They Did Bad Things

by Lauren A. Forry

  “Here, mate. Let me help you with that.” Hollis pulled the tab for him, then brought out a bottle of Smirnoff. “Add a bit of this. Give it a little kick.” He poured a healthy shot into the can.

  Callum hesitated and took a small, tentative sip. Then another. Then he chugged the rest while the room cheered. Hollis slapped him on the back.

  “There you go! Told you he was tops, didn’t I?”

  Now that Callum seemed relaxed, Hollis handed him another can, and Callum drank that, too. They sat in the room swapping stories, and though Callum said very little, to Hollis he seemed content to sit there and absorb the atmosphere. He even smiled once or twice. When they ran out of alcohol in the spare room, they migrated to the kitchen, where, with their muscle, they secured a prime spot near the main drinks station. Whatever Hollis offered, Callum drank. When someone passed a joint around, Callum smoked that, too, even though in all the months they’d been living together, Callum had never shown any interest in marijuana.

  When Buzz Cut went to relieve himself in the back garden, Callum wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and tried to speak. Each word seemed forced. Despite all the drinks, he hadn’t consumed enough social lubricant to speak plainly.

  “Hollis, I need to talk to you about . . . about the thing.”

  “The thing?” Hollis’s brain worked slowly through the alcohol, trying to figure out what Callum was referencing.

  “You know. The thing. The . . . exams. And everything.” Callum shook his head, the unspoken words forming a backlog in his throat. Although unnecessary in the noise of the party, Hollis dropped his voice.

  “Not really the time for it, mate.”

  Callum took a swig of his beer. “What did your family say when you were expelled?”

  “To be honest, they weren’t that surprised.”

  “And you were able to get into another uni?”

  “Yeah, but we didn’t, uhm, exactly broadcast why I left Exeter. I weren’t officially expelled, like I told them. Just asked not to return . . . But look.” He clamped a hand on Callum’s shoulder. “No one’s going to find out, okay? And it’s not like you have to keep doing it. New year, new start this September, eh?”

  Callum nodded, then continued to do so, like a bobble-headed dog, until he belched. It might have been the shoddy lighting, but he seemed to turn a bit green and left the beer on the counter, slipping out of the kitchen and into the crowd. Hollis watched him disappear, wondering if he should follow, then became distracted when Buzz Cut announced the start of an American-style drinking game in the back garden, shattering the fragile tranquility that had once existed there.

  One floor up, the noises from below were somewhat muted. Lorna’s room faced the front of the house, so she could not see the shenanigans taking place in the back garden. With her door locked, she knew little of what was going on downstairs either. She could only guess from the different noises and vibrations coming up through her floor. She sat crosslegged on her narrow bed in her pajamas with an open copy of Truffaut’s Hitchcock in her lap. With the small electric kettle she kept in her room, she’d made herself a nice hot cup of tea and had a pack of Fox’s custard creams open on the desk beside her. But instead of reading her book, drinking her tea, and eating her biscuits, her unfocused eyes stared at the same page as she tapped her bookmark into the spine.

  She had tried tonight. She really had. This was to be the final party in Caldwell Street, and she’d wanted to make a go of it. Try to relax. Try to make friends. And it had started all right. Two of the girls from her film studies class had dropped by early, right at the start, bringing a bottle of wine and some nibbles for them to share, and the three of them had sat on the sofa by the front window with Maeve and drunk and chatted as more and more people arrived. It became clear within the second hour that the three guests per person rule wouldn’t hold, but she, her friends, and Maeve had staked their spot, chatted in their little bubble, and Lorna—to her surprise —found herself enjoying their company even as the music and smoke intensified and the bodies multiplied around them.

  But then her classmates had to leave. She went to the door to see them out, and when she turned back their spot on the sofa had already been reclaimed by Oliver and a ginger girl she didn’t recognize, pawing each other and rubbing noses as Maeve sat on the opposite end trying to ignore them. Lorna wanted to hold onto that thin thread of enjoyment she had experienced earlier, so she and Maeve wandered between groups, trying to find a home within their home, but Lorna only grew more uncomfortable—and, though she didn’t want to say it, anxious. Other than her housemates, she knew no one else here. She didn’t like weed or cigarettes, and already felt sick from drinking. The music became too loud, and in every place she tried to stand, she felt awkward and in the way.

  Reassuring herself that she’d given it her best shot, half an hour after her classmates left, she excused herself from Maeve’s company and went upstairs, bypassing a couple smacking on the stairs and locking herself in her room. But even though she’d removed herself from the throng downstairs, invisible tendrils of the music’s beating bass leached up through the floor, scraping against her skin as if trying to claw their way inside, the whole party an infection seeking a way into her body. On the outside, she knew she looked calm, tap-tap-tapping her bookmark, but on the inside a nervous storm raged.

  A loud thump from Callum’s room made her spill tea over her lap.

  “Shit!”

