Flash fiction by Madeleine Armstrong

Monday Morning, 9:05am Outside Reproductive Choices, South London

Edith unfolded her garden chair and settled in. She had her Thermos, raincoat and book – it might be a long day.

            The first woman hurried inside alone, head down, heels rat-a-tatting. Edith’s fingers twitched on the paperback, but she stilled, knowing she wasn’t needed yet.

            A few minutes later another woman appeared, tear creased, leaning on a man. Edith waited.

            The door was swinging shut when they turned up, with their filthy placards and Virgin Mary, like she wasn’t a sexual assault victim.  

            Behind them lurked a lone girl, slowing, glancing from the protestors to the clinic door, her face frozen. She couldn’t be more than twenty. Edith stood, the chair creaking as loud as her knees.

            “Murderer,” one protestor shouted at the girl.

            “Mummy,” another called, high pitched.

            The girl looked like she might turn and run.

            Edith hurried over, as fast as she could with her arthritic hip. The girl flinched, but Edith made a shooing motion at the protestors. The two women fell into step together. Edith tried to stay calm, despite the hitch of the girl’s sobs and the insults flung as casually as firecrackers.

            When it was too hard Edith thought of her son, Callum, forced into her then snatched away, red faced and squalling, without her having any say.

            Who knew what had happened to him.

            And this poor girl. Who knew what had happened to her.