Ripple effect, p.2
Ripple Effect, page 2
Eventually, the trail opens out into a clearing strewn with empty bottles and cans – the local kids resorting to drinking in the middle of the woods to flout their parents and escape the boredom of living in a small town. Bursts of bright green leaves pierce the otherwise dull browns left by the passing autumn, rare but welcome, and I allow the tranquillity of nature to wash over me, trying to push everything else out of my mind.
A bird interrupts the silence, its song startling me from overhead. A robin – its red breast standing out amongst the barren landscape. I listen to it singing, its voice carrying through the trees. A memory comes to me, vivid and unexpected: I’m watching a robin hop around in our garden, so close I can almost touch it. My dad is smiling. He’s happy. ‘The robin is special, Erin. He’s one of the few birds to sing all year round.’
I am so lost in this moment of simple happiness – lost in the love I feel for my dad – that I don’t hear footsteps from behind, ones catching up with my own. I don’t hear him until after I feel the warmth of him; his breath, his body, the stench of smoke and sweat. Before I know what’s happening I realise I’m on the floor, shouting and flailing my arms and legs, trying to get him off me.
“Be quiet,” he says. “I won’t hurt you if you’re quiet.” His voice is low and hoarse, a stark contrast to the high-pitched singing of the robin. He pins my arms down with his hands while he straddles me. I try to use my legs to kick at him, but it doesn’t work – the angle is wrong, my hips too immobile under his weight. I try to twist and turn my back against the floor to unbalance him, but he is too strong. He has size on his side. “Be quiet,” he repeats. “I don’t want to have to hurt you.”
I feel like I am being slowly compressed, the air being forced out of me, my life being extinguished. I fight against it, gulping at the air and thrashing around hopelessly.
“You’re pissing me off now,” he spits. “I have a knife, I don’t want to have to use it.” He’s speaking in an urgent whisper, forcing an unnatural quietness to words that should be shouted. I hear them but my body is acting independent of thought – I am no longer in control, instinct has taken over. I hear myself shouting but I can’t work out what I’m saying and I wonder if I’m having an out-of-body experience, my soul escaping the horror that I’m being subjected to. I make the terrifying conclusion that I’m dying. What a tragic end to a tragic life.
The sense of unfairness overwhelms me and I begin to cry, a childlike sob, guttural and all encompassing. But my tears are not for this man, they do not belong to him. I want to shout and tell him that he is not allowed my tears, they belong to regrets in my own life – if you can call it that. A half life, maybe. A life unlived. An avoided life.
He puts his gloved hand over my mouth with force and I realise I’ve stopped moving, my legs are still and my eyes are closed. I don’t remember closing them, and I don’t remember deciding to stop fighting. The man takes this as a sign that I have given up – decided to comply – but I realise that isn’t the case. I’m waiting for my moment.
“I’m going to tie your hands together. Be a good girl and it’ll soon be over.” He lets go of one of my arms briefly while moving my wrists together and I take the opportunity to lash out at his face and lurch to one side; some primal survival instinct I didn’t know I had taking over. He loses his grip, the shock unbalancing him, and I’m able to flip over onto all fours. My adrenaline is pumping and I try to use it to my advantage, leaping to my feet ready to make my escape.
The punch catches me off guard. His fist comes from my right and connects with my face with such force that I’m propelled backwards and into the base of a tree, my head smashing into a cold, hard root protruding awkwardly from the ground. “Bitch,” he snarls, his voice louder, hatred tinging his words.
This time I don’t try to get up; I can’t, my head is spinning and my ears are ringing, the world suddenly unstable.
“You shouldn’t have done that.” He’s scowling, discoloured teeth visible through gaps in his black balaclava. He’s on his feet, looking down at me through squinting eyes – cruel eyes that have begun to lose their colour, the blue diluted by milky streaks, all brightness fading to grey. He stands so large above me that it seems there is nothing else, just this man and the threat of what he is about to do to me; all goodness and hope in the world has been replaced only by this man.
