Who Did You Tell? by Lesley Kara

Author:Lesley Kara [Kara, Lesley]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781473559455
Publisher: Transworld
Published: 2019-12-05T00:00:00+00:00

26

I stand in front of the easel and stare at the blank canvas. I doubt I’ll be able to keep my hand steady enough to hold the brush, let alone do anything creative with it.

Josh places his hands on my shoulders and kisses the nape of my neck. I lean back into him, glad of the solidity of his warm body against mine. At least I’m safe when I’m here.

‘Dad’s going out later,’ he says. ‘We can have one of our long coffee breaks.’ His tongue flicks my earlobe and sends shivers up my spine. ‘Without the coffee.’

I turn round and fling my arms round his neck, kiss him long and hard on the mouth. Whatever nasty little game this girl is playing, she’s not going to spoil this for me. She’s not going to win. I won’t let her. I’m finally sorting myself out and building bridges with Mum, falling in love again, painting. Whatever I’ve done in the past, that part of my life is over. I’m not that person any more.

The hours pass. Somehow or other, I manage to still my mind for short bursts of time, long enough to play around a little with the composition, to define the darker areas with a bluish grey. I can’t trust myself to do anything that requires more prolonged focus. And yet, as I stand before the easel, the finished picture spreads out in my mind. Even with no added colour, no detail whatsoever, the image is already there, waiting to emerge.

But now more images superimpose themselves over the canvas. A nightmarish montage that unfolds before me even when I screw my eyes tight shut. A crumpled body on the pavement. A child’s face, contorted with panic. Blood on my sleeve.

I back away from the easel, almost tripping on a ruck in the dust sheet that Richard has spread on the floor. Righting myself by flinging a hand out to the wall, I run out of the room and into the downstairs cloakroom, lock myself in and perch on the edge of the closed toilet lid, elbows on my knees, hands clasped between my legs. My mind swings wildly from one incoherent memory to another, but nothing makes any sense. Just when I think I’ve nailed something down, something that will make sense of it all, it slips away again.

I try to slow the rhythm of my breath, holding lungfuls of air for as long as possible then exhaling slowly through my nose, till at last the panic subsides and I feel strong enough to stand up. I run the cold tap in the little sink and splash my face. I hardly recognize my reflection in the mirror. The pale, pinched face. The puffy eyes.

Above my head comes the sound of footsteps. The cloakroom has been installed into the space under the stairs, so the vibrations follow the slope of the ceiling. I’ve no idea how long I’ve been holed up in here. It could be ten minutes; it could be twenty.

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