Page 62 of Pyg

He was back in the meadow, but when had it grown so dark? George shivered and goosebumps prickled his skin.

“George.” The voice called.Not Bernard. Not Mum.But he knew that voice.

George clenched his fists instinctively as anger simmered in his stomach. He squinted into the inky darkness and a tiny light fizzed and flickered up ahead.

“Higgins?”I’m not calling you Father.

“Yes, it’s me,” said the priest. The voice grew closer and the light larger.

George resisted the urge to turn and run.

“I have them all with me, George. They’re safe. You can rest.”

“Why have you taken them?”

“I didn’t take them. They came to me.”

“You’re a liar. Why would they leave me?”

“One day, you’ll see.” Higgins turned, striding into the darkness; a trail of spent matches scattering in his wake.

1968

WORMS DON’T HAVE FEET

Light flickered as my eyelids shuttered; black to grey, black to grey, to ankles. A pair of women’s ankles in the thick swirling smoke.Mum?

No, too skinny.Matchstick ankles with black church shoes and thick tights, all bunched at the bottom. Bernard’s cries filtered in and out of my consciousness.

“Bernard!” I tried to call out, but my chest lurched violently. I coughed then dry-retched, my eyes burning and bulging with so much pressure I thought they might pop. A searing pain shot through me and then I was on my back with gravel ripping into my flesh and clawing at my spine. It felt like I was being dragged into hell, yet the air grew cooler and clearer, and the sound of Bernard’s cries grew stronger.

I reached out a hand and Bernard grasped it, then hugged his arms around me and sobbed into my chest.

Time to be strong, George. You’re all he’s got left, not that he knows it yet.

The voice in my head sounded like my mother’s, and pain spasmed in my abdomen.

She’s not here, it isn’t her. She’d never wear shoes like that.All that was left of her was the voice stitched into the fabric of my mind.

I promise, promise,promise,she’d sworn in her letter. I’d read it and hoped.

New life. Fresh start, for all of us.But the letter was burnt and gone, as good as the promise.

“George. Can you stand?” A soft voice spoke, and a bony hand prodded into my armpit. “Bernard, can you help on the other side?”

Bernard tugged under my other armpit, and I struggled to my feet. We moved at a snail’s pace along the garden path, every step making my head spin with a dizzying whoosh.

“Let’s get him into the kitchen. I’ll heat the water and we’ll draw him a bath.”

“Will he be alright, Miss?”

“He’ll be fine. It’s just the shock. I’ll fix us all some sugary tea.”

In the kitchen, they flopped me into a chair; my body lolled, unresponsive to my brain’s commands. I felt boneless and breathless, confronted with a wall of pain I couldn’t begin to scale.

A while later, the woman knelt in front of me, her eyes magnified by the thick glasses perched on her beaky little nose.

“George, you’re going to have to stand and lean on me so that we can get you into the bath.” Her tiny voice sounded shrill as her cardigan-clad arms flapped around me like a frenzy of wings, pulling at my jumper, unbuttoning my shirt and tugging off my vest.

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