“I didn’t want to have to hurt you,” he says, then he kicks my side with such force I feel my body momentarily leave the ground.
The pain makes me retch and I feel myself at a tipping point, a choice between pain and unconsciousness. I try to choose pain, to resist the temptation of blacking out, clinging instead to this hell I have unwillingly run into, but it takes a huge amount of effort. I’m crying again, loud primal sobs.
“Quiet,” he growls, saliva clinging to his lips. But I can’t, no matter how much I fear him or how much I believe he will hurt me, I’m unable to stop. I close my eyes and sob into the void, hoping my cries are carried like the song of the birds. I try to go to a place in my mind where I can pretend this isn’t happening, a safe place no one else can reach, but it’s inaccessible, no matter how much I need it. He’s pulling at my leggings, his breathing fast and shallow, his eyes full of hunger.
Then I hear something out of place. I can’t align it with the situation, it feels almost otherworldly. A dog barking and then a voice. A man’s voice, but not this man’s. I wonder for a second whether I’m imagining it or whether I have blacked out and slipped into a dream. I listen for the welcoming sounds of the waves, but then I hear it again, closer this time; definitely a man’s voice. Hope rises cautiously in my heart, beating wildly against the agonising pain in my side.
The man above me looks startled, he’s heard it too and he’s panicking. I see a rush of golden white and suddenly a dog appears. He’s barking at the man, relentless barks which echo between the trees. The man seems to be frozen in indecision as he tries to work out what to do. Then he makes up his mind; he jumps to his feet and runs through the woods, clumsily dodging the low-hanging branches, further and further out of sight until he is gone.
I try to focus on what he’s left behind, forcing myself into the present. My ribs ache with a ferocity I haven’t experienced before, it consumes my mind and overshadows the dull throbbing coming from my head. The pain comes in waves, gaining and receding in intensity, but never disappearing. Then without warning a sudden, violent urge to be sick takes hold and I retch, my body no longer able to hold onto the contents of my stomach. I wipe my mouth on my sleeve.
I’m aware of a presence drawing closer as I try to stand, wincing at the pain and pulling my hands instinctively to the source. The man approaches me cautiously – I’m not sure whether he’s scared of me or whether he is worried that I’ll be scared of him. Maybe both. But I’m not scared of him. I know he’s not the man who attacked me, the man in the balaclava and gloves who smelled of cigarettes and sweat. This man has come to help.
3
Now
“Are you okay?”
He appears concerned, looking first at me then over my shoulder, checking for signs of anyone else lurking nearby. I don’t respond. I can’t – I’m in shock, shivering from the adrenaline and the cold. Am I okay? I’m aware of the dog sniffing around at my ankles and wagging its tail.
“Here, boy,” the man shouts with a whistle. The dog responds, moving away to stand obediently at his master’s side. They’re both watching me. The man gets his phone out of his pocket.
“Do you want me to call the police?”
“No. No thank you, I’m okay,” I lie.
“You don’t look okay, you’re bleeding.” He gestures to my head then plunges his hands into his pockets and rummages around. He pulls out some tissue and hands it to me. I take it, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with it – I don’t know where exactly I’m bleeding.
“For your head,” he says, touching his own head at his hairline.
I hold it to my forehead then pull it away, looking at the blood it has found. We stand in silence for a moment, concern etched on this stranger’s face.
“I really think you need the police here,” he tries again. “Do you know who that was? Did you recognise him?”
“I don’t need the police.” Memories of long ago, vivid and intense, swarm my mind and threaten to overwhelm me. I slow my breathing down and fight against the feeling of impending doom. The weight of the past is always lingering, threatening to suffocate me.
“Okay,” he relents. “What about an ambulance? Or the hospital?”
