Free Unlike a Virgin by Lucy-Anne Holmes Page B

Camilla, after dad, and Ginger, after Ginger Rogers, and I would babysit them and Mum would love them. And when we were together we would be a big, laughing happy family.
    It would be lovely to know there was someone I could talk to about Mum, because I don’t know what to do about her. I haven’t known for ages. It’s become much worse since I left home two years ago. Fifty per cent of me feels guilty that she’s on her own, but then the other half of me knows I have to get on with my life. I can’t fade away in that mausoleum with her. I did it for long enough and I dreamed of the day when I would get out and breathe and live. It would be easier to deal with if she was nicer to me, but she’s not. And I don’t know why. I know she doesn’t hate me, but I’m pretty sure she doesn’t like me. I always get the feeling I’ve done something wrong, but I don’t know what it is.
    This issue with the graveyard will be the biggest falling-out we’ve ever had. How can it not be? She can’t give my dad’s grave to a building company. What’s she on? And how did she get in so much debt? Somehow I’ll have to bail her out. The really infuriating part is that if I’d got that job I would be on much more money and would be in a far better position to help her.
    ‘John Whatever Your Stupid Name Is, I hate you!’ I mutter as I look for somewhere to park. There’s a bus stop outside the chemist, but I’d better not pull in there. In the past, people have commented that I’m anal about driving misdemeanours, but I prefer the term ‘sensible’. One of my most largely exercised rants is against people who park in bus stops, becausethen the bus can’t pull in and has to stop in the middle of the road, thus holding up the traffic. My heart beats faster just thinking about it. Anyway, if I were to park at this bus stop and someone who knew me saw my car there, I’d get proper ribbed, like those ultra pleasure condoms, for weeks after. It’s about two minutes to ten and I need to find somewhere quickly, so I turn off the main road and pull up in the side street.
    ‘OK, bag, money,’ I say, quickly making sure I’ve got everything. I get out of the car and lock it – no one would actually want my car, but I’d be completely lost without it – then throw my keys in my handbag.
    ‘ARGH!’ I scream as something knocks into me. I fall into the car’s bodywork with a crash and someone grunts behind me as my arm is wrenched away from me. I try to turn my head to see who’s attacking me, but as soon as I do I feel someone’s fingers in my hair and then my head is slammed into the car. I feel dizzy, like I’m going to throw up, then suddenly I’m released. I hear running footsteps and look up to see two figures, one swinging my bag as he runs across the road. I take a step forward but my legs buckle as if I’ve never used them before and I fall to ground. As I steady myself I notice a tear drop onto the pavement. I peer at it. It looks so strange. I haven’t cried in years, but as my eyes focus on it I realise it’s not a tear. It’s blood – my blood. I feel my face. There’s a cut at the top of my nose and a big hot bump forming on my forehead.
    Someone’s taken my bag. Yet again I don’t have any money to buy this pill thing. Someone somewhere must be having a laugh. I get up slowly and walk tentatively to thechemist, hopefully they’ll take pity on me and let me use their phone to call the police. I reach the chemist, but a metal grille has been pulled down over the glass frontage. It’s closed.
    ‘
Ferme la porte
,’
I say quietly, which is a bit weird as I didn’t think I could remember any French. There’s a phone box on the corner of the next block and I make my way, unsteadily, towards it, dial 999 and ask for the police. The lady I speak to sounds concerned that I’m on my own and tells me someone will be with me shortly.
    I hope she’s right. I really don’t want to be here alone. The