Exile

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"Kick it and see," He said. She felt the foot going into her side, a dull thud ripple through the crippling pain.

"She's dead," said the woman.

But she wasn't, she was still alive and she heard them. The ground was warm and wet beneath her. Her dry eyes were stuck open and she could see across the floor to a dirty glass by the skirting board. The woman crouched down by her. She was pulling at her wrist, tugging at the bracelet.

"Leave it," he said, but she ignored him, tugging again. "I said leave it."

The woman dropped her arm and backed off. The man shuffled into her line of vision, worn trainers, gray trousers. They were talking about her, about how to get rid of her, about getting Andy's van. The pain surged and she spasmed at the shrieking trill on her spine, the scalding whiteness behind her eyes. The searing light grew brighter and brighter until there was nothing.

It was minus five outside the bedroom window and Maureen's face prickled against the cold. She wanted to get out of bed, wanted a cigarette and a coffee and to be alone, but his leg was pressed tightly against hers and his hand was under her thigh. The cumulative heat was itchy and damp. She peeled their skins apart, trying hard not to wake him, but he felt her stir. He peered around at her through sleep-puffed eyes.

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