S Bolton - Sacrifice

I left the bike leaning against my car and ran out of the car park, down a flight of steps and along a few steps of the lane. I banged on the door. The noise seemed to echo inside, as though the house was empty. I started to think that maybe I wasn't about to see Dana again after all. I banged again.

'Do you have keys?'

I spun round. I hadn't heard anyone approach but Andy Dunn was right behind me. Too close.

'I've been knocking for ten minutes,' he said. 'If she's in, she can't hear us. When did you last talk to her?'

I couldn't reply.

He took a step closer and put his hands on my shoulders. I wanted to shrug him off and run back up the path, leap into the car, on to the bicycle, anything, but I couldn't move.

'Miss Hamilton, are you OK? Do you need to sit down?'

I felt myself relax a little. 'I'm fine, thank you. I need to see Dana.'

He didn't ask why. He dropped his hands and turned to look at Dana's grey front door. Then he bent down, raised the cover of the letter box and peered inside.

'So do I,' he said. 'When did you last talk to her?'

I took a moment to remember. He rose and turned to me. He had very deep-set eyes, a dull blue in colour. The skin around them was coarse and deeply lined, heavily freckled. He looked as though he'd never been indoors in his life.

'Tora!' he said sharply.

'Yesterday morning,' I replied. 'I've left several messages.'

'Stand back,' he ordered. I did and then watched as he backed away for several paces then charged the door at a run. His shoulder connected and the door, which had seemed sturdy enough just seconds ago, buckled under the force and crashed inwards.

'Wait here.' He disappeared inside the house. I could feel reality slipping away from me again. I stood there for five, maybe six minutes. I was aware of sounds around me: children playing in a garden a little way further up the lane, a large ferry coming into harbour, DI Dunn moving swiftly through the downstairs rooms of Dana's house; also a rhythmic thumping noise, loud in my ears, that I couldn't place at the time but I think now must have been the sound of my own heartbeat.

Dunn ran upstairs. I heard doors slamming. Silence. I started to pray.

Then his footsteps, thudding down the stairs. He jumped the last three, strode across the small hallway and looked directly into my eyes. Much of the colour seemed to have drained from his face and there was sweat on his temples. For a second, maybe longer, he just stared at me. I don't remember seeing his lips move but I was sure I heard his voice anyway.

You can go upstairs now. Look in the bathroom.

I stepped into the house. I heard the click and crackle of a radio and Dunn's voice, urgent and unsteady, behind me. I started to climb the stairs, knowing where I had to go, what I'd find when I got there. There was a hiss of static and Dunn's voice again. I carried on climbing.

'Hey!' he yelled and then there were footsteps running back into the house. I'd reached the top of the stairs and had pushed open the bathroom door.

Footsteps, running up the stairs. Heavy breathing. Dunn was behind me, his hands on my shoulders again. 'What are you doing?' he said gently. 'Come on down.'

I tried to move forward but he held me back.

'You need to come downstairs.'

'I need to check for vitals.'

He must have seen some sense in that because he let me go. I took a step forward and leaned over the bathtub. I picked up Dana's left arm. It was pale and slender, like that of a child, and blood was no longer pumping from the three-inch gash that stretched diagonally across her wrist. Her skin felt cold but soft, so soft, like the smooth depression at the base of a baby's spine. I knew I would feel no pulse. I gently put her arm back down at her side and felt her neck. There was nothing there to find. Nothing to offer even the faintest glimmer of hope. One glance at her face had told me that, but I hadn't even needed to look at her face. I'd known. From the moment I'd hammered on the door of her house and heard emptiness inside, I'd known.

DI Dunn was holding me again and my field of vision was blurring. I could no longer make out the tiled walls of Dana's bathroom, or the window ledge with its colourful glass sea-creatures, or the door. Just the white tub, Dana herself, like a beautiful statue, and the blood.

WHEN I CAME ROUND, MY FIRST THOUGHT WAS THAT I was still in the house and DI Dunn was leaning over me. Then I realized the eyes were more slate-grey than blue- grey and that the hair was dull blond with no hint of ginger.

'What time is it?' I managed.

Gifford looked at his watch. 'Eight twenty,' he replied.

'What did you give me?' I asked.

'Diazepam,' he said. 'You were pretty wired up when they brought you in. Had me worried for a while.' Diazepam is a mild sedative. If he was telling the truth I'd be woozy for a couple of hours but otherwise OK. I decided to put it to the test by sitting up. Harder than expected.

'Easy.' He wound the handle that lifts a hospital bed into a sitting position. Then he took hold of my wrist. I looked down in alarm but it was whole and unmarked. Gifford held it for half a minute while he checked my pulse. Then he took my blood pressure, shone a light into my eyes and held up several fingers for me to count. I waited until he'd finished and pronounced me OK; somewhere near the end of my tether, but basically sound.

'Where is she?' I asked.

He looked confused. 'Well, I imagine she's downstairs. Tora, promise me you won't-'

'I promise,' I said, meaning it. I had no intention of seeking out Dana. Dana had gone; somewhere I wasn't ready to follow.

I'm so sorry,' said Gifford.

I didn't speak.

'I guess we never really know what's going on in someone else's head.'

'I guess not.'

'She was under a lot of stress. Had been unhappy for a long time.'

'I know. I just wish

'There was nothing you could have done. When suicides are determined, nothing will stop them. You know that.'

I nodded. I knew that.

'I spoke to Duncan. He's coming back but he can't get a plane before tomorrow morning.'

I looked at him. 'I might… I think I'll go to my parents for a few days. Will that be OK, do you think?'

Gifford took hold of my hand again. 'I'm sure it will,' he said. 'DI Dunn needs to speak to you. I told him to wait till morning. I'm keeping you here overnight.'

I nodded again. 'Thank you.'

Gifford wound my bed back down and I closed my eyes.

People tend not to warm to me. I don't know why, although heaven knows I've asked myself the question often enough over the years. What is it about me, exactly, that they find so unappealing? I can't work it out and no one's ever told me. All I know is that I've never found it particularly easy to make or keep friends.

I remember one incident from primary school: my class of eight- year-olds were exuberant that day and the teacher, Mrs Williams, was threatening that the worst offender would be moved to an empty single desk, right down at the front of the classroom. I was out of sorts, fed up with the yattering and fidgeting of the five other children on my table, so I stuck my hand in the air and asked to move. I'd meant that I wanted to go to the quiet desk but Mrs Williams misunderstood and thought I was asking to move elsewhere in the room. She asked me where I wanted to go; struck by the new possibilities, I looked around.

Across the classroom, a boy shouted that I should come and join his table. Then, one by one, most of the class took up the same cry. Everywhere I looked children were begging me to come and sit at their table. I guess they all got caught up by a sense of competition; I doubt if it was any genuine liking for me that was spurring them on, but I couldn't know that at the time. For several minutes I basked in the clamour before choosing a new spot and being enthusiastically welcomed by my new table-mates.