I attempt to think clearly but the more I try to force logical thoughts the harder they become to grasp, the pain pushing everything further and further away and distorting whatever is left. I touch my fingers to my head. The wound feels superficial. “I don’t need the hospital. It’s just a cut.”
“Is there someone you could call at least?”
I think of John in America. He wouldn’t come home – an unavoidable truth that hits me with unexpected sadness. “No, I don’t need to call anyone.”
“I can’t just leave you here. Let me at least walk you home, or to a safe place, and then you can decide what to do.”
I want to tell him this was a safe place, now tainted by one man spreading his evil and leaving a trail in his wake. There are no unsafe places, just unsafe people polluting the world around them. I realise I’m nodding, accepting the suggestion of this stranger, but I feel unable to move. He takes a step towards me, the dog at his side, and places a hand on my shoulder to gently guide me forward.
“Come on,” he says. “I’m Nick, and this,” he gestures to his dog, “is Bear. He heard you shouting and bolted.” He’s guiding me slowly back to the footpath, a gentle pressure with solid intentions – good intentions, I think. “He never runs away so I knew something was wrong. Watch your step.” He points to a thick tree root protruding from the ground. “Do you live nearby?”
“Yes,” I reply, but I don’t elaborate. I feel as though I’m in a dream, my eyes transfixed on a spot in the distance. I’m shaking, a relentless tremble throughout my body, my teeth rattling against one another. I don’t know which is worse; the cold or the shock. The man, Nick, stops and removes his coat as though he’s read my mind.
“You must be cold. Were you out for a run? Here.” He holds out his coat to me and I reluctantly slide one arm inside. “You need to warm up.”
When I try to put my left arm in I almost double over in agony, the motion of lifting my arm causing the pain to shoot through my ribs.
“Where does it hurt?” he asks.
“My ribs.” I’m slowly getting the coat on properly, the warmth from his body transferring with it. I look at Nick, stood in just a hoody, jeans and hat. It’s barely above freezing. Somewhere, a thought occurs to me that he must be cold and the selflessness of this simple gesture makes my eyes sting.
“You really need to go to the hospital. I can take you if you want? You might have broken them.”
“I think they’re just bruised,” I lie. The pain is excruciating. We walk in silence for a few minutes and I get the feeling that he’s weighing up his options, deciding how far his good intentions should stretch.
“What’s your name?” he asks eventually.
I consider lying – my usual urge to remain invisible bubbling beneath the surface – but I don’t, I owe him the truth. “Erin.”
“Erin.” He pauses. “Where do you live? Are you local?” When I don’t reply, he tries again. “Look, I want to help you get home safely, but I can’t do that if I don’t know where we’re going.”
“Park View,” I tell him.
I feel him glance at me, a shift in his perception – an affluent area, familiar to the locals. “Do you live alone?”
“No,” I reply, but I don’t say any more and he doesn’t ask.
We walk slowly through the woods, weaving our way around the unmarked trail, Nick’s hand connecting with my back every now and again, a reminder that he’s still there.
When we eventually leave the thick canopy of trees I’m hit by an overwhelming rush of relief. I feel as though I’ve been holding my breath, compressed by the constricting grip of the woodland, and now I’m out I can finally breathe. I suck in the air, filling my lungs.
The sun has risen above the treeline, continuing its journey despite my distress. A cluster of blackbirds fly low overhead, the pale contrails of an ascending aeroplane visible in the distance. Life carrying on, regardless.
Nick looks over at me and I can see he’s checking the wound on my head. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.” I realise I’m still holding the bloodstained tissue and I press it to my head again as if proving a point – the bleeding has stopped.
“The guy,” he says cautiously, “did you get a good look at him?”
I shake my head. “No. He had a balaclava on. He was white. Blue eyes. Not young, not old. That’s about it.”
“That’s something,” he says encouragingly, “you know, if you report it to the police – which I think you should.” He bends to pick up a stick and hurls it into the open space in front of us. Bear gives chase but doesn’t bring it back. Instead, he lies down and begins chewing it into small pieces. Nick and I walk on across the park, Bear occasionally coming over to my side.
