Blood Loss by Kerena Swan (brene brown rising strong .txt) 📗

The house smells of dog and cigarettes, and my nose wrinkles in distaste as soon as his back is turned to lead the way along the hall. I hate coming in here, especially after selling myself to Derek the other night. I’d gone straight to his bedroom then and paid little attention to my surroundings but today I can’t deny how grim it looks. The walls are papered in a heavy green, geometric print that looks as though it’s been there for decades and the carpet is a thick brown shag pile that’s flattened in the middle like a garden path. The dog barks on the other side of the kitchen door but Derek ignores it and takes me into the lounge. The contrast to the hallway is startling and it’s clear that décor isn’t a priority for his ill-gotten gains. One wall is covered by a giant flat-screened television and a Bose sound system is wired around the room. An Apple Mac perches on a large chrome and glass desk with a printer alongside it. He pulls the keyboard towards him and types in a password. I can’t help noticing the expensive-looking watch that peeks out from his dressing-gown cuff as he moves his arm. Bloody hell. Business must be booming.

‘All yours,’ he says. ‘I’m making tea. Want one?’

‘No thanks. I’ll be out of here as soon as I’ve printed off the attachment.’ Before you can insist on payment of another kind.

As soon as he’s left the room, chivvying the dog out of the way as he squeezes through the kitchen doorway, I sign in to my e-mail account. The messages take forever to download and I want to yell in frustration. Come on! Derek will be back in a minute. Finally, the one I’m waiting for pings into my inbox and I click on it. I open the attachment and see a table full of numbers. I hit print and close the e-mail then snatch the letter off the printer. I’ll read it at home. I’m at the front door when Derek reappears in a flowery designer shirt and the unmistakable tang of aftershave on his skin.

‘Going already?’ He can’t hide his disappointment.

‘I’m off to work in ten minutes. Bye.’ I can’t get out of there quickly enough.

I let myself into Mum’s house then sit on the sofa and open the letter. Mum walks in and I’m tempted to hide it, but she needs to know the result as much as I do. I don’t even glance up at her.

‘What are you looking at?’ she asks.

‘The DNA results.’

I don’t want a conversation. I need to absorb this complicated information. There are three columns of numbers and letters and I’m struggling to make sense of them. I skim through the first page to the text at the bottom and gasp.

‘What does it say?’ Mum leans over the back of the sofa to peer at the letter and I read it out to her.

‘Conclusion: Based on our analysis, it is practically proven that Mr. John Butcher is not the biological father of the child Sarah Butcher.’

I leap off the sofa and dance around the room punching the air. ‘Yes! He’s not my father.’ That’s why he didn’t love me.

‘They’ve got it wrong!’ Mum’s face is contorted with disbelief. ‘I told you these kits were unreliable. I haven’t been with anyone but your Dad. Let me see it.’ She holds out her hand for the letter and I give it to her.

I can’t think straight. I’m in shock but I’ve never felt so happy. ‘You’re a liar, Mum, but I don’t care. He’s not my father and I’m delighted. Come on; tell me who my real father is. Tell me all about Colin.’ Mum doesn’t reply but I carry on. ‘Don’t you see? You should be happy. This means we’re free of John Butcher now. We can cut all ties and not be tarnished with his crime. We can build new lives.’

But Mum is ignoring me and staring at the letter, tears filling her eyes.

‘They’ve looked at twenty-one genetic markers, Mum. They haven’t got it wrong.’

Mum isn’t looking at the same information, though. She’s reading the page underneath.

‘How did you get a sample from me?’ she asks. ‘I didn’t want to provide a sample.’ Her eyes look haunted as she lifts them to mine. ‘What have you done, Sarah?’

‘It made the test more accurate. I wiped a stick inside your cheek while you were asleep.’

Mum drops the paper onto the sofa and goes to the kitchen. She’s back within a minute holding a glass of vodka. She sits on the sofa and takes a deep swig. Her hands are shaking. I pick up the paper and read it again then turn to page two. At first my brain can’t comprehend what I’m seeing. This can’t be right. It says that Rosemary Butcher is not my biological mother. My lungs stop working and I sit down hard in the armchair.

‘You’re not my mother?’ I whisper.

Chapter 29

The Following August | Jenna

I stand in the middle of the kitchen feeling overwhelmed by everything I have to do. I know it’s my own fault because, for some reason, I keep turning my alarm off in my sleep and now I’m all behind. I only have an hour before I leave for work and I need to put another load in the washing machine, hang the wet clothes outside, make myself a packed lunch, wash up and do an online Sainsbury’s order. I don’t know what to do first. Lucy will be here to take Mum to the hospital soon, and she’ll take one look around the room, sniff, and then criticise me for my lack of effort. I mustn’t oversleep again. I’ll have to buy an old-fashioned alarm clock with huge bells on top and position it across the room.

I wish I could take Mum to get the results of the X-ray but I’m needed to look after the