Tornados are rare in the UK - the last big one was around twenty years ago. What did this one leave behind? Questions mostly.
Gran’s questions are endless.
‘Where’s the house gone, Maureen? Where will I sleep tonight? Where’s the house gone, Maureen?
She can’t help it. Dementia’s a cruel disease, stealing her memories. I’ve been forgotten. Maureen was my mum, not me. She died still wondering what had happened to her father, who disappeared when she was a child.
I have questions too. Why us? What did we do to deserve this? Don’t I have enough to deal with, looking after Gran?
The house is gone. Gran’s cottage is now just a heap of rubble surrounded by fallen trees. Our neighbours’ properties are, of course, undamaged.
The sirens are getting closer. I hope the police are amongst the emergency services. I suspect I’ll need them. The tornado left something else behind - the answer to Grandad’s disappearance.
Tangled in tree roots lies a skeleton, a knife stuck between the ribs. Gran glances at it, looks me in the eye and says,
‘I had to do it, Maureen. I had no choice - I couldn’t let him hurt you like he hurt me.’
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