We All Fall Down

by Cynthia Clark

  ‘Which terminal?’ the driver asked.

  The question took Ronnie by surprise. He had never been out of the country, had only got a passport because of his driving gig. His boss had said that there might be jobs to mainland Europe and he carried it with him just in case. It was his lucky break.

  ‘Uhm, Terminal One,’ he said.

  ‘Where are you going?’ the driver asked, seemingly eager to make conversation.

  ‘Uhm, nowhere, just picking up my mate,’ he lied.

  ‘Oh, OK, then I’ll drop you off at Arrivals.’

  Ronnie nodded and turned his head, eager to avoid being drawn into telling more lies. His head throbbed and he rested it against the window. The cold glass felt blissful on his aching temples. As the taxi chugged forward, the gentle movements soothed Ronnie. Suddenly the tiredness came rushing back and his eyes started fluttering shut.

  The hand on his shoulder was firm. His heart skipped a beat. It hadn’t taken the police long to catch up with him. But when he opened his eyes, it was only the taxi driver. ‘We’re here,’ he said. ‘You drifted off and have been asleep the whole way.’

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ Ronnie said, jumping up and digging into his pocket for the money, handing some notes to the driver.

  Inside the terminal he looked for the signs to Departures. The place was teeming with people, everyone running to their destination, looking at the large monitors. ‘Ouch,’ Ronnie yelped as someone hit him with a suitcase.

  That was what he didn’t have: a suitcase to make it seem as if he were going on holiday. He headed to the luggage store and searched for the cheapest bag, paying and running back out. Next he went to Boots and bought some toiletries. There was a clothes store and he picked up a few T-shirts and a pair of shorts from the clearance rack. Quickly removing all the tags, he shoved them inside the duffel bag and ran towards one of the screens, skimming over the flights. He needed to find a place far enough away that nobody would think of looking for him there. Not even Laura.

  The thought of Laura made his heart ache. His beautiful Laura. How could she do this to him? And then pity turned to anger. She was the one to blame; if she hadn’t dumped him, he would not have started drinking. He would not have lost control of the lorry. He would not have killed all those kids.

  Shaking his head to banish the thought, Ronnie headed to one of the counters. There were a few people waiting, other travellers looking to buy a last-minute ticket, hoping to get a bargain. Ronnie shifted his weight from one leg to the other, urging the queue to move fast. He needed to get out of England right now.

  ‘I’d like a ticket to Jamaica,’ he said when his turn came. ‘The half past eleven flight.’

  ‘Of course, sir. Will you be travelling on your own?’ the girl asked in a clipped accent.

  ‘Yes, just me,’ he said.

  She started clicking some keys on the computer, crunching her face as she looked at the screen. ‘That will be three hundred pounds,’ she said.

  Ronnie felt as if he had been punched in the gut. That was too much. He couldn’t afford to be so reckless with his cash.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ the girl asked.

  ‘Uhm, well, that’s a little steep. Is there anything a little less expensive? A flight leaving this morning?’

  The girl pursed her lips. ‘And where would you like to go? Somewhere else in the Caribbean?’

  That sounded nice, Ronnie thought. He could get a job and spend the rest of the time lazing on the beach, trying to make sense of his life. ‘Yes, please, somewhere sunny.’

  ‘Hmmm…’ She raised one eyebrow and pursed her lips as she stared at her computer screen. Ronnie felt weak at the knees, the long hours of driving, the lack of sleep, finally getting to him, compounded by the immense stress that was making his chest feel tight. ‘How many bags do you have?’

  ‘Just the one,’ he responded, lifting his duffel bag, catching a whiff of the pristine nylon.

  ‘OK, you can carry that on board. Let’s see what’s available.’

  The seconds ticked by. Ronnie forced himself to look around, try to appear relaxed, smile at the people waiting in line behind him.

  ‘OK, there’s a good deal on a flight to the Dominican Republic, connecting in Miami. It's only ninety-eight pounds but it leaves in ninety minutes. You’ll have to run to make it before the gate closes.’

