by Gerald Wixey
Kathy folded her arms and stared down at the floor. She stood and came alongside. Her arms came around me and she pushed her lips into my neck. I felt the wetness of her tears as she kept kissing my neck, over and over.
I said, ‘He told me not to tell you.’
‘I’m sure he did. Since when did you two suddenly become bosom buddies?’
‘He came and saw me in hospital.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me that?’
I placed my finger gently on her lips; I wanted this to be the last lie I ever told her. ‘It doesn’t matter, he never told me about Declan until tonight. Tonight, outside the police station, I got the full confession. He’d convinced himself that you’d go back to him. Kenny blames Ron’s assault for that not happening.’
I felt her nod, Kathy talked through her sobs, short sharp machine gun bursts. ‘He said that – when we met in the social club – if he ever found out who attacked us – he said he’d kill them.’
And he did.
I sensed her concentration drifting away from me as my news sunk ever deeper into her consciousness. I lifted the sash on the window a touch. The sky had lightened over the east. A mild cloudy day, rain dappled the lead-coloured puddles. Just a black morning in early autumn, a substantial heavy sky that softened rooftops, a snuff-brown coloured photograph of heavy coated commuters stood on slate grey pavements.
Then a soft hand on my shoulder, Kathy’s voice, ‘Were you surprised he’s confessed to everything?’
I shook my head.
Kathy pushed against me and squeezed my shoulder. ‘I’d kind of hoped he wouldn’t in a way. I don’t think dad will get over it.’ We gazed down on the market square and Kathy whispered, ‘How do you feel?’
I nodded and said, ‘Sad, how about you?’
‘I’m all right, we’ll get through all of this.’
I watched rain tumbling out of the black, scudding clouds. I felt her arms come around my waist, her warm cheek rested gently between my shoulder blades. I glanced down at Ron’s dried blood on my fingers and shivered.