Breakdown

To B.

May you escape from the underworld and find your road.

The light fades. I crouch and peer into the blackness. I can't see anything. Can't hear anything. But it won't be long. They're out there. They'll catch our scent soon.

‘Nana?' I whisper.

My arms ache, my eyes itch with tiredness and I'm so hungry. So cold. I can't carry her any further.

‘If you lean on me, could you hop?' I ask. I don't know why I say that. It just makes things worse. She can't hop. She's doing the best she can.

‘I know, I know,' I say, ‘but it's only one more street, if we could just get down to the water's edge.'

‘I'm sorry,' she whispers.

I know she is. I know she didn't mean this to happen. I know she thought she'd be OK. She wore a blanket over her coat, took a stick. I know.

‘I just wanted to get you something.'

‘I know,' I say.

‘For your birthday,' she whispers. ‘You have so little.'

Through the paling dusk I see her lips drawn tight against her teeth. See her eyes: dark hollows.

A yowling echoes from afar. Still streets away, but they know we're here.

‘Nan,' I say. ‘You gotta stand up. On your good leg. You've got to.' I snap at her 'cos she's got to.

She tries, staggers, clutches at me. We both nearly go over.

‘Let me lift you.'

She whimpers. I don't listen; I lift anyway. We're nearly there. If I could get her to a row boat.

‘Melissa,' she whispers. ‘You go.'

I don't answer. I try heaving her up onto her feet.

I check the street. Still nothing. Quickly glance at the steps down to the water. We can make it.

Nan struggles to keep her balance. Groans. Her face, ghastly grey. I keep watching the street. Only the burnt-out city. Broken buildings. Sour smell of river. Please, God, don't let them find us.

I know what they'll be doing: sniffing the air, trying to locate us, howling out to their numbers. Gathering themselves together. Waiting till they are enough.

I turn my head back to Nan. She looks at me. She knows.

I look away. Look at her ankle.

The fracture is so bad I can see the bone glistening in the dusk.

‘Melissa  … ' Her hand reaches out, her fingers clasp onto mine. I swallow and try to unclasp them.
We must move.

She pushes the package at me.

‘Here. Go. While you can still outrun them.'

I heave and somehow get her balanced against me.

‘Melissa.'

I take as big a step as I can. Nan lurches, unsteady.

‘Please,' she says.

‘No,' I say. ‘We can make it. They won't come yet. We still have time.' Please, God, let us make it.

‘Even if we make it,' she says, ‘this break won't heal.' She draws her breath in. ‘We've no reserves left.'

‘We'll see,' I mutter.

I try to think if I could get help. The patrols, maybe? I scan the street again. Nothing but derelict houses. Graffiti. Piles of rubble. Candlelight showing in a window.

The army won't help. They'll either leave us or take us to the camps.

‘Take the shoes.' She pushes the package at me again. ‘Harvest the rest of the crop. Stay away from the soldiers.'

They'll probably just leave us. What use would we be?

‘Here's the rest of the coupons. You know what to do.'

I see she's slipped her arms from her coat and is struggling to give that to me as well.

‘Why the hell did you go out?' I say. ‘Why the hell didn't you wait for me?'

‘I'm sorry.'

And I am too. I don't need the shoes. I don't need her coat. I need
her
.

And why didn't she wait? That's the rule. Never go out – not when it's getting dark. Just wait. But I knew why, as soon as I got in. I knew as I checked the flat, saw her coat gone, saw the food on the table.

‘They're good shoes,' she whispers.

The yowling is closer now.

If we can make it to the river. We can jump. The tide will carry us. They won't follow.

I take the shoes. I try to smile. I can't swim.

‘And you need them.'

A great gap opens up in my heart. I catch my breath.

‘If you put them on, I'll try,' she says.

I know she can't make it. I know what'll happen. I want her to know that I know.

So I squat down beside her on the kerb, pull off the rags tied round my feet, quickly slip on the shoes. They're warm. They're soft. They're beautiful. ‘Thank you,' I whisper.

‘And the coat,' she says.

My chin is trembling. I adjust my headscarf. Hesitate, then thrust my arms through the coat sleeves. Button it up. I dig my hands deep into its warm pockets. Her door key is still in one. The coat smells of her. I know what it means. I accept. I know what it means to accept her coat.

She nods her head. ‘Good.'

And then I see them, at the end of the street. They're there, sizing us up.

‘Now you try,' I say. ‘Please try.'

She tries. Her teeth clenched, her face knuckle-white. I gather her to me in the failing light. Support her with one arm. Hold her hand in mine with the other. Try not to crush her brittle bones. She takes a first little hop. She makes a half-swallowed noise. I hold her hand so tight.

They'll delay a little longer. It's dangerous even for them. They know that. They'll be inching forward on their bellies, waiting for one to be bolder than the rest, waiting for one to lead the charge.

‘Keep trying,' I say.

She whimpers again.

We reach the quay. Reach the steps. I hear the river slapping against brickwork. Smell its sour tang.
We're nearly there.

‘Keep going,' I say. I glance behind us. Shapes edging closer. There's a lot of them.

‘I'm sorry,' she says.

‘Shush.' I hold her very tight to me. ‘Just keep trying.'

How to manage the steps? No handrail. If they don't attack straight away, if a row boat comes, if I can get us both down to the water  … 

I didn't eat the food, even though I'm starving. I didn't need to check her coat twice. I saw she'd taken all of the coupons. I knew the shoe boat was coming. I knew they'd rip her off. They're crooks. I heard they had blades. I'd tried to hide their arrival from her. Like I try to hide my thinness, like I try to hide the fact the potato crop was stolen. And that I'm burning Dad's books to keep us warm. Nan won't burn books, not Dad's. They're all she's got left. Except me, Melissa, her little honey. Her sole survivor. Left orphaned with her. ‘Your parents starved themselves to feed you,' she said. ‘My child of Greek myth. My little honeybee. Why should I not give you everything I can too?' Yes, I hide things. I have to. And I hid the news of the shoe boat because I knew she'd try to get me a present. And I knew she'd trade what we couldn't afford. And I knew she'd fall.

Again.

‘Please try.'

And I try. I try to lift her.
We're so close.
But months with only shrivelled potatoes have left me weak. My arms slip. She jolts to the pavement. She cries out.

And then they come.