Just an Ordinary Girl

15 -The Removal Men

My father took a while to arrive home. I often wondered later if he took his time on purpose, not wanting to deal with the inevitable chaos he would face. In truth, who could blame him; let's face it, if most of us could put off dealing with disasters a little longer, wouldn't we too?

He took a long time to get home. It was way past dinner time that the heavy knock at the door summoned us to his arrival. The door opened to my father's sullen face and a whiff of whiskey. The street lights had a hazy glow, the air was cold and the night was black. He said little as he took my hand and we walked to our front door.

The door to number 5 was ajar. The house was pitch black and unwelcoming.

As we searched for my mother, I hid behind my father, a pace behind but she was nowhere to be found.

It was very late. By the time we had searched the local roads, our garden and home. My father looked broken as he sat on the red kitchen chair, nursing a glass of something.

I yawned, my body could take no more. A sharp blast of wind rushed in and slammed the front door shut that we had forgotten to close and roused us out of tiredness. My father told me to go to bed. I shook my head uneasy, unsure, if my mother had slipped into the house.

He bundled me into his arms, taking me up the stairs. "Don't worry little one, I'm make sure she isn't upstairs."

I nodded, clasping my fingers around his neck, pulling tighter. My eyes, just rising above his shoulder. Watching but hiding.

Even after he tucked me into bed, I found it impossible to rest. Fitfully I slept somewhat, until I heard the shouting.

It was cold. I grabbed my dressing gown and peered cautiously over the bannister. My father was sobbing, sat like a child on the bottom step. Blood was oozing from his hands. I felt my heart beat against my chest. It was so loud, it banged in my ears.

"Dad, what's wrong?" I whisphered.

My father didn't answer. Slowly, I walked down the stairs.

A gasp escaped my throat, as I saw his hands.

"You need to phone the Police. Do you understand? And tell them to send a doctor too. Tell them. Please. I need to find her. Can you do this? "

I nodded terrified to make a grown up call. Frightened she might come back.

My fingers shook as I turned the dial and my voice quivered whilst endeavouring to make myself understood by the Police. It took several phone calls before I succeeded. The operator insisting I stay connected. When they arrived at number 5, they had to remove the phone out of my hands. My hands trembled at the thought of letting it go, I held it so tight it was miracle I didn't break it.

The house filled with people. I sat on the stairs, where my father had sat with his bloodied hands earlier, watching the circus unfold before me.

Police, doctors, ambulance staff, social workers, people I didn't know, all danced around our house, as doors opened and shut. Someone dressed my father's wounds before someone shouted, "she's here."

The sea of people, moved to the back of the house and I followed, curious to what was happening. They walked and then they stopped. Transfixed. My mother was dancing, spinning around in an evening dress. Then she stopped. A cry of anguish came from her lips. It burned into my heart. She collapsed and fell to the ground, then rolled around on the lawn.

Eventually, two of the police officers took it upon themselves to get my mother back into the house. They underestimated her. It took four officers to handle her. She appeared to have gained superhero strength from somewhere. I could see the fear in their eyes. This was something they were not use to dealing with. As they managed to maneovre my mother into the house, I moved away and edged back up the stairs, keeping my vantage point on the landing. Hidden but watching.

The officials danced from one room to the next. Clip boards,black cases, followed the people.

My mother screamed. A black case slammed shut. Then my mother's eye closed and she lay unmoving as they removed her on a stretcher from the house into the ambulance.

A sea of nodding heads congregated by the door. A flurry of clipboards and notepads swam amongst them.

In little waves, officialdom excited our home and an odd quietness filled the space.

My father and I looked at each other. There was nothing more to say. A warm calmness filled the room as my father put the kettle on. He pulled the toaster out of the cupboard and in a familar routine I grabbed the toast and marmalade.

The sun was rising. A new day dawned.

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Many thanks, Kimberley S B Lieb