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Authors: Teresa Driscoll
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firmly. That draught again.
She sat down on the edge of the bath.
‘I’ve found the rabbit, Mummy,’ Melissa’s voice was right outside the bathroom door.
Eleanor’s pulse in both her ear and in her fingers too as she felt under her left armpit. Another bulge.
‘OK, honey. Mummy’s just coming through.’
She washed her hands, put her jumper back on and splashed her face with cold water.
‘You look funny, Mummy. Your hair’s wet.’
‘I was just a bit hot.’
Eleanor began to fuss with the selection of cutters, picking out a star, a heart and a gingerbread man, her hand trembling slightly as she sprinkled more flour right across the table.
‘What’s the matter with your eye?’ Melissa was still staring intently into her face.
‘Nothing. It’s fine.’
Eleanor could feel it clearly. The intense and infuriating flickering of her eyelid. Like some tic.
‘So come on, then. Let’s get these biscuits sorted, shall we?’
10
MELISSA – 2011
Melissa in her mind watched the bike hit Sam – full on. In that first slow-motion version, she saw the scream of metal and dust explode right into him. It was the version that for weeks and months she would replay in her dreams.
But that is not what happened. That image was the raw terror born of prediction and fear and dread. That was the version in which everything ended, right there on that mountain. What actually happened seemed impossible. The bike slid through the dust and the gravel, and the young Cypriot man who’d been talking to Sam as they strolled down the hill suddenly moved at a speed which seemed to not quite fit the picture. As if his movement was being replayed and overlaid within the scene at a different speed. Yes. That is what it was like.
The young man hurled himself impossibly through the air, slamming the full weight of his body into Sam, thrusting him with the momentum towards the other side of the road so that at the point of impact it was his own right leg which remained directly in the path of the bike.
Melissa had to move very quickly herself then, backing into the shade of trees at the other side of the road to avoid the bike and rider as they continued on their slide, stopping eventually much further down the hill while she then ran back upwards towards Sam and his dark-haired saviour – both now lying in the road.
‘Oh my God. Sam. Jesus Christ!’ kneeling down alongside them – taking in the blood and the ugly rips through flesh into white underneath the stranger’s leg but taking in also the relief that they were both wincing. Both sufficiently conscious and OK to feel the pain. Which she was remembering was a good thing. Pain. Consciousness.
And then Melissa became aware of two new sounds. From the top of the hill three people had appeared – an elderly man and woman and a younger very tall and thin man – all shouting in Greek over the roar of a second motorbike.
The shouting continued as the two men hurried down the hill, the second motorbike passing them to join the first and its rider, now on the ground, much further down.
‘Stay still. Help is coming,’ Melissa had her arm on Sam’s shoulder as he and his injured Good Samaritan lay side by side, in shock still but straining now against the immediate pain. She watched the helpers getting closer, waving their hands and shouting even more loudly, again in Greek, to the two motorcyclists as the second was now helping the first back onto his bike.
And then Melissa watched in disbelief as both motorcyclists simply rode off. Just a few more seconds. More dust. And gone.
‘Bastards,’ she couldn’t believe it. ‘Hey. What are you doing? Come back!’ shouting pointlessly. Randomly. Over and over. ‘Come back here, you bastard!’
It was the two men from the village who were now taking charge, the younger producing a phone from his pocket while the older woman walked more slowly towards them. ‘I phone for ambulance. Yes?’
‘No. No ambulance,’ the
She sat down on the edge of the bath.
‘I’ve found the rabbit, Mummy,’ Melissa’s voice was right outside the bathroom door.
Eleanor’s pulse in both her ear and in her fingers too as she felt under her left armpit. Another bulge.
‘OK, honey. Mummy’s just coming through.’
She washed her hands, put her jumper back on and splashed her face with cold water.
‘You look funny, Mummy. Your hair’s wet.’
‘I was just a bit hot.’
Eleanor began to fuss with the selection of cutters, picking out a star, a heart and a gingerbread man, her hand trembling slightly as she sprinkled more flour right across the table.
‘What’s the matter with your eye?’ Melissa was still staring intently into her face.
‘Nothing. It’s fine.’
Eleanor could feel it clearly. The intense and infuriating flickering of her eyelid. Like some tic.
‘So come on, then. Let’s get these biscuits sorted, shall we?’
10
MELISSA – 2011
Melissa in her mind watched the bike hit Sam – full on. In that first slow-motion version, she saw the scream of metal and dust explode right into him. It was the version that for weeks and months she would replay in her dreams.
But that is not what happened. That image was the raw terror born of prediction and fear and dread. That was the version in which everything ended, right there on that mountain. What actually happened seemed impossible. The bike slid through the dust and the gravel, and the young Cypriot man who’d been talking to Sam as they strolled down the hill suddenly moved at a speed which seemed to not quite fit the picture. As if his movement was being replayed and overlaid within the scene at a different speed. Yes. That is what it was like.
The young man hurled himself impossibly through the air, slamming the full weight of his body into Sam, thrusting him with the momentum towards the other side of the road so that at the point of impact it was his own right leg which remained directly in the path of the bike.
Melissa had to move very quickly herself then, backing into the shade of trees at the other side of the road to avoid the bike and rider as they continued on their slide, stopping eventually much further down the hill while she then ran back upwards towards Sam and his dark-haired saviour – both now lying in the road.
‘Oh my God. Sam. Jesus Christ!’ kneeling down alongside them – taking in the blood and the ugly rips through flesh into white underneath the stranger’s leg but taking in also the relief that they were both wincing. Both sufficiently conscious and OK to feel the pain. Which she was remembering was a good thing. Pain. Consciousness.
And then Melissa became aware of two new sounds. From the top of the hill three people had appeared – an elderly man and woman and a younger very tall and thin man – all shouting in Greek over the roar of a second motorbike.
The shouting continued as the two men hurried down the hill, the second motorbike passing them to join the first and its rider, now on the ground, much further down.
‘Stay still. Help is coming,’ Melissa had her arm on Sam’s shoulder as he and his injured Good Samaritan lay side by side, in shock still but straining now against the immediate pain. She watched the helpers getting closer, waving their hands and shouting even more loudly, again in Greek, to the two motorcyclists as the second was now helping the first back onto his bike.
And then Melissa watched in disbelief as both motorcyclists simply rode off. Just a few more seconds. More dust. And gone.
‘Bastards,’ she couldn’t believe it. ‘Hey. What are you doing? Come back!’ shouting pointlessly. Randomly. Over and over. ‘Come back here, you bastard!’
It was the two men from the village who were now taking charge, the younger producing a phone from his pocket while the older woman walked more slowly towards them. ‘I phone for ambulance. Yes?’
‘No. No ambulance,’ the
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