“HELP.”
The faint voice floated toward me. Gliding smooth as a paper airplane from somewhere in the midst of the fog swirling through my brain. Orange lights flashed in a steady rhythm and—
“Please.”
I wondered if I’d uttered the words, but I hadn’t moved my lips. Hadn’t moved at all. Couldn’t. It hurt too much. Everything hurt too much.
Moments passed, and I tried to string together the few wispy fragments my mind allowed me to cling to. My arms, chest and legs were pressed against something hard and uncomfortable—the ground, not my soft bed—but the reason why I found myself in that position escaped me entirely. And I was too exhausted to care.
A breeze softly brushed across my cheek. The pavement beneath me felt warm, and despite the distinct taste of rust invading my mouth, I could smell freshly cut grass. Hadn’t I been—
“Help me, Abby.”
The voice was too low to be mine. A man’s then—it had to be. Why wouldn’t he let me sleep? My eyes felt heavy and impossible to open, so I let my thoughts start pulling me away, ever so slowly, to the deliciously inviting state of unconsciousness.
“Abby.”
Rest would have to wait. Against my better judgment I raised my head, each millimeter expending energy I didn’t think I had and causing pain to shoot through every part of my body like a thousand burning hot pins. I tried, but my legs and lower back stubbornly refused to budge even the tiniest amount, as if I’d been nailed to the ground.
I forced my eyes open.
And I saw him.
“Tom.” My own voice this time, barely a whisper. “Tom.” A little stronger, louder.
My brother lay a few meters away in what had been my blue Ford Capri, but which was now an upturned carcass of broken glass and mangled steel. The flashing of the hazard lights illuminated Tom’s bloody face and body every few seconds, a perverse freak show. He hung upside down. Unlike me, he was still in the car, somewhere between the front and back seats, his arms and legs bent at impossible angles. Eyes wide and glazed. Staring at me. Desperate. Begging.
“Abby,” he said once more, and I watched as he attempted to lift his arms, tried to reach for me. “I can’t get out.” Tears rolled up his forehead, mixing with a steady stream of blood from the deep gash above his eye that looked like a second mouth. “I can’t get out.”
“Tom,” I said again, before my eyes closed despite my efforts to keep them open. Fighting the beckoning darkness felt like a struggle I’d never win.
The light from the wreck somehow became brighter, warmer, too. Somewhere in my brain it occurred to me it wasn’t the sun—couldn’t be the sun—it was still so dark. Wasn’t it? My mind started drifting away.
But then the pungent smell of smoke and petrol filled the air.
I wanted to move. I needed to get to him. But I couldn’t.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my eyes open again, staring into his. “Tom. I’m so sorry.”
The last thing I heard were the screams, Tom’s and mine, as the car burst into flames.
WHEN THE U-HAUL van arrived next door, I did what most sensible human beings would do: I ignored it. Once I’d made sure it was just the new neighbors moving in, not some crazy person stealing lingering Christmas decorations, I cranked up the fire, flopped back down on the sofa and buried my nose in my copy of I Am Ozzy, marveling at how the guy had lasted so long.
As far as I was concerned, moving in February, undeniably the coldest month of the year, was a ridiculous notion. And I wanted nothing to do with it.
The house was my peaceful kingdom that blustery Saturday morning. Abby had gone to pick up Sarah from a sleepover, and they’d planned on a Mum and Daughter shopping spree in town. Bad weather and potential conflict be damned.
I think Abby had her eye on the winter jacket sales, and knew Sarah wanted a pair of Steve Madden combat boots. I could tell from my daughter’s look she’d been impressed when I said I knew who Steve Madden was. In reality, I’d only heard about him when I’d finally got around to streaming The Wolf of Wall Street, belly-laughing as Jonah Hill struggled to pronounce the designer’s name whilst high on a bucket of quaaludes. Abby hadn’t been impressed by the film, not even by Margot Robbie in that scene. Well, never mind Margot’s perfect breasts. Apparently Abby didn’t like Steve Madden’s boots either.
“They’re awful,” she’d whispered last night as we lay in bed. Then she must have remembered Sarah was out because she said, more loudly, “Grunge, punk or whatever the hell gone bad. I hate combat boots.”
I lowered the stack of papers I’d promised myself I’d look over