  ‘I’ll take it,’ Ronnie said quickly, counting the notes and putting them on the desk. The girl barely had time to hand him his ticket and boarding pass before he was off, running towards the security gate.

  Once through security, Ronnie didn’t waste time. He ran as fast as he could towards the gate, dodging other passengers, shouting at people to get out of his way. He could not miss the plane.

  Finally he was in his seat, the last passenger to get on. He held tight onto the armrests. But it wasn’t because he was nervous of travelling. It was only when the plane took off that he was finally able to breathe.

  5

  Sandra winced as the doctor pulled the stitches out of her cheek. She stiffened her chin and held her head steady.

  ‘There, we’re done.’ The doctor sat back in her chair, still looking at her. ‘The scars will fade with time.’

  Scars. The word sent shivers down Sandra’s spine. She still hadn’t seen her face. They’d kept it covered at all times, wanting to avoid infection, make sure that she healed well. She’d been tempted to peel off the bandage in the bathroom, see for herself how bad the injury was. But her cheek still smarted whenever she touched it and she lacked the courage.

  Instead she waited patiently. The hospital bed was hard and uncomfortable. She had bandages around her torso, keeping her two cracked ribs together. The massive bruise on her forehead had gone down and the concussion had only lasted a couple of days. She was not worried about those injuries. What she cared about most was her face. She was scared of how she was going to look now.

  ‘OK, we’re done here,’ the doctor said. ‘My colleague will come to see you later, start discussing your discharge.’

  The words sent shivers down Sandra’s spine. The social worker had already mentioned talking to her uncle Peter. ‘We’re discussing you going to live with him.’ Sandra hadn’t said anything. She didn’t want to sound ungrateful. But the thought of leaving London, everything she knew, to move to Manchester, where she had no friends, terrified her. Yet, she didn’t have a choice. And that day was approaching rapidly.

  Back in her bed, she tried to read but couldn’t concentrate. The words kept dancing in front of her eyes. She closed them tight, wanting to forget what had happened and the pain of the past days. When they’d told her about Sebastian, she’d thought she was going to throw up. How could this have happened? They were just on their way to school. And now Sebastian was gone, Bea was horribly injured, and her face was a mess they wouldn’t allow her to see.

  At least she’d been able to see John and Helen. ‘Have you heard anything about Miriam?’ Helen had asked. Sandra had shaken her head.

  But John had managed to glean some information from one of the nurses. ‘They said she’s in a very bad state.’

  ‘Do you think she’ll tell anyone what we did?’ Sandra had felt the panic rise inside her chest, making it harder for her to breathe.

  ‘She cannot possibly know.’ John had shrugged. ‘At least not for sure. Whatever happens, always deny.’

  ‘But what if they find it?’ Helen’s voice had been high-pitched.

  John had raised his shoulders, keeping them next to his ears for a second too long. ‘Who knows? Whatever happens, we have to pledge never to admit to anything. It’s her word against ours.’

  The darkest of thoughts, the one that had been keeping Sandra up, had crept into her mind. ‘Do you think that’s why she crashed? Why she went into the other lane?’

  ‘Maybe.’ John had paused for a minute, looking out of the window at the grey sky. ‘She’s been very jittery lately.’

  Helen’s h
and had flown to her mouth. ‘Is it our fault? Did we kill Sebastian?’

  ‘Shhhh.’ John had put his arm round Helen’s shoulders, pulling her towards him, rocking her gently. ‘The police are looking for the lorry driver. He was drunk. Everyone thinks it’s his fault.’

  ‘Do you know where you’re going?’ Sandra had asked each of them, trying to change the conversation, talk about the future rather than dwell on the past. But neither did. Their fate was unknown. Sandra wondered if she’d ever see them again. She planned to look them up. But not if she ended up in Manchester.

  She’d tried to go to see Bea, but her friend was still in the ICU. ‘We’re sorry, it’s too risky. We cannot expose her to infection,’ the nurses had said whenever Sandra asked.

  Alone in the hospital room, she missed her friends. Often she’d find herself crying for Sebastian, wishing he were still around to make everyone laugh.

