survey the devastation. Nothing is where it was when I left the house this morning. Every single drawer and cupboard has been pulled open, the contents scattered everywhere. The shelves are empty, their books and ornaments forming a tide of debris on the floor. The furniture dragged away from the walls and the TV pitched off its stand, lying face down on the carpet, a tangle of cables trailing from its back.
I retreat to the kitchen. A sea of food and utensils and bits of crockery greets me at the door. At least half the bowls and plates are smashed, swept out of the cupboards onto the tiled floor. Tea towels are strewn around the room like rags, and thereâs a large puddle of milk by the gaping door of the fridge.
Nothing has been spared, it seems. Even the toaster is lying on the kitchen floor, an ugly dent in its stainless steel side.
Dazed, I go upstairs, barely registering Mumâs voice calling me from the living room. Step over the towels littering the hallway, swept out from the airing cupboard. Glance in the bathroom. The sink is full of plastic bottles and packets of pills, the door of the wall cabinet left open.
My bedroom. A groan escapes me as I walk in. All my books, my sheet music, my collection of old classical CDs, clothes, college folders, everything massed in a heap across my rug. It looks like the news footage from the aftermath of some kind of natural disaster. A tornado maybe, or an earthquake.
âSarah?â Mum calls again. I ignore her, trying to take in the ruins of my room.
Who did this? And why? Why make such a mess?
I survey the debris on my carpet. Bend down to retrieve the things at my feet, then pause â I guess I shouldnât touch anything until the police say itâs okay. But in the middle, partially hidden by the book on vocal training Mrs Perry lent me, I spot my necklace â the silver one with the little amethyst Mum and Dad gave me for my sixteenth birthday.
I canât stop myself. I step forwards and pick it up, praying the chain hasnât broken. It hasnât. Without thinking I undo the tiny clasp and fix it round my neck, a talisman against the surrounding chaos. Iâm keeping it safe, I decide â or maybe itâs the other way round.
I glance about for anything else that needs rescuing and my eyes fall on a small granite pebble, streaked through with rose-coloured quartz. Odd. Whatâs that doing here? It was my brotherâs â he always kept it on his desk.
I bend down again to retrieve it, running my finger over its rough surface, and for a second Iâm back there, on the island in the lake by our summer house. Max teasing me, pulling faces and sniping till I lost my temper and grabbed this stone and lobbed it at him.
It hit my brother square on the forehead, immediately drawing a small bead of blood. I can still remember the shock on his face, more pronounced than the pain. Then the smile that broke out over his features.
âDidnât think you had it in you,â he said.
I often wondered why he kept it. As a trophy, perhaps, or a reminder to both of us not to let things go that far again? Or simply a memento of the place he loved so much.
But whatâs it doing in here?
âSarah?â Mumâs voice is more insistent. I leave the stone on my empty bookcase and head downstairs, glancing into the other bedrooms as I go. Iâve never seen such a mess, particularly in Maxâs room. The sight is so overwhelming that I feel numb. Almost anaesthetized.
How will Mum deal with this? All his stuff, everything she had left of him, ransacked and trashed?
By the front door, I pass a man brushing powder onto the frame, leaving great stains of silvery-grey, like blotches of algae. For a moment I canât think what heâs doing, then realize heâs dusting for fingerprints.
Where are we even going to start with this? I wonder as I go back to the living room. I gaze at Mum as if she might have an
I retreat to the kitchen. A sea of food and utensils and bits of crockery greets me at the door. At least half the bowls and plates are smashed, swept out of the cupboards onto the tiled floor. Tea towels are strewn around the room like rags, and thereâs a large puddle of milk by the gaping door of the fridge.
Nothing has been spared, it seems. Even the toaster is lying on the kitchen floor, an ugly dent in its stainless steel side.
Dazed, I go upstairs, barely registering Mumâs voice calling me from the living room. Step over the towels littering the hallway, swept out from the airing cupboard. Glance in the bathroom. The sink is full of plastic bottles and packets of pills, the door of the wall cabinet left open.
My bedroom. A groan escapes me as I walk in. All my books, my sheet music, my collection of old classical CDs, clothes, college folders, everything massed in a heap across my rug. It looks like the news footage from the aftermath of some kind of natural disaster. A tornado maybe, or an earthquake.
âSarah?â Mum calls again. I ignore her, trying to take in the ruins of my room.
Who did this? And why? Why make such a mess?
I survey the debris on my carpet. Bend down to retrieve the things at my feet, then pause â I guess I shouldnât touch anything until the police say itâs okay. But in the middle, partially hidden by the book on vocal training Mrs Perry lent me, I spot my necklace â the silver one with the little amethyst Mum and Dad gave me for my sixteenth birthday.
I canât stop myself. I step forwards and pick it up, praying the chain hasnât broken. It hasnât. Without thinking I undo the tiny clasp and fix it round my neck, a talisman against the surrounding chaos. Iâm keeping it safe, I decide â or maybe itâs the other way round.
I glance about for anything else that needs rescuing and my eyes fall on a small granite pebble, streaked through with rose-coloured quartz. Odd. Whatâs that doing here? It was my brotherâs â he always kept it on his desk.
I bend down again to retrieve it, running my finger over its rough surface, and for a second Iâm back there, on the island in the lake by our summer house. Max teasing me, pulling faces and sniping till I lost my temper and grabbed this stone and lobbed it at him.
It hit my brother square on the forehead, immediately drawing a small bead of blood. I can still remember the shock on his face, more pronounced than the pain. Then the smile that broke out over his features.
âDidnât think you had it in you,â he said.
I often wondered why he kept it. As a trophy, perhaps, or a reminder to both of us not to let things go that far again? Or simply a memento of the place he loved so much.
But whatâs it doing in here?
âSarah?â Mumâs voice is more insistent. I leave the stone on my empty bookcase and head downstairs, glancing into the other bedrooms as I go. Iâve never seen such a mess, particularly in Maxâs room. The sight is so overwhelming that I feel numb. Almost anaesthetized.
How will Mum deal with this? All his stuff, everything she had left of him, ransacked and trashed?
By the front door, I pass a man brushing powder onto the frame, leaving great stains of silvery-grey, like blotches of algae. For a moment I canât think what heâs doing, then realize heâs dusting for fingerprints.
Where are we even going to start with this? I wonder as I go back to the living room. I gaze at Mum as if she might have an
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