessarily wide, tilts his head back and presses the rim of the bottle to his lips. The sound of his glugging scrapes against my ears like Ma’s wire scrubbing brush on the kitchen tiles. Fiery liquid dribbles down his chin leaving a disgusting wet patch on the collar of his grey-white shirt.
Throwing the empty bottle onto the grass in front of him, Pa edges forward a fraction, and I press my back into the upturned bumper of Sketch’s car until the metal nuts and bolts dig into my spine. My weight rocks the unsteady car behind me like a row boat on the choppy sea. I’m afraid I might slip under, but I can’t move away. Pa is so close to me that fabric of his clothes brush against mine, the heat of his drunken body radiating like a stove.
‘Please, Pa?’ I babble. ‘Let me attend to Sketch. Please. He’s in a bad way. Even you must see that.’
Pa raises his hand above his head, and I close my eyes and wait. I’m so numb I doubt I’ll feel the pain.
This time the blow catches my cheek and the side of my nose. My knees tremble, and I want to slide to the ground, but I won’t give him the satisfaction. I open my eyes to find a grim smile lighting up his evil face.
‘What did you think was going to happen, Annie?’ Pa bellows, saliva spraying from his swollen lips. ‘Did you think the farmer’s son was some damn hero? Was he going to rescue you like in those stupid books of yours?’ Pa turns away from me and spits, missing Sketch lying on the ground by a fraction. ‘Some hero the boy turned out to be. Little bollocks thought he could blackmail me. This will teach him.’
I bend down and grab the empty whiskey bottle Pa discarded moments ago. I raise my arms above my head and wait for my father to turn around.
‘This will teachyou!’ I scream, closing my eyes and bringing my hands down with unmerciful force.
A piercing crack beckons me to open my eyes. I find my father lying on the ground at my ankles, blood streaming from his skull.
My hands drop by my sides, the whiskey bottle still tightly gripped in my right hand. My eyes are foggy with tears and I can’t quite believe my mother is standing in front of me. She’s shaking like a leaf in the breeze, but it’s not her sad face that I notice, it’s the large jagged rock in her hand that her fingers struggle to span. A warm puff of sticky air to my left calls my attention. Bridget exhaled so forcefully I wonder how she has stayed standing. Her hands shake as she cradles a shard of glass from the broken car window close to her chest. Ma, Bridget and I stand around Pa’s lifeless body and stare at the man we know is responsible for so much hurt and pain.
‘On the count of three,’ Ma says. ‘One… two… three…’
We all open our hands and the bottle, rock and glass tumble to the ground. They lie at our ankles, silent about the act one of them committed.
‘Annie,’ Ma whispers as she turns her head over her shoulder to where Sketch lies.
I scurry the couple of feet to my husband, and my knees drop to the ground.
‘I’m here,’ I whisper, leaning over him, afraid to touch him. ‘I’m here, Sketch.’