As we reach the gates I have to stop, the pain threatening to overwhelm me; I feel nauseous, the sharp stabbing sensation radiating through my ribs every time I breathe. Nick puts Bear on the lead, his attention diverted for a second. When he looks at me again his expression changes. “You’re really pale.”
I feel dizzy and I’m worried I’m going to faint, my vision blurring and the ground beneath me suddenly feeling unstable. I hold onto the cold iron bars of the gates, clinging to their strength and sturdiness. I look over at Nick and notice he’s got his phone out. “No, don’t. I just… I just need some help getting home. Please.” I feel guilty for putting him in this position, for asking for more when he’s already done enough. I think of the walk to my house, the steady uphill climb – the thought of it feels daunting.
Nick sighs. “My place is on the corner.” He points towards town then scratches his head over his hat. He seems to be debating whether he should continue. “I have a studio on the high street and I live upstairs,” he explains.
I try to work out whether this is an invite but before I can say anything he adds, “Why don’t you come back with me, I’ll make you a drink, get you some painkillers, then I can drive you home. Save you walking up there.” He gestures to the long uphill road stretched out to his right. “And if you change your mind at any point,” he holds his phone up to me, “we can call someone.”
I nod, relief washing over me. The high street is a few hundred metres away, I can manage that. Nick no longer hovers behind me, he links his arm underneath mine and wraps it around my back. He feels solid – strong – and I allow myself to weaken in his grip.
4
Now
“This is me,” Nick says, carefully letting go of me and pulling a bunch of keys out of his pocket. His studio is a classy-looking place on the corner of town, I must have walked past it countless times before but never really registered it. The sign says ‘Nick Kerr’ in black against a plain white background. Underneath, the tag line says ‘Commercial Photography Studio’. He unlocks the door and stands back to let me in. “After you,” he says.
Inside is one long rectangular room with a door at the back. Everywhere is white with flashes of dark blue and yellow. There are shelves full of carefully labelled files against the wall on my right, and to the back of the room boxes are stacked neatly into a storage unit. The rest of the room comprises of a couple of desks full of lots of screens, a dark-blue sofa with yellow cushions and a bright, white corner which looks almost clinical, cameras on tripods pointing towards it. Nick heads to the door at the back of the room.
“I’ve got to take Bear upstairs. Sit down and I’ll bring you a drink.”
I do as he says and lower myself carefully onto the sofa. The pain sears through my side but eases slightly once I sit back. I use a pillow to prop myself up and for the first time I notice other injuries. My left hand is cut from my forefinger to my wrist. The blood has dried but it looks red and swollen. I’m also aware of the cut on my head, as well as a throbbing around my temple and the side of my face.
I listen for Nick upstairs but I can’t hear him. The occasional car or pedestrian passes outside but it’s still relatively quiet in town. After a few minutes I hear footsteps on the stairs then the door quietly swing on its hinges. Nick walks in carrying two large mugs.
“Here you go.” He hands me a yellow one. “I went a bit mad with the sugar.”
“Thank you.” I take the mug from him, trying to move my left side as little as possible.
“Here, take these.” He hands me a packet of paracetamols. “Sorry I don’t have anything stronger.”
I pop two out and swallow them down with the tea. The warmth soothes me and I wrap my hands around the mug to take it all in. Nick grabs a chair from one of the desks and wheels it over to the sofa, positioning himself in front of me. He gulps at his drink and I realise he has taken his hat off. His hair is darker than I’d expected, almost black with a few strands of grey around his temples. In the distance I can hear the dustbin lorry making its weekly trip down the narrow cobbled street, the sound of bins being loaded and unloaded, the shrill beeping growing slowly closer. The cut on my hand stings and I notice fresh blood trickling out. Nick notices too and quickly gets up again.
