Scarlett - Cathy Cassidy [40]
‘Shut up!’ I hiss, clamping a hand across her mouth. ‘Dad and Clare will hear! What did you have to move for? Look what you’ve made me do! And I told you it would hurt, didn’t I? I told you!’
A river of thick, red blood pours down over my hand and drips on to the pink quilt. I sprint out to the bathroom and grab a cold, damp flannel and a box of tissues to staunch the flood.
Holly is crying now, little-girl tears, big gasping shudders of pain and shock. I realize with a sick, shaky certainty that nine is not old enough for this. Nor is nineteen, or even ninety.
‘I’m sorry,’ I hiss. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m sorry, OK?’
‘Is – is it meant to b-bleed this much?’ Holly wails, as the blood seeps through the tissue and drips on to her white T-shirt, blooming into a red-rose stain.
‘I don’t know,’ I whisper. ‘I can’t remember. Shut UP, Holls, for goodness’ sake! Please!’
But it’s too late.
‘Holly?’ Clare calls up from the foot of the stairs. ‘Scarlett? Is everything OK?’
‘Everything’s fine,’ I shout back. ‘No problem.’
But Clare is coming up the stairs. I abandon Holly and step out on to the landing, closing the door behind me.
‘Don’t worry, Clare,’ I tell her, blocking the top of the stairs. ‘I yelled, but I’d just banged my toe against the bed in Holly’s room. I’m fine now.’
‘Oh,’ Clare says, ‘I was sure it was Holly I heard…’
‘No, really, Holly’s fine,’ I argue, but there’s a low, shuddering whimper from across the landing and Clare frowns and pushes past me into Holly’s room.
It looks like the scene of a small massacre. Holly is curled up on the bed, sobbing raggedly, her arms locked round her face. All around her, spots of blood litter the quilt and scrunched-up, bloodsoaked tissues lie strewn everywhere.
‘Dear God,’ Clare says. ‘What happened?’
‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘It was an accident – tell her, Holly’
‘Oh, Mum,’ Holly gasps. ‘We used the frozen peas, but it didn’t work and the badge pin slipped and it hurts! It really, really hurts!’
Clare takes Holly through to the bathroom, tilting her head back as she wipes the blood away and holds a clean white towel against the wound to stop the bleeding. ‘Explain,’ Clare says to me.
‘It wasn’t my idea,’ I stall. ‘I told her it was a bad plan.’
‘What was?’ Clare demands.
‘Piercing her nose.’
‘Oh, God,’ Clare says. ‘It wasn’t an accident? She did it herself?’
I look at Clare for a long moment, then I look at Holly, her green eyes wide and scared, her lips trembling. She looks terrified, but I can’t work out whether she’s scared of Clare – or me.
My mouth feels dry and my hands are shaking. I’ve blown it this time, I know. What made me listen to Holly? Messing up your own life, your own body, that’s one thing – but wrecking someone else’s? That takes real talent.
What made me think this could ever, ever be a good idea? I reach out to hold Holly’s hand, but my fingers are sticky, streaked with red. She pulls her hand away.
‘Holly didn’t do this herself,’ I say at last in a quavery voice. ‘I did.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, for the seventy-third time in a row. ‘It was an accident. I didn’t mean to hurt Holly.’
‘Didn’t mean to hurt her?’ Dad flings back, his eyes round with astonishment. ‘An accident? Scarlett, spare me the apologies. You’ve gone too far this time.’
They’re just back from an emergency trip to the doctor’s surgery in Kilimoor, and Holly is huddled at the table, a clumsy dressing taped to her face. Clare sits next to her, tight-lipped, an arm round Holly’s shoulder. Neither of them will look at me.
‘I’m sorry,’ I repeat.
I’ve made tea, got the right mugs, even added two sugars to Dad’s, but nobody seems to notice. I poured milk for Holly, but she doesn’t touch it.
‘Sorry doesn’t even start to cover it,’ Dad snarls. ‘Holly is a little girl. She’s nine, Scarlett. Don’t you have any sense of responsibility?’
I wasn’t much more than nine when Dad packed his bags and moved out, but that didn’t seem to affect his sense of responsibility. I can think of a million angry retorts to spit back, but I bite my tongue.
‘To deliberately puncture her lip