Free Split Second by Cath Staincliffe Page B

and bathed his hands, lifting each one into the water and letting them soak a few minutes, then running her own fingernail under his to dig out the curls of dried blood. His nails were growing long.
    A libation; the word came to her. Something to do with oils and death and purification. The story of Mary Magdalene weeping on Jesus’ feet and washing them with her tears, wiping them dry with her hair. ‘Opiate of the masses,’ Louise muttered, echoing her grandad. She wasn’t washing the dead.
    She had a hazy memory of her own mum sharing a bath with her. Four or five she must have been, and the bubbles filled the tub. Her mum scooping up handfuls and sculpting a crown on her own head, then Louise’s. And singing. The memory never got any clearer. There was no one to ask about it; they were all gone.
    She changed the water once again, got a fresh cloth. Finally, very gently, she cleaned his face, stroking between the bruises, around his mouth, his chin, up along the edges of the bandage. ‘You’ll do,’ she whispered. And kissed him. Oh Luke, she thought, if love could bring you back, you’d be running round the ward, spinning breaks, turning cartwheels. Crowing with joy. And so would I.
Emma
    Emma’s skin felt sticky, clammy, and her heart kept missing a beat, like it was tripping and losing its rhythm. She’d felt like that when she had the interview for the job, and each time she had her six-monthly review. It wasn’t as bad as talking in front of lots of people, but it was still gruelling. And the worst thing was when her brain just seized up so she couldn’t even find the right words.
    Her throat was sore too, tickly, and she thought she was coming down with something.
    The man interviewing her was very nice. He said it must have been traumatic for her to see the incident on the bus and then to learn what had happened. He thanked her for getting in touch and then he asked her to talk him through her journey home that day, starting with leaving work. What time had that been? Did she always get the same bus?
    Emma explained, and described where the bus had got to when the three chavs got on. Except she said ‘the three of them’, not wanting to sound rude. He asked her lots of questions about who said what, were those the actual words? Then it dawned on Emma that they must have the CCTV of it all but without any sound. They could see who did what but not who said what.
    The man got even more interested when she told him about the names they’d called Luke, the racist stuff, and again when they’d made threats about the knife. Who did they say had a knife? Was she sure? Did she see any knife?
    It was clear in her head, like a film trailer, but as she remembered it all, she also caught the cold, sick feeling inside. Frozen, not wanting to do anything and look stupid, just wanting it to stop.
    ‘It was really, really scary,’ she said, needing to explain. ‘No one knew what to do. They were so horrible,’ she said, ‘really aggressive.’
    The man nodded as he wrote.
    ‘Then Jason came downstairs.’ Saying his name like she knew him, had some connection. But he was just a stranger on a bus. She described the scuffle, felt herself blush, flames in her cheeks as she repeated the swear words. And she described the chase along the pavement. She had to say it in little short bits because she felt like crying. She felt small then, and wrong, and she wanted him to go.
    He read back what she’d said and asked her to sign that it was a true record. He told her she might need to give evidence in court. God, no! It was bad enough telling him just sitting in her own place; it would be ten times worse in front of a load of strangers.
    The officer got a diagram out, a plan of the bus, explaining it was the exact same layout as the bus Emma had been on. He had some small Post-it notes too. He asked her to write on the notes all the different passengers so he could see where everyone had been. Emma quite liked doing