Читать книгу Blackbird - N.D. Gomes - Страница 13

I hear noises in the fog, calling to me, beckoning me out of the dark. I feel lost, confused about whether I’m awake or sleeping. I’m dreaming because I see shapes and shadows. They merge together and form new configurations, but none of them are familiar or comforting.

Somewhere in the fog, I see hair. Brown strands weave in and out, flowing like a gentle ocean wave. I reach out and feel the strands touch my fingertips, but it feels damp, sticky. When I release my fingers, letting the hair drop and flow back into the dense greyness, a red residue remains on my skin. Rubbing my fingers together, it spreads down my skin and to my wrists. It’s warm, thick, and moves like a snake twisting and coiling its way up my arm.

I open my mouth to scream, but it’s too fast. The liquid is inside me, filling my cheeks. It’s then I realise that it’s not hair, it’s blood, and the veins are moving like they’re alive within me.

The fog thickens, the voices getting louder, stronger. They break through the blanket of emptiness and pull me from its grasp. A jolt hits me, and a hardness cups my body. I feel heavy, but empty at the same time. A low buzzing fills the air around me, and I feel myself sinking. I know now I’m not awake, because my limbs start to come alive, wakening and pushing my mind out of the deep slumber.

A throbbing sensation fills my body, and targets my head. I feel warm, too warm. A stream of lighting pinches at my eyes as I slowly blink them open. Where am I?

I open them wide, and see Birkens sitting in a chair. He’s slumped with his elbow propped and his chin resting on his hand. A small pendant or keyring dangles from his right hand. It looks like a figure in a red cloak. A superhero of some kind. Superman. He holds a Superman keyring in his hand but I don’t know why. He’s not moving. At first I think he’s sleeping but as my vision clears, sharpening everything around me, I can see his eyes are open and he’s looking at me. His eyes are slightly glazed, and his jaw is tensed. He looks like my dad when he’s worried about something.

Dad.

Mum.

Who’s going to tell them? Or maybe they already know.

‘Where am I?’ I ask.

‘You’re at Balfour Hospital.’

‘What happened?’

‘You collapsed. I was worried.’

Suddenly it all comes rushing back – the standing stones, the body, the birds. My back arches as I bite my lip to stop myself from crying out again. I put my hand over my face so he can’t see me cry. But the tears don’t come. Instead, I feel empty. As if my body can’t grieve any more. But it shakes as if it’s still crying.

I feel his hand on my hand. ‘It’s OK. Alex, it’s OK.’

I move my hand. ‘Where are my parents?’

‘They’re at the station. We needed a positive ID on the body so we know for sure it’s your sister.’

I don’t say anything. I don’t know what to say. ‘The body.’ My sister was just that now: a body. Nothing more. An empty vessel. Has her soul really left her body, or does any part of her remain in that shell?

Is she gone?

Olivia.

I see her eyes. Wide. Open. Vacant. Hot bile rises up my throat. I throw my head over the hospital bed and start vomiting on the floor. I’m not even ashamed or embarrassed.

Birkens starts calling for the nurse. She rushes in and grabs a basin from the corner of the room and places it underneath me. I feel her cold hands scoop up my hair and brush it gently from my face. I close my eyes and feel a cool washcloth on my face. I lie back and allow her to pat my face over and over again until I feel the fire in my body die down, only left to flicker.

‘I’m sorry,’ I stutter, feeling my lungs fill with heat.

‘Don’t be sorry. Your body is reacting to the shock,’ says Birkens.

I feel my breathing slow to a normal pace. My body feels heavy, tired.

‘Alex, I need to ask you about the night of the thirty-first again.’ He stops, waiting for my reaction, then continues, ‘You said your sister left the house after dinner, that it was around quarter to seven in the evening. Can you be sure that was the time?’

‘I don’t know . . . I think so?’

‘Do you remember what she was wearing?’

‘A top and jeans.’

‘What kind of top?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘Was it a jumper? A hoodie?’

‘She wasn’t really a hoodie type.’ That was more my style.

‘OK, then a vest thing with straps?’

‘Yeah, it was sleeveless. And sparkly.’

‘Silver?’

