LITMIR.BIZ

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20 minutes after the fall.

      ‘Is there a heartbeat?’

      Something presses into my neck.

      ‘Barely and it is weakening.’

      A gurgling rumble struggles against the pressure on my throat.

      ‘Get back. Stay back, please.’ A distant, dominant voice.

      There are lots of people here, talking in different tones. Some whispering.

      ‘Have some respect. The medical team need space. A woman is injured. This is not a circus. Move on.’

      ‘She’s losing a lot of blood.’

      ‘I’ll treat her head injury, you find out what else is going on.’

      Hands touch my head and leg.

      ‘This is a nasty break.’

      Another breath drags into my lungs. My eyes are open but I can’t see.

      ‘How bad is it? The woman’s husband is in the car park. He’s asking.’ Another voice.

      ‘It’s bad. We’ll be lucky if she’s alive when we reach the hospital. Cross your fingers or pray, whichever is your thing.’

      ‘I’ll keep her breathing.’ A mask presses down and the air is cleaner and colder but the pain of breathing is an excruciating shout.

      ‘Give her some morphine and get a splint for her leg.’

       Where is he?

      The air chokes me, as if I am a mile underwater, the weight filling up and crushing my lungs from the inside out.

      ‘Her airway is constricted. Get me a scalpel. I’ll try a tracheostomy.’

      ‘She has broken ribs. She may have punctured both lungs.’

      I try to speak. My lips will not say a word.

      The world is white.

      ‘Her pulse is fading.’

      A siren wails in the distance as the white gradually darkens and becomes black.

       Chapter 2

       50 minutes before the fall.

      ‘Don’t touch me!’ An urge for flight darts into my legs and I step back; every muscle in my body is quivering, exhausted by the fight.

      I imagine the feel of pavement under my feet. I am running – running and running.

      ‘You’re upsetting the children. All you think about is yourself. Your baby is crying in there!’ His hand thrusts out, gesturing in a circular motion directing my eyes to the noise coming from the kitchen.

      The sound tears at my heart and rips through my head.

      ‘I can’t cope with her.’ Or you. I don’t want to hear the screams any more. Let me leave.

      ‘You wanted her.’ His pitch drops, accusing me of betrayal. ‘You promised you would try.’

      ‘I tried. I can’t do it.’ I can’t cope with the look in your eyes. I failed. But it is not just me. We have failed.

      His clenched fist lifts and hovers an inch from my face. One day he’ll break, then he’ll hit me or put his hands around my neck.

      ‘I can’t help it.’ The words leave my throat in a whisper because he’s too close.

      ‘You have to help it. I can’t deal with you and if I can’t then the children don’t stand a chance.’ His hand opens.

      I think he’s going to slap me.

      There’s no loyalty between us any more. No love. No hope. Nothing except anger and arguments.

      His hand drops, but he snarls in my face, sounding like an attacking wolf. Then he turns away in a sudden movement, lifting his arm again and striking a fist into the wall.

      His mother’s favourite blue and white china vase, an antique on the bookshelf near him, wobbles as if touched by the strength of his anger. Then it falls on the parquet floor, shattering with a sharp sound that breaks our argument. Stop.

      His mother found that vase at a car boot sale. She bought it for next to nothing. She was so proud of it. But she is proud of her son too.

      He shakes out the hand he’s hurt, ignoring the ruined vase.

      ‘Mum …’ Our son stands in the centre of the open doorway, his beautiful face distorted in an expression of fear.

      ‘I’m all right, love. We are both all right. Daddy is just having a tantrum.’

      He thrusts a glare over his shoulder with the toss of a dagger, then walks out of the room, herding our son out of the way.

      I pull the mobile from the back pocket of my jeans. It drops on the floor with a clatter because my fingers are shaking even harder now the adrenalin is ebbing away.

      The phone lies there, looking up at me with a fresh crack across the screen, another testimony of our failure.

      Bile rises in my throat, a bitter taste that wants me to be sick. I bend to pick up the phone. I can’t remember when I last ate.

      The desire to hear my mother’s voice screams as loudly as my child.

      I bring up my recent calls, and touch the icon saying ‘Mum’.

      The phone rings twice before she answers. ‘Hello, love.’

      ‘Mum.’ Help me.

      ‘Yes, darling.’

      I sniff back the tears before they run from my nose as well as my eyes.

      ‘Are you all right?’

      ‘No. We argued.’

      ‘Again.’ A tut echoes from the phone.

      We haven’t made it through a single day without arguing this year.

      A tear drips from my chin, falling to leave a tiny puddle on the floor that will run into a crack between the blocks of wood. The story of my marriage is shouting, shattered china, cracked glass and puddles of tears.

      I swipe other tears away with the heel of a shaking palm. But tears trickle from my nose. I wipe them on the back of my hand. ‘He doesn’t love me. None of them do.’

      ‘The children do.’

      ‘No. They hate me. They blame me because he does.’

      ‘The children love you. Shall we come over to see you? Would that calm the argument?’

      ‘Do you think he’ll leave? Do you think he’ll take the children?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘He can’t stand to be in a room with me.’ Our marriage is cracked down the middle, as if the earth between us has been torn open in an earthquake and his position is on the other side of the ravine, with a glowering expression of judgement. I have tried to reach out. But I can’t reach him. He has other women because I do not want him to touch me like that. But I still want to be hugged sometimes. Those moments never happen. He doesn’t even kiss my cheek.

      ‘We’ll come and talk to him.’

      ‘Mum, you can’t. It will cause more trouble.’

      ‘I can’t leave you this upset. We’ll be there in twenty minutes.’

      At least if they came they would be here for the children.

      His parents have gone out for the day. They turn their backs on our rows.

      ‘All

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