Misery

Caroline tossed around in the narrow bed. The material of her borrowed sleep shirt itched and chafed, a black oversized shirt with white letters that just read “CARVED HAM”. The baggy track bottoms she’d been offered had slid right off, which left her in just her knickers, her skin exposed to the sandpaper of the top sheet. The curtain was sheer, the room bathed in a sickening halogen glow. The sounds of the city bled through the single glazed window: the rumble of passing cars, distant shouts, bursts of laughter from a nearby pub. The assault made it impossible to think, let alone sleep.

So much light and noise made her feel ill, piled on top of the discomfort of this terrible bed. She craved her silk pyjamas, her eye mask, her ear muffs, all still tucked away in her suitcase downstairs. She knew she should just go get it, and scenarios where she did so played on a loop in her mind.

She paced the cramped room, arms crossed, legs chilled and covered with goosebumps. The picture of Gemma playing her guitar on the high street, the one she’d filched from her mother’s room, sat on the table near her neatly-folded dress. She kept it on her person, too important to leave with her things, to ever leave anywhere. The last photo mum had ever taken. Your father would be so disappointed I brought you, she’d said. But this is wonderful. I can’t wait to share this. Caroline didn’t know who her mother had shared it with, if anyone, but she’d retrieved it from the mirror as soon as she could. Before father had a chance to see it. Before he’d left.

A crash from downstairs made her jump. Then another, closer this time. A sharp splintering of wood. Her hand moved to protect the photo. But why, and how could she? Where could she even keep it? She was crippled by embarrassment over how undressed she was. Another crash rang out, this time with the sound of glass breaking, and a faint scream. It seemed constant now. Smash, crash, shatter, scream. A symphony of chaos, and a guttural scream that was unmistakable.

The door to her room burst open. Caroline shrieked and dove for the lone pillow on the bed in a belated attempt to cover herself.

“Sod that,” Chinny bellowed from the doorway in his three-striped tracksuit. “You need to talk some sense into that witch before she destroys my whole bloody house!”

The two of them raced downstairs, the sound of destruction getting louder as they moved closer. The hallway was already devastated, beyond repair. Chinny moaned and cursed as the shards of awards and frames crunched beneath the soles of their slippers. The cyclone had moved on, toward the basement studio.

Caroline stayed tucked behind him as he pushed the door open. Wood splinters flew as Gemma brought a guitar down across a chair. Chinny threw himself between her and the drum kit.

“You miserable cunt,” he screamed. “I took you in!” He waggled a finger at Caroline, inches from her face. “Tell that cow to stop!”

“Gemma, stop!” Caroline cried out, already red-faced. Tears flowed down her cheeks. She felt as if she might explode.

Gemma collapsed against the back wall, and appeared almost serene even as she struggled to catch her breath. Streaks of blood ran down her chest and left copper stains on her flesh-coloured sports bra. Her arms and feet were a patchwork of cuts and bruises.

“My studio,” Chinny muttered as he surveyed the room. The glass separating the control room from the studio space had stopped short of shattering, owing to the thickness, but the inner pane had spider-cracked in more than a few places. A chair had been flung atop the mixing board, all of the screens smashed and shattered. “None of this is replaceable, you fat fucking cow. What have you done?” He turned and stormed up the stairs, leaving them alone with what she’d done.

Caroline balled herself up tight in the corner nearest to Gemma, who appeared even more calm now that her breathing had slowed. “Miss Gemma,” she managed to say. “You’re bleeding.”

“Don’t stay here,” Gemma answered, though she looked straight ahead. Her voice was soft, almost zen. “You need to get back to Moseley.”

“What do you mean, miss?” The last few days flashed through her head at lightning speed. Why had Alastair not come with them? Why had she left the photo upstairs? She felt heavy, rooted in place. She dug her fingernails even harder into her legs, pulled herself even tighter into a ball. The pressure against her stomach brought a bit of relief, but her bare legs were blocks of ice.

“Promise me you’ll go home.”

“M-Miss.” She shivered as the chill shot through her. From what little she could see of Gemma from her spot on the floor, the cuts on her feet were horrific. Blood had started to pool on the floor beneath them. Caroline gulped. “Miss, I need to call RapiMed right away.” The ceiling creaked above them with a series of dull thuds. Each made her flinch. Constant, deafening noise. Can’t think. Please, focus. She wanted so badly to scream, but the cold made it impossible. She sobbed and shook.

“It’s not worth it, love.”

The door to the studio flung open. “That’s her there,” Chinny shouted. “The fat old fuck.”

Caroline followed the group in a daze as they were all led outside, aside from Chinny who stopped at the threshold. Her own screams were a distant ringing in her ears as she watched the officer slip Gemma’s wrists into a pair of zip-cuffs.

“You do not have to say anything,” began the officer in a clipped Liverpudlian as he guided Gemma into the back of a van. He slid his Spex further up his nose with a quick bump from his shoulder. “It may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you say may be given in evidence. Do you understand why you’ve been arrested?”

“Yes,” Gemma whispered.

“Have you anything to say on your own behalf?”

“No,” she answered.

“Aida,” the officer said, his voice flat, “please try the suspect.”

“No,” Caroline shouted as she moved toward Gemma. “No, no, please. I need to come with her. She’s meant to look after me.”

The officer raised a finger and gave Caroline a quick glance. “Caroline Newman, aged twenty-five, you are not required to be under anyone’s care. Step back.”

“Please!”

“Lillian Bennet?” The officer cleared his throat. “You go by Gemma Thomson?”

Gemma sighed. Cloaked in the shadow of the van, Caroline could only see her eyes. “Yes.”

“You’ve been found guilty I’m afraid. I’ll have to remand you now, to HMP Liverpool. They’ll figure out where you go from there.”

Caroline screamed and tried to leap into the back of the van, but was caught with a quick arm from the officer, who shoved her back without a word. In her panic she shot a look toward the door to the house. Chinny had disappeared inside, the door shut, the lights off. On the porch, hurriedly discarded, sat Caroline’s suitcase and Gemma’s guitar case.