Free The Way Out by Vicki Jarrett Page A

drew one out. The metal was cool and silky against my palm. The bright sunlight, which danced with such sparkling enthusiasm over every reflective surface in the room, seemed to stop short of the knife. It pulled in close, drawn magnetically, but then hovered uncertainly a hair’s breadth above the surface of the blade in a languid rippling movement, without making contact. The knife, although I held it firmly in my hand, was somehow unreachable, submerged in some other reality. I pressed the flat edge of the blade against the pad of my thumb. The skin bulged slightly. A slender white margin appeared between the metal and the raised whorls of my thumbprint. I pressed harder and the contrast between thumb, pressure-line and metal became more pronounced. Within the white border region, the spiralling ridges of identity became invisible. I pressed harder still. I don’t know what I was hoping for but I felt sure there was some kind of answer to be had there.
    When the pressure released, it did so with a sudden spray of blood that seemed to leap from my hand as though it had been straining to escape all along. There was so much of it so quickly, I could taste the dark, salty tang of it in the air. The knife clattered to the floor and the sudden noise focussed my attention back on where I was. In someone else’s kitchen. Bleeding all over it.
    I tucked my thumb into my fist but heavy beads still leaked through my fingers and splashed onto the worktop, the floor, down the fronts of the units. I grabbed a dishcloth and boundone end tightly around my thumb until I could feel my pulse beating within the cloth, then wrapped the rest around thumb and fist together.
    It took me a moment to realise that the high-pitched wailing now filling the room was not coming from me.
    â€˜Come on, you. Let’s get you cleaned up.’ A female voice from the hall, raised above the gulping sobs of a child. The front door slammed. Perhaps it was only because I didn’t move a single muscle, did not even blink, that they both passed by the kitchen without looking in. I recognised the woman from the photographs. I didn’t get a good look at the child but the muddy, tear-streaked boy must have been her son. They carried on upstairs, the child’s sobs subsiding into whimpers, the woman’s voice a steady stream of reassurance.
    The kitchen looked like the scene of some horrible crime. I left. I had to.
    Derek and Joe were both sitting on the bonnet, smoking and talking. I heard Derek laugh his machine laugh. I stuffed my hand, dishcloth and all into my pocket.
    â€˜Here she is!’ he called out as I approached. He rubbed his hands together and reached out for my clipboard.
    Surprised to find that I did indeed have it, clasped in my free hand, I gave it over and watched him rifle through the unmarked referral forms.
    â€˜You’re supposed to bring the signed copies back to me,’ he said, frowning.
    â€˜I didn’t get any.’
    â€˜What?’ Derek exhaled noisily through his nose. ‘Not a single one? Really?’
    â€˜Sorry. I don’t think I’m much good at this,’ I mumbled.
    â€˜Well, that’s that then. Sorry, sweetheart, we don’t do secondchances. I’ll give you a lift back into town.’
    I stood there staring at him, dazed.
    Derek gestured impatiently for me to get in the car. ‘Come on. Take it or leave it.’
    Back home, I drop my keys onto the table. The noise is immediately swallowed by the hungry silence. It prowls towards me – is that all you’ve got? For what feels like a long time, we circle each other, weighing up strengths and weaknesses, unsure who will win if it comes to a fight.
    It’s not what they take…
    The dishcloth wrapped around my left hand is soaked all the way through and inside it’s pulsing heavily as if I’m holding my own heart clenched in my fist.
    The tension is finally shattered by the smallest of