Georgia by Lesley Pearse Page B

down the stairs into a squad car, accused of having sex with a minor.
    For three hours they interrogated him. First in an almost jocular ‘all-boys-together’ manner suggesting he had been caught by Mr Anderson with his pants down. But later it turned vicious, with insinuations about Georgia’s character that left Peter bewildered.
    It was only when he discovered Mr Anderson had been stabbed that the hideous truth filtered through. He remembered the way Anderson had been as he left, Georgia’s insistence she would get him to bed before her mother got home. Why had he let her persuade him to leave?
    Maybe it was foolhardy to take a swing at Inspector Forbes, to scream out his anger and frustration at their callous indifference to Georgia’s pain, and stupidity at blaming him. But at that moment he didn’t care if they locked him up forever.
    There was no understanding or sympathy when he got home eight hours later. No concern that his girl had been raped, or even anger that he was being blamed. His father made lewd suggestions. His mother could see no further than Georgia’s colour.
    ‘I’ll never get over the shame,’ she raved. ‘My son mixed up with some wog. I won’t have it Peter. Don’t you dare go near her again.’
    Celia was the only one who shared his outrage. It was her arms he turned to for comfort instead of his own mother’s, and now he hoped together they could bring Georgia out of her silence.
    Peter wriggled in the small cane chair. There was still no movement from Georgia in the bed. She didn’t even look round to watch him.
    ‘I’m not going to give up,’ he said petulantly. ‘I shall just keep on coming until I bore you into telling me to shut my mouth. Day after day, year after year. I’ll tell you what I ate for tea, what I did all day. You are my girl and I’ll keep coming till you tell me to go.’
    He peered at her to see if there was even a flicker of amusement.
    ‘Right, I’ll try the music,’ he said, getting up and making for the door.
    The playroom was much as they’d left it the night of the party. The garlands hanging down, stray balloons and records still littering the floor. Only the food, glasses and plates had been removed.
    He unplugged the record player and sorted through the records, selecting only one.
    Then carrying it back across the landing, he noticed the blood-stain.
    Celia had obviously tried to get it out of the carpet, but still it stayed, dark and menacing against the pale, flowery design.
    That animal had taken her here, only feet away from the place where Peter had held her in his arms earlier. Rage washed over him, his hands shook and he could understand only too well why Georgia had got the knife.
    Taking a deep breath he pushed his way back into Georgia’s room.
    The record crashed down from the spigot, the arm moved across and for a second there was only a scratching noise.
    ‘How did I exist until I kissed ya. Oh, you’ve got a way about ya, now I can’t live without ya. Never knew what I missed until I kissed ya.’
    It sounded trite and silly under the circumstances. But they’d played it over and over the night of the party.
    He hummed along with it, wondering what to do next.
    Leaning forward he saw a tear trickling down her cheek.
    ‘I didn’t mean to upset you,’ his hand reached out to touch her, but recoiled almost immediately as he remembered her mother’s warning. ‘It’s just it’s our song isn’t it?’ He was sure she was going to speak now, but still she was silent.
    ‘My feelings haven’t changed,’ he whispered. ‘I love you.’
    It was all he could do to prevent himself from sweeping her up in his arms. He wanted to hold that small crumpled body, breathe life back into that blank face, somehow he was sure the power of touch would succeed where words never could.
    ‘Now I can’t live without you.’ He sang the words softly, then turned away, stumbling to the door.
    Georgia lay staring at the ceiling. The soreness