‘Yes, and she wore it with her necklace, the one she has on all the time.’

‘What did the necklace look like?’

‘It’s gold, with a thin chain.’

‘Did it have a pendant?’

‘The letter O . . . can I have it, you know, when you’re done with the . . . um . . . body? I’d like to keep it, if that’s OK. I think she’d want me to have it.’

I feel that ache coming back in my belly.

‘She wasn’t wearing a necklace when we found her,’ says Birkens, writing down something on his pad.

‘Oh, that’s odd. She always wears it, and I’m pretty certain she left the house with it.’

‘Pretty certain?’

‘Very certain.’

He nods and keeps writing.

‘Can you find it?’ I ask him.

He drops his pen and looks up at me. ‘Of course, I know how important it is.’

Nodding my head, I picture her sitting at the dining table. Her elbows are resting on the dark mahogany. The fork swings mindlessly from her fingers, circling above the plate. She’s not hungry. Her roast chicken sits getting cold, as her carrots lay limp beside the buttered potatoes. Her other hand is woven into her long hair, the strands twirling around her index finger. Mum is telling her that our cousin Karin is pregnant again, and that our next-door neighbour Lillian just bought a new car. She’s listening and smiling, but it’s not her smile. There’s something different about her tonight. She seems anxious, like she’s thinking about other things. Like she’s worried about something.

She glances my way, and I immediately smile. The corners of her mouth turn up and for a moment she relaxes. She gestures towards Mum and rolls her eyes. I cover my mouth and stifle a laugh. Mum does tend to talk your ear off when she’s excited about something. They’re going out tonight with their friends. They never go out. Mum is wearing a new dress, and has styled her curly auburn hair with a little hairspray. Even Dad’s dressed up a little. Everyone’s going out, except me. Andy and Siobhan will be here soon.

There’s excitement in the air, I can feel it. Tomorrow’s a new day, a fresh start for us. Anything can happen tonight. I might even tell Andy how I really feel.

Andy.

Siobhan.

I’m suddenly back in the hospital room, my last memory of her fading.

How do you tell your best friends that your sister’s been murdered? What do I expect them to say?

‘Alex?’

Birkens is looking at me like he’s just said something. He’s waiting.

‘What did you say?’

‘What did you talk about that night?’

‘I think I told you all this – school, friends. Mum was telling us about our cousin.’

He shifts forward, leaning closer into me, and bows his head slightly like he’s thinking about what to ask next.

‘She seemed worried at dinner,’ I say, watching as his head pops up quickly.

‘Worried? How?’

‘I don’t know. I was just thinking about that evening, and she seemed a little quieter than usual.’

‘How was she acting?’

‘Fidgety? She seemed to be elsewhere at the table while we talked. I thought maybe she was bored at the time but now I’m not so sure. Now I think she was worried about something.’

‘That’s good. You’re beginning to remember things, question things. That’s what will help us in the investigation.’

The door clicks open and Allans is standing in the doorway, his hands in his pockets. He nods to Birkens who nods back, words apparently not needed between two colleagues. I wonder if there has been any new information since I woke, if he has just seen my parents, if he was the one who had to pull back the sheet on my sister’s body to expose her face and watch how they responded.

Birkens should have been the one to do it. They know him best. He’s the one in charge of this whole investigation. He’s the one who promised us that he would find her. He’s the one who failed us.

But he couldn’t. He’s here with me, because I was weak and collapsed. He felt responsible and now I’m here taking up precious investigation time. Maybe I’m the one who failed us.

‘I’m very sorry,’ Allans says, glancing awkwardly at me as he shifts closer to the hospital bed. He looks scared, timid, like he’s approaching a wild, unpredictable animal.

I’m not going to break. I can handle this. I think.

‘Alex, did your sister say anything to you before she left? Can you remember the last thing she said to you?’

I look down at my fingers as they fidget with the blanket on my bed. Squeezing the fabric in my hand, voices in the corridor get louder. The hospital seems busy today. The light beams in from the window, making my eyes sting a little.

‘I don’t remember,’ I finally say. ‘I don’t remember the last thing I said to her, or that she said to me.’