The Fall by Claire McGowan

scrubbed it every day with that Dettol stuff, like her mum said. Now though – bits of fag ash, breadcrumbs, a frozen chip under the fridge. The floor felt gritty under her cheek.
    She tried to see if she could get up. Pulled up one arm, one leg. Well fucking done, Keisha Collins. Have a GNVQ in sitting up. The blonde girl’s wallet was still on the table, the cards spilled out. For a minute she imagined they could go back: they’d never seen this girl or her bloody boyfriend, Chris had never knocked her out. Imagine.
    Something splashed onto the soft leather of the purse – red, warm. Her nose was bleeding.
    Keisha had no idea when Chris might be back. It took her five minutes to stuff things in a bag. Pants. The bit of money she’d hidden inside a pair of socks. Jumper. Picture of Ruby – no time to pull down all the ones she’d tacked up to the cupboards, so she just took one. She couldn’t find her keys, had he taken them? The last thing she did was feel in her jeans pocket for Charlotte Miller’s driving licence, the address printed bright and clear on the pink background. It was still there where Keisha had hidden it, as soon as she left the court. Why? She’d no idea. Was it worth getting knocked out for? No idea.
    Keisha stood in her hallway with her pathetic little bag of stuff. Shit. Was she really going? Where to?
    She heard a noise from downstairs and, heart going like a train, reached out to turn the handle. Nothing. He’d locked her in. And someone was coming up the stairs.
Charlotte
    After her mother had arrived to stay – and on Holby City night – Charlotte fell into her bed, and slept for two solid days. She woke in the darkened room from time to time but, hearing a murmur of voices about buying the Mail and calling to check the cat was OK, let herself slip back into oblivion. It was easier than having to think what she would do next. When she had to pee she went through the room trying not to look at them, ignoring them when they said, You really ought to get up now, darling. Don’t you think you should have a nice wash? Invariably there’d be a paper lying about, and they would try to whisk it away but not before she saw Dan’s face staring out at her. The arrest had triggered an avalanche of anti-City stories. banker butchers , she saw on the cover of the Mail , before they could hide it.
    She woke to a memory. When had it been? A month before That Night, maybe. Saturday morning, and Dan awake before her. That was no surprise, he often got up early on weekends, unable to stop his brain whirring with work. This time he was sitting on the bed fully dressed, staring at her.
    She’d yawned. ‘You OK?’
    Still he stared. ‘How much does it matter to you?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘The money. Big wedding, big house.’
    ‘What are you asking?’ She’d rubbed her eyes.
    ‘Hypothetically, I suppose, if you’d stand by me without the money. If I did something. If we lost it all somehow.’
    She’d laughed. She thought it was a joke. ‘It’s not the money I care about. I suppose it’s just hard to go back, once you’re used to a certain . . . lifestyle. And I thought you wanted to get a bigger place soon?’
    ‘Yeah. Never mind.’
    Now she wondered what he’d really been asking.
    Outside she heard her mother’s voice. A thin pale light was coming in through the curtains. ‘Phil, there’s more of those people outside.’
    ‘Shall I chuck the water again?’
    ‘They started shouting about the police last time. The nerve! She’s in no fit state to give interviews, for goodness sake. It’s all over my Telegraph as well, this racism malarkey. Apparently there was some coloured girl in his work, and she had to leave because they called her a Paki b-i-t-c-h. I’d just never have thought it.’
    ‘Bad business, love.’
    ‘Well, between you and me, this is Charlotte all over. She’s never had the best judgement. I always thought there was something odd about him, something held