Hidden by Emma Kavanagh Read Free Book Online

it, the words coming slow, like they are more than he can handle saying.
    I nod. A heavy silence settles between us, broken only by the sound of lapping water.
    ‘She called the police, the night before last. Did you know that?’ Aden still isn’t looking at me, is staring off into the distance.
    ‘Emily did?’
    He nods. ‘She called to report a man trying to get into the ward. Said that she saw a gun.’
    I stare at him, suddenly far, far colder.

Imogen: Tuesday 26 August, 7.15 a.m.

Five days before the shooting
     
    IT WAS THE fall off a perilously high cliff that had woken her. Imogen sat up, the wooden-armed chair groaning with the movement. A spiking pain raced its way up the nape of her neck, the hangover of an awkward night in the dimly lit hospital room. Amy was asleep still, her elfin frame curled into a knot beneath the rough hospital blankets, fine red hair splayed out across the pillow. Imogen pushed herself up, squinting with murky eyes. Could see the soft rise, fall, of her niece’s chest, rosebud lips lightly puckered. The ragged dog that she slept with lay curled in her baby-fat fists. Imogen’s heartbeat slowed, just a little.
    Imogen had stood, had felt as if she was sunken into the linoleum floor, watching as the doctors moved around Amy, her little body shaking, so that the bed clattered in a painful drumbeat. Mara crying silent tears, clutching at her stomach, as if the pain were a physical one. Imogen not breathing, holding her twin upright, just to keep her from crumbling to the floor. Seemed impossible that there could be any coming back from this. Then, with one final thud, a silence had fallen. Amy’s body sinking down against the bed and not rising again, and then, after hours, the sound of a deep, difficult breath. Imogen had watched as the white-coated shoulders sank, heads turning in shared glances of relief. Then waiting, long moments as the observers hung there, waiting to see if the peace would hold.
    Finally, after centuries of silence, a doctor, middle-aged, jeans sticking out from beneath his white coat, turning to them. A brief nod, a tight smile. ‘The seizure seems to have passed.’
    Mara had let loose a noise, something between a yelp and a sob, had broken free of her sister and run the scant few yards that separated her from her daughter. Imogen had grasped the doctor’s arm, in gratitude or to steady herself, she wasn’t sure. ‘Thank you. Thank you so much.’
    ‘You’re Amy’s aunt?’
    ‘Yes.’
    The doctor had nodded, eyes on his patient, curled now inside her mother’s arms. ‘Has she ever had a seizure before? Any family history that you know of?’
    Imogen shook her head. ‘No, I—’
    ‘Her father . . .’ interrupted Mara, ‘her father had some seizures, when he was little.’
    ‘Will she be all right? Will this happen again?’
    ‘We’ll keep her in for a couple of days. Run some tests. See if we can’t figure out why it happened.’ He had glanced back at Mara, cradling her daughter tight. ‘Try not to worry. We’ll get to the bottom of it.’
    There was daylight now, a line of it working its way through the crack in the thin curtains. Imogen shifted, thinking that she could smell food, wondering if it was possible that there were people here in this children’s ward who could still eat. Mara was lying now, stretched out on her daughter’s bed, had wrapped herself around Amy, one arm flung across her waist. Matryoshka dolls, nested one within the other. Her eyes wide open, staring across the top of the little girl’s head.
    ‘Mara?’ said Imogen, softly. ‘Did you sleep?’
    Mara started, her eyes wide. ‘No. I wanted to stay awake. In case . . .’ She seemed to wince, turning her face into her daughter.
    ‘She’s going to be okay, Mar.’
    Seemed like it had always been this way. Identical twins, born three minutes apart. Imogen was the older, in time, in everything really. Had come out lusty and screaming, a respectable six