Page 56 of Surrender
They stop wiggling.
They stop flinching.
They turn still.
“Mummy?” My voice sounds gross. I shake her once. “Mum?”
I squeeze her hands and feel no pressure back.
Nothing.
“Mummy,” I cry one more time, but I know what’s come.
Death.
It came so fast, I didn’t say everything I needed to say. All the things I should have said. I should have brought the kids in to see her one more time. I should have told her about how good Vi is at changing Booker’s nappies. I should have told her about how the twins are starting to write their alphabet letters already. I should have told her about the nice neighbour lady’s pies. I should have told her so many things.
But it came too fast.
Death.
It took her from me.
My best friend is gone.
The feeling of her long, pale fingers soft in my short, sticky ones feels like tons and tons of weight pressing down on my chest. Yucky, gross weight. Why didn’t I wash my hands before I came back in here? Why couldn’t Dad get the kids their snack just once? Why couldn’t he answer the door? Do something!
My mum’s last touch was my jammy, filthy hands because I had too much to do!
And now there’s just a deadness to her that makes me sick. This isn’t my mum anymore. This is Death.
I let go of her and slide off the bed, backing up until my back hits the wall by the far window. She doesn’t look like Mum anymore. She looks all wrong. Nothing like the woman who loved to make her kids pancakes with special Swedish syrup.
She looks like something that should be in a scary movie.
This isn’t how I want to remember my best friend. I close my eyes and say the words of Keats she just said to me. “Touch has a memory. O say, love, say. What can I do to kill it and be free.”
Keats is right.
I have to kill it.
TRAVELLING IS THE ONE THINGabout football that I’ve grown to truly loathe. Living out of a suitcase. Constantly having a changing room smell to my clothes no matter what kind of fabric cleaner I use. Commercial airlines or team buses filled to the brim with blokes. It’s a nightmare and a lot less glamorous than the papers would lead you to believe.
And after the mindfuck from my father last night, a quiet Monday at home has never felt so good. Plus, I get to see Sloan tonight, so I know I get to lose my fucking mind for the rest of the evening.
She’s due to arrive after dinner, so I stride into the kitchen to make myself something to eat. I’m not much of a cook, but the team diet is normally pretty foolproof. Carbs, protein, vegetables. Mondays are always my pasta night.
I fill a pan with water to set on the stove when my security gate buzzes. Excitement washes over me when I see Sloan’s vehicle enter after using the code I gave her. She’s nearly two hours early, and my dick is already pulsing at the thought. I leave the pan by the stove and head to the foyer to let her in.
When I open the front door, I’m pummelled by Sloan’s tall, slender frame. Her handbag drops on the tile floor as she shoves her hands on my chest, turning me at a sharp, right angle to slam me against the wall. She lifts my shirt over my face and devours my chest with her mouth, running her tongue around my pec and biting down hard on my nipple.
“Jesus fuck, Sloan!” I exclaim, my body roaring to life from the sudden invasion.
“Call me Treacle,” she growls, releasing my shirt so I can watch her yank her own up over her head and kick off her flats. “From now on, Treacle or Tre. I’m not Sloan when I’m here.”
My brow furrows at the strained look in her eyes. “Are you okay?”
“I will be as soon as you take your shirt off.”
