Until, out of the darkness of the night, steps Tom.

The first thing I feel is a dull sensation in my abdomen.

My body crumples, unable to take the weight, and I land on my back in the wet leaves with a thud.

The dull sensation in my abdomen becomes a fierce, fiery pain.

The warm blood trickles around my sides, tickling them, as it pools around my back.

I hear other noises. Shouting. Angry voices.

Get down on the floor! Drop the knife!

Tom’s eyes meet mine as mine meet darkness.

57

Saturday 22 February

The bright light burns my eyes and I squint and fight against opening them, but there’s just enough detail coming through to know I’m not at home in my bed.

My throat feels swollen. No, not swollen. Odd. Like I can’t swallow. Like there’s something there. My stomach feels like it’s been torn open. My legs are tight and fiery. The thirst is unreal. I need water.

Bright lights.

‘Grace?’

A voice. One I recognise. It’s my dad.

‘I’ll fetch the nurse.’

Mum.

I fade back out again, back to replaying memories of childhood, stretched out on the living room floor, playing with Lego. It feels like I’m there for an age. An entire childhood. But then I’m yanked back to the bright lights.

‘You’re alright, Grace.’ I don’t know this voice. It’s male. Youngish. American. ‘Grace, you’re at the General. There’s no need to be alarmed, because you’re doing great.’ Not American. Canadian. ‘We’re just going to run a few tests on you, okay? Try not to move for us. You’ve just had a major operation, which went really well, but we need to check a few things now that you’re awake.’

I try to nod, but can’t. Groan, but that’s not happening either.

The nurse runs his tests, pokes and prods me, then removes the tube from my throat. The first time I swallow, it feels as if my oesophagus has stuck together, and I desperately sip at the water they’ve given me, slurping at the straw like a woman possessed.

The nurse leaves the room, leaving me with Mum and Dad.

‘How do you feel?’ Mum asks me.

I can’t answer that question in fewer than five thousand words, so I settle for ‘Shit’.

‘We’re just so glad you made it through,’ she says. ‘There were moments when they thought you wouldn’t. You lost a lot of blood.’

‘Five pints,’ Dad says. ‘Hope they don’t charge you for it. That’d set you back twenty quid at the Fox and Badger.’

I hear the distinctive sound of Mum slapping Dad’s wrist.

‘What do you remember?’ she asks me.

‘Not a lot. Tom. Running. Falling.’

‘Little shit stabbed you,’ Dad says. ‘In the belly. He was trying to finish you off when the coppers turned up. Bloody good job they did, too. You’d be brown bread otherwise.’

‘I think that’s his way of saying he loves you,’ Mum adds.

‘Okay to come in?’ another voice says. McKenna.