The Girl You Left Behind

man’s eyes mirroring his own. There
     is an explosion as everything fragments.
    And then there is nothing.

1
2009
    There are 158 footsteps between the bus
     stop and home, but it can stretch to 180 if you aren’t in a hurry, like maybe if
     you’re wearing platform shoes. Or shoes you bought from a charity shop that have
     butterflies on the toes but never quite grip the heel at the back, thereby explaining
     why they were a knock-down £1.99. I turned the corner into our street (68 steps), and
     could just see the house – a four-bedroomed semi in a row of other three- and
     four-bedroomed semis. Dad’s car was outside, which meant he had not yet left for
     work.
    Behind me, the sun was setting behind
     Stortfold Castle, its dark shadow sliding down the hill like melting wax to overtake me.
     When I was a child we used to make our elongated shadows have gun battles, our street
     the O. K. Corral. On a different sort of day, I could have told you all the things that
     had happened to me on this route: where Dad taught me to ride a bike without
     stabilizers; where Mrs Doherty with the lopsided wig used to make us Welsh cakes; where
     Treena stuck her hand into a hedge when she was eleven and disturbed a wasp’s nest
     and we ran screaming all the way back to the castle.
    Thomas’s tricycle was upturned on the
     path and, closing the gate behind me, I dragged it under the porch andopened the door. The warmth hit me with the force of an air bag; Mum is a martyr to
     the cold and keeps the heating on all year round. Dad is always opening windows,
     complaining that she’d bankrupt the lot of us. He says our heating bills are
     larger than the GDP of a small African country.
    ‘That you, love?’
    ‘Yup.’ I hung my jacket on the
     peg, where it fought for space amongst the others.
    ‘Which you? Lou? Treena?’
    ‘Lou.’
    I peered round the living-room door. Dad was
     face down on the sofa, his arm thrust deep between the cushions, as if they had
     swallowed his limb whole. Thomas, my five-year-old nephew, was on his haunches, watching
     him intently.
    ‘Lego.’ Dad turned his face
     towards me, puce from exertion. ‘Why they have to make the damned pieces so small
     I don’t know. Have you seen Obi-Wan Kenobi’s left arm?’
    ‘It was on top of the DVD player. I
     think he swapped Obi’s arms with Indiana Jones’s.’
    ‘Well, apparently now Obi can’t
     possibly have beige arms. We have to have the black arms.’
    ‘I wouldn’t worry. Doesn’t
     Darth Vader chop his arm off in episode two?’ I pointed at my cheek so that Thomas
     would kiss it. ‘Where’s Mum?’
    ‘Upstairs. How about that? A two-pound
     piece!’
    I looked up, just able to hear the familiar
     creak of the ironing board. Josie Clark, my mother, never sat down. It was a point of
     honour. She had been known to stand onan outside ladder painting the
     windows, occasionally pausing to wave, while the rest of us ate a roast dinner.
    ‘Will you have a go at finding this
     bloody arm for me? He’s had me looking for half an hour and I’ve got to get
     ready for work.’
    ‘Are you on nights?’
    ‘Yeah. It’s half
     five.’
    I glanced at the clock. ‘Actually,
     it’s half four.’
    He extracted his arm from the cushions and
     squinted at his watch. ‘Then what are you doing home so early?’
    I shook my head vaguely, as if I might have
     misunderstood the question, and walked into the kitchen.
    Granddad was sitting in his chair by the
     kitchen window, studying a sudoku. The health visitor had told us it would be good for
     his concentration, help his focus after the strokes. I suspected I was the only one to
     notice he simply filled out all the boxes with whatever number came to mind.
    ‘Hey, Granddad.’
    He looked up and smiled.
    ‘You want a cup of tea?’
    He shook his head, and partially opened his
     mouth.
    ‘Cold drink?’
    He nodded.
    I opened the fridge door.
     ‘There’s no apple juice.’ Apple juice, I remembered now, was too
     expensive. ‘Ribena?’
    He shook his head.
    ‘Water?’
    He nodded, murmured something that could
     have been a thank you as I handed him the glass.
    My mother walked into the room, bearing a
     huge basketof neatly folded laundry. ‘Are these yours?’ She
     brandished a pair of socks.
    ‘Treena’s, I think.’
    ‘I thought so. Odd colour. I think
     they must have got in with Daddy’s plum pyjamas. You’re back early. Are you
     going somewhere?’
    ‘No.’ I