  But it was Miriam who haunted her dreams. Despite John’s reassuring words, Sandra was still terrified of what Miriam might say, whether she would share her suspicions, get them all in trouble. She’d asked about Miriam’s health when the social worker had come to see her, only to be told that Miriam was badly injured and would no longer be able to take care of them.

  The urge to see for herself grew more persistent. ‘You’re crazy,’ a voice inside her head said. ‘You finally got rid of her. Why do you want to go looking for trouble?’ But she ignored it. She had found out that Miriam was on the next floor and spent time studying the hospital floor plan, devising the best route, one that would keep her away from the nurses’ station and allow her to go unnoticed.

  One day she started the trek down the hallway. The journey was longer than she had thought. Her legs started to get tired, her rapid breathing hurting her chest. Every movement was painful, injuries from Miriam’s frequent beatings mingling with the soreness caused by the accident. She stopped every now and then to take a break, and to take the time to squint at the map she had drawn.

  There were moments when she wanted to stop and turn back. Return to her bed, pull the covers over her head and fall asleep. At least she could sleep properly; she didn’t need to keep an eye open in case Miriam came into her room in the middle of the night, ready to unleash her anger.

  It was that thought that kept her going. The fear she still felt whenever she thought of her and her cruelty. She needed to know how sick she really was, whether there was any chance she’d recover soon and take them back.

  Finally she got to her destination. The curtain was drawn. Sandra’s hand trembled as she placed it on the edge of the fabric, tugging it to the side. It slid easily and Sandra took a small step forward.

  Miriam was lying in bed, her dark hair fanned across the pillow. There was a thick pipe going into her mouth. The whir of the ventilator mingled with the beeping sounds from the machines surrounding her bed. She looked small, almost vulnerable, certainly not the person who for years had tormented them on a daily basis.

  ‘Let’s go,’ the voice inside Sandra’s head insisted. She knew she should listen. She’d seen what she needed to. Miriam was obviously injured. But somehow it didn’t feel enough. Sandra had a burning need to look Miriam in the eyes, make sure that the woman knew she had been there. That she was no longer scared of her.

  Pushing the curtain open further, she walked closer to the bed, glad that her slippers didn’t make any noise on the linoleum floor. With every step she took, she noticed new details. The long scar over her left eye. The white hair at her temples. The way her fingers were bent strangely. The bandages covering both legs. The blue hue to her uncovered toes.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  The voice startled her. As Sandra turned towards the sound she came face to face with a nurse. ‘I… I…’ No other words came out and she looked away, back at Miriam. If she was going to be dragged away, she wanted to take one last look at the woman who had made her life a living misery.

  ‘Are you one of her children?’ the nurse asked. When Sandra nodded, a gentle expression came over her face. ‘I’m so sorry, honey. I’m sure you miss her. But she needs her rest.’

  Taking Sandra’s hand, the nurse looked at her hospital band. ‘Did you come all the way here on your own?’ Sandra nodded. ‘That’s a long walk, and you’re still recovering,’ she said. ‘Look, since you came all the way here… She’s asleep but you can still say goodbye.’

  Sandra was about to protest, but instead she let the nurse lead her closer to Miriam’s bed.

  ‘You need to be quiet,’ the nurse said. ‘She’s very sick. We don’t think she knows what happened, how badly injured she is. The doctors think she’s suffering from retrograde amnesia.’ She stopped and looked at the girl. ‘She lost her memory. Doesn’t even remember who she is.’

  Sandra’s heart started beating faster and faster. This couldn’t be happening. It was too good to be true.

  ‘Are you OK?’ the nurse asked.

  Sandra realised her mouth was open, her eyes wide. ‘How long does it last?’ she asked. ‘The retro…gate.’

  ‘Retrograde amnesia.’ The nurse’s voice was gentle as she corrected her. ‘We don’t know. Sometimes the memory comes back as the body heals, or it can take longer. And then there are times when it never comes back.’

  She looked Sandra up and down. ‘We believe that being exposed to something familiar, like a house they lived in or people they knew, helps patients regain their memory…’ She looked back towards Miriam and for a few moments they stood there, inches from the foot of the bed.

