LITMIR.BIZ

      ‘Come on out. It’s not funny now, Bronwin. Mum said we had to be back by seven. She’ll skin us a-bleedin’-live if we’re late.’ The tall skinny girl shouted loudly in no particular direction before looking down at her bitten nails, peeling off the last of the pink nail varnish as she waited for her sister to come out of her hiding place.

      Exasperated, Kathleen looked up again. It was getting dark, and even though she’d known it was cold before she came out, she’d only put on a thin t-shirt. Better cold than looking frumpy in the brown coat her mum had bought her last week. The thought of bumping into any of the boys from the Stonebridge estate looking like something left over from a jumble sale made her shudder more than the evening chill of the October air.

      Peering into the darkness, she could just make out the dark silhouette of her sister, Bronwin, scuttling about in the thicket of trees, thinking she couldn’t be seen. The girl sighed as she watched. What her sister found so exciting about playing in a stupid park was beyond her. Parks and swings and trees were for babies. And Kathleen certainly wasn’t that.

      There were only four years between them, yet her only sibling seemed so immature next to her. Ever since she was little she’d felt older than her years. And even though she’d just started secondary school, she knew she wasn’t a silly little girl anymore. Not now, anyway. Not now she’d lost her virginity with the boy across the landing. Although it’d lasted less time than it took the kettle to boil, and he’d only just managed to get inside her before he’d exploded, groaning and coming everywhere, it still counted. Counted enough to make her special. For the first time in her life she had something to brag about.

      Kathleen knew she wasn’t pretty like her sister, nor was she clever, and she certainly wasn’t popular. Everything was always a struggle. Everything she felt ashamed of. Even down to the way she dressed. Hand-me-downs from anywhere and anyone. Musty clothes ingrained with the stains and smells of poverty, which brought nothing but ridicule.

      But that was all going to change now. The sense of being a born loser had gone. She was proud of being the first one in her year to do it and envious word had got around the class. Now, the girls wanted to speak to her and the boys didn’t avoid her any longer.

      Looking back towards the trees, Kathleen realised couldn’t see her sister now. She wasn’t worried. This was how it always went. Her younger sister’s idea of a joke. Hiding and making her search her out. Letting her be on the verge of panic before she’d appear, grinning all over her face.

      As she stood waiting, chewing on her nails, Kathleen thought about her mother who was only fourteen years older than her and had decided a long time ago that even though she’d given birth to two girls, she didn’t want the responsibility of caring for them, nor did she want the trouble of loving them; preferring instead to spend her time with any man who’d buy her a drink down the local. Kathleen shook her head in disgust and walked slowly towards the trees, resigned to the fact she was going to spend the next ten minutes searching for her sister in the woods.

      ‘Bron!’ She was getting pissed off now. She’d been looking for over ten minutes. Her arms had already been scratched by the bushes and she was certain something nasty had crawled down her top. She was cross, but she wouldn’t let her sister know she was. They both had enough of their mother being cross at them without her adding to it.

      Kathleen heard a branch snap just ahead. Her eyes darted towards the sound. In the shadow of the night, she saw a dark silhouette a few feet in front of her.

      ‘Bron! Please stop messing, babe. I want to go now.’ There was no reply. She edged forward, feeling the ground as she stepped carefully through the bracken, when suddenly she heard the breaking of another branch. Only this time it was coming from the side of her rather than in front of her.

      Kathleen listened, waiting to hear the stifled giggles of her sister. In the darkness she could hear breathing, but it didn’t sound like Bronwin’s soft breath. This breathing was heavier, and she turned in panic. The next thing she felt was the taste of blood as the stinging blow of something hard landed on her lips.

      She screamed as she felt her top being torn and rough hands pushing her down into the damp cold earth, tugging painfully at her pants, under her skirt.

      As she felt the hands tighten round her neck, her breath becoming short as the life seeped out of her, it was of some small comfort to the girl that the last words she managed to cry were, ‘Run, Bronwin! Run!’

      Six-year-old Bronwin sat in the corner of the tiny room, watching the uniformed police officers milling about. Sitting by her was a plain-looking social worker.

      ‘Bronwin, you really need to tell us what you can remember.’

      ‘I don’t think she’s ready to answer any questions.’ The social worker intervened as the large detective leaned in to question Bronwin. Annoyed with the interruption, the detective snapped back, ‘I think that’s a matter for Bronwin, don’t you?’

      ‘Detective, she’s far too young to know what’s best. She’s had a traumatic

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