  The tea was lukewarm, but it seeped into her thin pajamas. She looked frantically for a towel or napkin, but there was nothing save her bedsheets. The single loud thump multiplied into a series of rhythmic ones.

  “Glad someone’s having a good time.”

  She set her mug on the edge of the desk, jabbed the bookmark into Hitchcock and gathered her strength for what she needed to do next. The wet tea chilled her, but with her hand on the doorknob she hesitated. Her toes curled into the carpet. Would she be able to hold in her rage, or would something snap? Would she unleash a torrent of hate and vitriol on all those in the house, a tirade she knew would only result in her ridicule? Or would she be able to hold it together? Could she grab a towel from the bathroom and return to her sanctuary unscathed?

  The thumping in Callum’s room continued. Tea dripped into her knickers. Holding her breath, Lorna opened the door, avoided eye contact with anyone who might’ve been in the hall, and took the two steps into the bathroom. She exhaled.

  Then took a step back.

  Callum, on his knees, was vomiting into the toilet. Whatever he had drunk came pouring out of him, splashing into the bowl like someone dumping a pot of soup. Her feet warmed the cold tile as she stood there, unsure of what to do. Callum, looking pale and worn, rested his head on the toilet seat, arms hanging slack at his sides.

  Lorna took a step forward, grabbed the nearest towel off the rack, and retreated to her bedroom.

  In Callum’s room, the thumping couple laughed as she changed pajamas and wiped herself off. She opened her window, tossed the remainder of the cold tea into the hedges below, and boiled water for a fresh cup. She didn’t leave the room for the rest of the night, not until she heard the shouting the next morning. But that came later.

  As Lorna boiled water, Ellie held court in the front room, lounging in the brown armchair. Someone kept topping up her glass with nice cold white wine. All of her rules had been broken, except one—that the party would end at 2:30 a.m. According to her watch, it was 2:25, and the party looked like it wouldn’t be over any time soon. Ellie found she didn’t mind. She was having a splendid time. Everyone was. The music was good and people were dancing. Someone filled her glass again, and she thanked the person but couldn’t remember his name. Or hers. It was hard to tell. The hair was short and her vision had gone a bit blurry, but it didn’t matter. This party had become a celebration, and she didn’t want it to end.

  Then she saw Maeve alone, leaning against the closet under the stairs, an empty glass dangling from t
he fingers of her lowered arm. Her hair had given in to the humidity and frizzed in all directions like she had been electrocuted, and her makeup, which Ellie had so painstakingly applied, was smeared. A wine stain marred the hem of her yellow dress—a dress that was really a bit too small and cut into the flesh around her arms. No one else seemed to notice her, yet Ellie felt Maeve’s misery spreading like the wine stain, touching everyone who passed. Ellie couldn’t bear it any longer.

  “Maeve. Maeve!” She waved her over. “Poppet, your glass is empty. What’ve you been drinking? Never mind. You must try this wine.” She tapped her anonymous caretaker on the elbow. “Be a dear, would you, and fill my friend’s glass? Cheers! You’re ever so kind.”

  Maeve stood awkwardly before Ellie as both their glasses were filled.

  “Here. Sit here.” Ellie patted the armrest.

  Maeve leaned against the edge, staring into her drink. “I really shouldn’t. The wine’s already going to my head.”

  “Well, that’s the point, isn’t it?” Ellie laughed. “Come on. Let’s drink together.”

  They did.

  “Now tell me. What’s got you in the doldrums?”

  Maeve looked at the people around them, the ones with whom Ellie had been chatting, the ones who were listening now.

  “Give us some privacy, please. Housemates only!” Ellie shooed them away. “Go on then. You know you can tell me anything.”

  “I’m tired. That’s all. It’s been a long night.” Maeve took another long sip of wine.

  “You’re not thinking of going to bed, are you? Oh, don’t be like Lorna, please. You know, I didn’t want to say this, but it is going to be so much nicer without her here next autumn, isn’t it? She’s such a wet blanket when it comes to these things.”

  “It has been a nice party. It has. I . . .”

  Ellie watched Maeve’s gaze as she glanced across the room at Oliver flirting with a slutty ginger whose breasts threatened to escape her top.

  “You know,” Ellie said, “you just have to make him notice you, that’s all.”

  “We’ve lived together almost a year.”

  “Nine months.”

  “That’s almost a year. And if he hasn’t noticed me by now . . .” Maeve let her sentence trail off and finished her glass. Ellie poured her a refill.

  “Callum’s noticed you.”

  “God! Could everyone shut up about Callum? I don’t like him. He’s tall and weird-looking and always has this stupid look on his face like someone’s kicked his dog.”

  “Does he have a dog?”

  “I don’t know! And I don’t care. I just want this year to be over so he can move out and I never have to see him again. He’s so fucking annoying.”

  “Ellie.”

  Callum towered behind Maeve, his face cast in shadow. Maeve gasped and ran out of the room while Ellie tried not to laugh. His face remained neutral.