  Sandra wanted to turn back. She didn’t want Miriam to see her. Not if there was the slightest chance that she would remember. She had to go. Now. Before it was too late. Before the damage was done.

  It was as if the nurse read Sandra’s thoughts. ‘Perhaps seeing you will help her.’ And with that, she gently pushed Sandra further towards Miriam.

  She was so close that she could smell the hospital-grade shampoo, see the individual tiny stitches zig-zagging Miriam’s face. Her lips, even as she slept, were pursed. ‘Is she in pain?’ Sandra whispered.

  The nurse came to stand next to her. She shook her head. ‘We’re taking care of that.’

  ‘I think I’d like to go back to my bed now. Please.’

  ‘Yes, of course. You must be tired.’ The nurse pivoted round. The sudden movement must have caught Miriam’s eye. Or something else alerted her to the presence of people next to her bed because Miriam’s eyes flew open. The nurse rushed towards her, leaving Sandra alone just steps from the bed. She should turn away, leave, but she was glued to the spot, unable to move.

  Miriam didn’t move her head. Sandra was not sure she even could. But her eyes turned to the side and narrowed slightly, her brow became furrowed and her lip curled upwards. Despite what the nurse had said, Sandra was certain Miriam had recognised her. And she knew at that moment that she would never be free of her torment.

  6

  Beep. Beep. Beep. The monotonous noise drilled into Bea’s head. Beep. Beep. Beep. Its shrillness was making her brain hurt. Even her eyes smarted. She started shaking her head, hoping that the movement would put a stop to the noise, but something held her back. She felt as if she were cast in stone, as if something was keeping her from turning her neck.

  Panic bubbled inside her. What was happening? She racked her brain to remember, piece together the events that led to this moment. Her head hurt, a piercing pain that seemed to be drilling from one side of her forehead to the other. The backs of her eyes throbbed. She tried opening them but could only manage to lift her eyelids a fraction before they fluttered back.

  Think, think, she urged herself. Waking up late, Miriam angrily hitting her, Sebastian causing a diversion, the bag of powder. Piece by piece the events of the morning started coming back. Until she saw it flashing in front of her eyes. Miriam swerving, the yellow lorry careening towards the van. Being thrown in the air, feeling as if she were never going to go back to the ground. The s
earing pain all over her body. And Sebastian, staring at her with dead eyes.

  After she stopped screaming, she reached out to him, shook him, tried to wake him up. But he didn’t move. He was gone.

  The movement had sent sharp pains through her body. Bea looked down, trying to assess her injuries. In the years living with Miriam she had become accustomed to dealing with pain. She knew her body would recover. She’d get over this as well.

  But then, as light streamed through a gap in the van’s ceiling, Bea looked down at her legs. Her skirt had ridden up, her thighs were covered in goosebumps. But she couldn’t feel the cold. Instead, she felt heat spreading all over her body. She squinted her eyes to try and get a clearer view, hoping that her vision was playing tricks on her. And yet, there was no mistaking the bone jutting out of her right calf, her leg twisted horrifically.

  Her mouth filled with bile and she heaved uncontrollably. This couldn’t be happening, this couldn’t be true. All her life, her biggest dream had been to become a ballerina, like her mother. Ballet was her only escape, her only pleasure. Miriam loved forcing her to skip lessons, but Bea persevered, practising in her small room until late at night. Ballet was the only way she could keep her mother’s legacy alive and she was determined to succeed.

  But even though she had only just turned ten, Bea knew that this injury spelled the end of her dream, that she would never recover. Even if her leg healed, it would never be able to withstand the hours of gruelling practice.

  The panic inside her had started to abate and was replaced by desperate sadness. Bea forced herself to turn her head, looking away from her blood-covered legs, and buried her face in her hands, crying uncontrollably.

  *

  Hushed voices surrounded her. Bea strained her ears to try and make out what they were saying. But the beep from the machines kept blocking out the conversation. She could only catch a few words here and there. ‘Lucky to be alive.’ ‘Devastating injury.’ ‘Not sure if she’ll ever walk again.’ ‘Long recovery ahead.’