The Memory Game by Sharon Sant Page B

if she hasn’t heard me. ‘Did you bleed a
lot?’ she whispers.
    ‘I think so. It
looked like a lot to me.’
    ‘You can’t even
tell anything happened here,’ she says.
    She drops the
paper bag and pulls her front door key from her pocket.  With her weight
against the old tree that overhangs the ditch, she holds the torch in one hand
and, with her key in the other, slowly makes a series of jagged marks in the
trunk. I watch as it takes shape.
    David
    Around my name
she carves a heart. 
    ‘Thank you,’ I
say. It’s such a tiny phrase for such a massive thing.  
    She turns to me
and smiles as she puts the key away. I think her eyes are shining wet in the
torchlight but I can’t be sure.  ‘Nobody will ever forget now,’ she says.
     
    By the time the last paper has gone
through the last letterbox it’s seven-thirty. 
    ‘I really need
to get home,’ Bethany says.
    ‘Will your dad
be missing you?’
    ‘He’ll be
hungry,’ she says. ‘I should have gone home and cooked first and then come to
do this.’
    ‘Don’t you get
sick of looking after him all the time?’ I ask as we stride back towards her
house.
    ‘It’s just me
and him now.  It doesn’t matter if I get sick of it or not.’
    ‘Don’t you have
any other family?’
    She shrugs. ‘Mum
hadn’t spoken to my grandparents for years, not that I remember them.’
    ‘Were they from
the village?’
    ‘Yes, but they
moved away.’
    ‘People don’t
usually move away from here.’
    ‘I don’t know
what happened, but I think there was a lot of trouble when she married my dad;
they didn’t approve of him and there was a massive bust up. Perhaps that’s what
made them move.’
    ‘What about your
dad? Has he got family?’
    ‘He has some
family, down South.  We see them sometimes, weddings and funerals and
stuff, but Dad doesn’t really like them much.’
    ‘Beth… did your
dad ever…’ She looks at me sharply, as if she knows the next question and
doesn’t want me to ask it.  ‘My mum remarried eventually,’ I say, changing
the subject. ‘Perhaps your dad will. It might get you off the hook a bit.’
    She rubs her arm,
deep in thought. ‘Perhaps.’
    ‘How did your
mum fall down the stairs?’
    ‘I don’t
know.  Clumsy, I suppose.’
    ‘Were you there
when it happened?  Was she dead straightaway?’
    ‘Do you mind if
we don’t talk about it?’ she asks looking ahead and picking up the pace.
     
    We reach her yellow door after
walking the rest of the way in silence. 
    ‘Shall I come
for you tomorrow morning?’ I ask.
    ‘Yeah.’
    I look up at her
house.  There’s just one dim light in the front downstairs window. 
‘Will he give you a really hard time for being late?’  
    ‘Nothing I can’t
handle,’ she smiles, though the smile doesn’t look quite real; it’s not the one
that changes her face when it’s just us, but the one that she wears at school
for the teachers.
    ‘Maybe I could
come in?’ I say. 
    ‘I suppose it’s
lonely on your own all night?’ 
    ‘A bit.’   
    She glances up
at the house and rubs her arm absently before she replies. ‘Don’t come in
tonight.’
    I nod slowly.
‘Ok, I won’t.’
    ‘See you
tomorrow,’ she says and crosses the road to her house. 
    I watch as she
climbs the steps and the front door closes behind her. 
    The road is
quiet, only the muffled sounds of televisions along the row and the snorting of
the horse in the field behind me.  Suddenly, the night air is sliced by a
high pitched squeal. It sounds as though it’s coming from one of the houses.
    I run away so
that I don’t have to hear it again.  
     
    Bethany
hasn’t come out of her house yet this morning.  I think it’s pretty late
but I have no way of knowing. Her green flowery curtains are still closed as
though she’s in bed.  I could go inside, fade through the walls and see,
but it doesn’t seem right to do that when she told me last night not to go
in.  Besides, she might be