And with that, the atom bomb lands, room erupting as she stands, along with almost everyone else. I’m definitely the only person looking at the carpet, neat squares of its pattern puddling into a smudge. Wrapped in a mushroom cloud of pandemonium, it’s only the clutch of Jemima’s hand that bears me up and out down the hall, through the turnstiles and into the rain, hammering down again from the endless sky like the Earth is trying to finally scrub away a stubborn, ancient skin.

102

Carly ~ Warchester ~ 1997

The clock tower chimes ten as I hurry past, clanging round the narrow streets in the centre of town. Even during the week, on a random Wednesday morning in November, it’s busy. Too many people with nothing to do, and a tiny, crowded town centre the only place to pass the time.

I elbow past the gaggle of women pushing buggies in a line just up the road from Claire’s. You can always tell the army wives by the formation they walk in, but Ma can’t even pretend to do that anymore. I fiddle with the pill packet in my pocket as I duck down through the subway at the edge of town. Either I sneak into school at first break and risk getting searched, or I go home and stash them with my Zippo and get a late detention. No choice really, is there?

I can hear Kayleigh’s screams even before I get to the front door. I bolt upstairs to find her thrashing on the floor in piles of filth between the beds in our room, sweaty hair plastered round her head, face as pink as lipstick … I try to pull her into my lap but she’s hot as a bonfire, blue eyes rolling like marbles. Even I’m sweating trying to hold her, she’s so hot, twisting and thrashing in my arms, spit turning into foam at the sides of her mouth…