Cath Staincliffe - Blink of an Eye

‘Yes,’ she said, mockingly, ‘I have lived the dream. Look, Suzanne isn’t me and you’re not my parents.’ She shivered. ‘And no way is Naomi anything like Russell. But just because Suzanne is so adamantly self-reliant doesn’t mean-’

‘I know,’ I broke in, ‘and you’re right. We can’t just be fixated on Naomi; we need to try and create some sort of normality.’

As I walked back to the tram, I thought about what Evie had said. Even as little kids it was Naomi who demanded most care, a keener eye. She’d wander off, caught up in the moment, forgetting rules and cautions simply because of the novelty and excitement. When she was seven, we’d been at Glastonbury, camping. It wasn’t as big a festival back then, but still not somewhere you’d want to lose a child.

It had rained all night, so there was mud everywhere. We’d come equipped with wellies and waterproofs. The kids actually had all-in-one waterproofs, little PVC boiler suits, which had been a boon and also helped us keep track of them; Suzanne’s was red and Naomi’s bright yellow. We’d had breakfast and managed the toilets, although Suzanne was outraged at the state of them and said she was not going again until we were safely home. We spent a few hours exploring, then went back to the tent to eat. I fancied seeing Gil Scott-Heron, who was on the NME stage, and we told the kids we would walk over there in a few minutes.

The next time I put my head out of the tent, Suzanne was sitting on a folding stool, her head in a book, and there was no sign of Naomi.

‘Where’s your sister?’

She glanced up, looked right and left, then shrugged. ‘Dunno.’

‘Naomi?’ I called, panic nipping at the back of my neck. ‘Naomi?’

Phil got back from the toilets then, loo roll in hand. ‘What’s up?’

‘Naomi, don’t know where she is.’

He blanched, ran his hand through his hair. ‘You wait here in case she comes back, I’ll find the lost children’s tent.’

He seemed to be gone ages. Suzanne got snippy when I pressed her to remember exactly where she had last seen her sister and which way Naomi had been facing.

‘I don’t know. Don’t you think I’d have told you if I had any idea?’ Sounding like some grumpy fifty-year-old rather than a child.

Reassurances flitted though my mind: they were a nice crowd here, someone would be looking after her; she’d be back any second. Behind them, swelling with menace, were my dark fears: abduction, molestation, murder.

Phil came back alone. He had alerted the festival staff and some were already actively searching. They suggested we split up and look for her.

‘One of us should stay here,’ I said.

‘Take turns then,’ he agreed. ‘You might as well start at the stage.’

I pulled a face. I was hardly going to be taking in the music.

‘Go.’

‘Suzanne, do you want to come, or stay with Dad?’

‘Stay,’ Suzanne said. She wasn’t worried. Why wasn’t she worried?

Weaving my way through the campsite and the fields, my eyes seized on any scrap of yellow. And there was plenty of it: oilskins and hats, pennants and balloons, scarves and jumpers.

There was a sizeable crowd in front of the stage, the band already playing, and in spite of my anxiety, my heart warmed as I made out a song. I’d got the binoculars and I scanned the audience, sweeping slowly from one side to the other, trying to be systematic. It was fine weather, the air warm, the sun high, just a few streaky clouds melting away. There! No – it was a man’s jacket. I swept on. Nothing.

I lowered the binoculars, my throat aching, eyes stinging, and had turned to retrace my steps when something bumped my knees.

‘Mummy!’ She grabbed me round the waist. ‘You were ages.’

‘Where’ve you been?’

‘Here, you said come here.’

‘We were all coming together.’ I stooped and picked her up. ‘You’re not meant to go anywhere on your own, you know that.’

Her smile fell, her eyes dimmed. ‘Oh.’

‘We were worried. You were lost.’

‘I wasn’t lost,’ she said. ‘I was here. It’s all right.’ She nodded.

‘Yes,’ I said, stupid tears blurring my vision, ‘it is.’

‘Put me down,’ she said. ‘You like this one.’ The band had launched into the intro to ‘The Revolution Will Not Be Televised’.

‘I know but we have to tell Dad and the festival people that you’re okay.’

She sighed.

‘Here.’ I held out my hand and she grabbed it and we ran all the way back. Outpacing the monsters and the ghouls and racing to claim the day.

Naomi

A flash of red. A thumping, then a squeal. One thump, then another, boom pause boom . Like a slow heartbeat. And then the shriek.

It’s coming back! Is it? Oh God.

It’s night on the ward and the woman opposite has a dreadful cough. Much worse than mine. She coughs so hard she starts to choke. She’s fallen quiet now but it won’t last long.

A flash of red. I try and find a shape to it, and when that fails I focus on defining the colour. Crimson. Not red like fire, not orange, but deeper, bluer, closer to dark pink. It could be anything: the colour from the inside of my eyelids, or some of the food at the party. Cherries or beetroot. But before now, that flashback to the food, if it was a flashback, has always been lots of different colours, not just crimson. I’m not sure if it’s significant.

But the thump and that shrieking sound, surely that’s from the moment when we crashed. The thud that drove through me like a jackhammer. Poom ! Then again. Poom ! One for the first impact, and the next when we hit the school gatepost and flipped over. And the shrieking, that must be the car roof as it scraped on the road.

The red. Did she bleed? Was there blood on the windscreen? It’s a horrible thought, but I force myself to consider it. After all, flies and things leave little smears like that on the glass. Oh God. My stomach churns. Alex must know; I’ll ask him next time he comes. But if I’ve remembered this, then maybe I’ll remember more. I feel a flush of excitement. I want to tell someone, wake someone up and tell them.

What if I forget again? Could that happen? My blood turns cold at the thought. Surely memories wouldn’t just come and go. If these are memories – and I’m pretty sure they must be.

Naomi

It’s awkward asking him about the accident. He doesn’t really like to talk about it because he knows how ashamed and horrible I feel about it and he doesn’t want me to feel bad. So we avoid it a lot of the time. Now I come right out and say it: ‘I need to ask you something about the crash.’

‘Okay,’ he says, and waits for me to go on.

‘I think I remember the noise, the sound, when I hit her and when we went into the gatepost and turned over: a bang then another and a horrible screeching. Is that right?’

‘Something like that. It was all so fast, but you’re right about the screeching.’

I nod, thankful, even though it’s such a small fragment.

‘And there was something else. Well – I’m not sure if it’s from the accident or not.’ I feel so clumsy saying this. ‘Did she hit the windscreen, was there any blood?’ I bite my lip, suddenly shaky again; it’s important to talk about this and not collapse in tears. I sniff hard.

‘No.’ He shakes his head.

‘I think I remember red, dark cherry red. Her bike?’

‘No.’ He shakes his head again, and his green eyes hold mine. He blinks. ‘She was wearing a red dress.’

I gulp, my neck burning, my pulse bumpy. ‘A red dress?’

‘Yes.’ He looks at me.

‘That must be it,’ I say. Oh God, I have remembered.