Pop Goes the Weasel

119

Helen walked from the building, clutching Amelia to her chest. Colleagues rushed to help, photographers buzzed around her, but she didn’t see any of them. She pushed them roughly aside and carried on, keen to put as much distance as possible between her and the carnage.

People were calling to her but their voices were just noises. Her body was shaking with the trauma of what she’d just experienced, her brain playing and replaying the sharp snap of the sniper’s bullet on an endless repetitive loop. She had tried so hard to save Ella, to rescue her from the wreckage of her life. But she had failed and once more she had blood on her hands.

Passing an attending squad car, Helen caught sight of her reflection in the windscreen. She looked like a monster – crazed, dishevelled, her hair matted, her clothes stained. She now became aware of Charlie guiding her towards the paramedics, gently imploring her to seek medical assistance for herself and the baby.

She allowed herself to be helped into the ambulance, but once there she refused to cooperate. Despite the best endeavours of the paramedics, Helen would not relinquish her grip on Amelia, who had calmed now and clung to Helen with her tiny, delicate hands. Licking her thumb, Helen began to wipe the blood from the child’s face. The baby smiled at the contact, as if enjoying being tickled. Helen could hear the others talking around her. They assumed she was in shock, that she wasn’t thinking straight, but they were wrong – she knew exactly what she was doing. Whilst Amelia was in Helen’s arms, nothing could happen to her. For a brief moment at least, she would be safe from a dark and unforgiving world.