Free Coming Home by Annabel Kantaria

in the bath—a pool party that Graham had gatecrashed with his Action Man; ‘Rosie’—a pretty little doll Mum had bought me to keep me occupied on my first ever flight, aged six.
    I still remembered that flight; I saw it in snapshots. I’d been wearing a denim skirt that Mum had bought for me—my first denim skirt—and I’d felt so grown up. Graham and I had begged to sit together in the two seats in front of Mumand Dad. Mum had worried what we’d do if there was an emergency, but Dad had pulled rank and Graham and I had spent the flight pretending we were travelling alone as we ordered our apple juice from the cabin crew. I ran a hand through my hair. While I’d gone on to enjoy plenty more flights, Graham had flown just one more time.
    Perching on a beam, I put Rosie carefully back and picked out the other dolls in turn, unwrapping them from the crumbling pages of the local paper in which they’d been cocooned. Carefully, I moved their arms and legs, touched their shiny hair and remembered the contours of their plastic faces. Then I rewrapped them all, one by one, closed the box and pushed it to one side. I’d no idea what to do with them.
    The next box was packed with old books, teddy bears, games and wooden jigsaws that I remembered bickering over with Graham. As I turned the toys in my hands, half-formed memories chased through my mind like beagles on the hunt. At the bottom was an old radio: Dad’s. Wiping the dust from it, I remembered cuddling on his lap while he listened to dreary voices talking about the news. The radio was tarnished now, decades from its prime, but I could still smell Dad on it, the clean scent of his fresh cologne. Sighing, I stood up and pulled my hair into a messy bun: at this rate, it was going to take me days to get through the attic. I’d have to learn be less emotional.
    An hour or so later, I straightened up, pleased with the size of the ‘throw out’ pile I’d managed to make of thingsthat obviously had to go. In the far corner of the attic, a glint of metal caught my eye. Stepping closer, I realised it was Dad’s old bike. The last time I’d seen it was when the police had brought it back from the accident site. Sitting in the living room, Dad and I had heard the rumble of a truck engine outside.
    ‘Delivery for you,’ the driver had said, indicating the two bikes on the back of the truck, one pristine, one a twisted and broken frame. ‘You don’t have to take them. Some people want them … everyone’s different … closure …’ he tailed off.
    Mum had come barrelling down the stairs. ‘What is it?’
    Dad had pointed wordlessly to the truck. The driver shuffled on the doorstep. ‘Well?’
    Mum was silent.
    ‘Yes, please. Unload them,’ said Dad eventually.
    We’d watched as the driver had taken down Dad’s bike first, propping it up by the side wall, then he’d reverently lifted out the mangled remains of Graham’s bike and placed it gently on the gravel.
    I’d watched silently as Dad had signed the delivery papers and the truck had driven away. When we were back in the house, I’d cowered against the dresser as Mum had fallen on Dad, pummelling his chest with her fists and screaming, ‘How
could
you? It’s all your fault!’
    Dad had tried to pull her off, tried to hug her. ‘Carole, please. You’re emotional. Think about it. We’ll bury it with him. What else can we do with it? I refuse to let it go for scrap.’
    What I hadn’t realised was that Dad had kept his ownbike. Somehow, he must have hidden it from Mum; got it up to the attic himself. I brushed dust off the saddle now, and squeezed the brakes. The tyres were flat and the brake pads felt like concrete, but there appeared to be nothing a bit of oil wouldn’t cure; ditto with the chain. It was a nice bike; I remember it had been expensive, one of the first things Dad had treated himself to when his first book was published. Not daring to get onto it in the attic, I stood next to it