She picked up the paracetamol, popped two into her hand and then two of the ibuprofen. She should eat before she took them, but she didn’t have time. She grabbed the little water glass on the windowsill and filled it with water, throwing the tablets into her mouth and gulping everything down, surprised at how thirsty she was. Twice more she refilled the small glass before she rinsed it, dried it and placed it back where she’d found it.
The sink looked clean enough, Mr Crawford was always wiping around it when the great-grandchildren and twins were there. Poppy contemplated it for a moment before she opened another cupboard. The one she already knew Ethel kept her mixing bowl in. She poured the hot water from the kettle in and leaned against the bench, each move sapping the strength from her.
With her hoodie half off, Poppy slipped it one-handed over her head and let it drop to the floor, the bloodstains on the pink material turning brown. She sucked in a breath. The wad of cotton wool on the bench wasn’t about to go anywhere near cleaning up the amount of dried blood skimming over her flesh.
In the utter silence, she dropped her head down so she could cup it in both hands, the burn worth the movement. Dry-eyed, she waited for the weakness to pass.
Naked to the waist, the cool chill of air had her shuddering and looking up again. At least here, she could see through the window, all the way along the driveway.
Poppy slid open a drawer, took out one of Ethel’s neatly ironed tea towels and dipped it into the water. She made quick work of rubbing the dried-on blood from the lower half of her side, but the rub and stretch of it had black shadows threatening to overwhelm her. She drew in long pulls of breath and rested, her hipbones pressing hard against the cupboards while she dipped and swiped again, this time down the length of her arm.
She skimmed the tea towel over her left breast and smeared the blood, every move she made with her arm left her gasping for breath, but she flexed her fingers, then rinsed the thin cotton tea towel in the bowl, watching as her blood bloomed in pink clouds across the water. She squeezed it out, threw the water into the sink and refilled the bowl with the last two inches of boiled water from the kettle. She sloshed in some of the Dettol, ripped off a piece of cotton wool and dipped it in as she prepared herself to look for the first time at the gunshot wound.
She sucked in a breath.
Her skin pebbled up and tightened with goose bumps.
Poppy glanced at the kettle and snatched it up, filled it again one-handed and switched it on. A cup of tea. That’s what her mum would say, after giving blood. And Poppy had given a whole stream of blood.
She shot a quick glance out of the window and squinted as she looked at the furthest point she could see. Held her breath. Waited. No one coming. No one knew. Yet.
They might think she was dead with the rest of them.
Maybe she’d have to remain dead.
When she had time, she’d think about it, but the most important thing was to clean herself and dress the wound.
She dipped her hand into the cooling water and squeezed the cotton wool with fingers shaking so hard she could barely hold onto it.
Technically, she knew what to do. Mum had always let her see to the twins when they skinned their hands and knees, not through a lack of care, because her mum adored them all, but because she knew Poppy had a passion to look after her baby sisters.
She held her breath and poked her tongue out of the side of her mouth as she raised her left arm and twisted to expose the tender flesh at the underside of her budding breast. They’d grown bigger lately, probably because she’d gone on the pill when she knew Aiden and she were about to have sex. Or maybe because she was having sex. She didn’t know. Didn’t care. She’d never have sex again. She’d never have Aiden again.
She drew in a breath and pushed Aiden from her mind. If she allowed herself to think of him, she’d be destroyed. She needed every resource she had just to carry on.
Surprised not to see her flesh gaping open, she inspected the entry wound. The flesh around it charred and singed like a black halo, feathering outwards in a scattered speckle of dust. But it wasn’t dust. Dust would wash off. Burned skin wouldn’t.
Another quiet sob squeezed from her tight throat as she placed the cotton wool against the wound and almost passed out.
Forthefuckoffucksake!
She screwed her face up, breath soughing through her teeth. But she kept the wad of cotton wool pressed against the bullet wound. Fresh blood oozed out as she took the pressure off and removed the cotton wool.
Sure there was a lump there, Poppy stuck her index finger into the top of the Dettol and tipped it up, soaking her finger in the antibacterial liquid before she put the bottle back on the bench.
With short, laboured breaths, she touched her naked finger against the wound. Not as big as she thought. And only an entry point. Which meant the bullet was in there.
She closed her eyes and worked her finger inside the wound, following the direction of the hole towards her back. The small slide of a groan slipped from her lips as her finger encountered a hard lump. She held still, her head spinning in wild revolutions as she gave her finger another delicate wiggle.
She sucked in a breath.
It was the bullet.
It was right there.
It hadn’t gone into her lung, it hadn’t pierced her heart. It had skimmed through layers of skin and sinew and wedged solidly into her rib.
She withdrew her bloodied finger and stared as crimson pumped a lazy stream to trickle down her side again. She plucked another piece of cotton wool and this time soaked it in pure Dettol before she pressed it against the wound.
Pure fire ripped through her and in the silent house, no one could hear her scream. Knees like water, she propped herself by her elbows against the bench and clenched her teeth until she was sure they’d break. Still she kept the pressure on until her the screams faded to desperate whimpers.
She pushed the weakness back as she searched the horizon with a gaze darkened at the edges.
She wasn’t about to die. But she was going to need help. The bullet needed to come out. For now, it was enough for her to stop the bleeding, dress the wound and get the hell out of the Crawfords’ farmhouse.
Every movement drained her as she puffed out and reached for the steristrips.
Forthefuckoffucksake!
With fingers that trembled so hard, the steristrip twined around them until she crumpled them up and threw them on the bench. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she hauled in a hard breath. She could do it. She had to do it.
She took one more steristrip, held onto her breath and stuck it across her wound to pull it closed. She grabbed one of the adhesive dressings, peeled off the backing and pressed it firmly in place, realising that the constant buzzing in her ears was her own rasping breath.
Finished, she leaned weak against the sink, her body cooling by the minute so tremors ran through her body. She recognised it as shock, but the knowledge didn’t help as her fingers shook so hard she could barely push the items back into the plastic bag.
She needed to warm up. She needed clothes that weren’t covered in blood.
Ethel was far too small for her to borrow her clothes.
Mr Crawford wasn’t though.
Poppy peered out the window for another quick check, then pushed herself away from the bench, forcing each step to the back of the kitchen, where a small oak doorway led to what the twins called the servants stairway.
She gripped the thin wooden rail running along the wall to haul herself up step by step and sank to her knees when she reached the top.