  “Yes? What is it?” she asked.

  “I was wondering if I could crash in your room tonight? There’s these people in mine, and I can’t shift them, so I was hoping . . .”

  “Oh, Callum. You should’ve locked your door like the rest of us.”

  His hands turned to fists. “My door doesn’t lock. I’ve said that almost every single day since we moved in, and I say it every single time you lot say you want to have a party. Don’t you remember anything?”

  Ellie despised aggression to begin with, but aggression on Callum looked unnatural.

  “Sorry.” She sipped her drink to avoid eye contact.

  “So can I crash there or not?”

  “Have you asked Hollis or Oliver?”

  “Of course I did. You think I’d come to you first? But they’re planning on having some girls spend the night.” Ellie didn’t like him like this. Had Callum always been an angry drunk? Had she ever even seen him drunk? She chewed on her lip and pictured the sanctity of her room spoiled by this drunken, angry, sweating boy.

  “I really don’t know.”

  “Seriously? You owe me, Ellie.”

  “Look, I’m not sure where my key is right now. I hid it somewhere to keep it safe, but when I find it—”

  “Can you look for it now, please?”

  She crossed her legs. “No, actually. I can’t. I’m enjoying myself. When I feel like getting up, which means losing this chair, I’ll look for it and let you in. All right?”

  Callum shook his head, then swayed as if the motion made him ill. “You’d rather not lose a chair than help out a friend?”

  “It’s not—”

  “Nope. I get it. I finally get it. You’re only nice when you want something. Lorna’s tried telling me that for months, but I wanted . . .” He shook his head and laughed. Then held up his hands and walked away, disappearing into the party. Ellie leaned back in the chair and waved her new friends back over. They filled her glass and they talked and they laughed and Ellie thought briefly of Callum and wondered what he would do if she continued to refuse his request. Then she drank more wine and let the thought float away.

  Across the room on the sofa whose base was now so broken the cushions sank almost all the way to the floor, Oliver attempted to get into the ginger girl’s knickers. Other than being ginger she was exactly his type: thin but big-chested, clear skin, someone he hadn’t known before tonight. She was also, as he was learning, a terrible cock tease. Each time he dove in for a kiss, she turned her head or put her glass to her mouth. But then she’d place her hand on his thigh and squeeze. He’d groan, a little louder than needed, and try to kiss her again. Several times, he strongly indicated they should go upstairs to his quiet, private bedroom, but she wouldn’t budge, even though the way she sat on his lap made him want to drag her upstairs like a Stone Age caveman. He thought if maybe he could remember her name, it might help to move things along.

  Despite all this, he knew the party was a success. As he’d suspected, it hadn’t taken much for Ellie to break her rules, and the rest, like the sheep they were, went along with it. With Lorna, the chief no-fun instigator, nowhere to be seen, he knew that meant she’d packed it in and would not be bothering them for the rest of the night. He’d managed to capture the corner of the ginger’s mouth with his own when the music cut out, the sudden silence then replaced with a slow song. He rolled his eyes at first, but the ginger seemed to be into it, rolling her body in rhythm against his, lowering her head to his neck where she licked the sweat from his skin. He got lost in her touch. Until she burst out laughing. Anger filled him like a flash flood and he was about to shove her off when he realized she wasn’t laughing at him.

  “What is she doing?” the ginger whispered.

  Maeve—a very, very drunk Maeve—danced by herself in the center of the front room, doing what he thought she thought were seductive moves. A crowd gathered as she ran her arms over her body, the dress that made her look like an overstuffed banana. The fabric was riding up her crotch and sticking there, thanks to sweat and static electricity. When her hand reached her mouth and she sucked on a finger, Oliver smothered his laugh. He looked across the room at Ellie, and they shared a smile. They knew someone should stop her before she really embarrassed herself, but neither of them moved.

  Maeve swayed as she undid the top button of her dress. Someone in the crowd shouted, “Oh shit!” and everyone laughed, but Maeve didn’t notice. She undid the second button and someone else whistled.

  Someone really, really needed to stop her.

  Oliver held the ginger tighter on his lap. She whispered something in his ear that he didn’t remember, but it made him laugh. The third button came undone and then the fourth, and Maeve started to work her shoulder free from the dress. People laughed harder when it was clear her fat arm got trapped in the sleeve.

  Maeve let her stuck arm hang and undid the next button with her other hand, exposing the plain tan bra underneath. She looked at Oliver then as if he were the only one in the room, and he leaned back against the sofa with his arms over his head and th
e ginger nestled against his side. Maeve’s strip halted as she attempted to remove her other arm, which had also become stuck. The entire party, having sniffed desperation like hounds on a fox hunt, was in the room now, excited to see what would happen next.

  “What’s going on?”

  Callum burst through the crowd, hesitated, then stepped in front of Maeve to shield her.

  “Maeve, stop. Stop. Come on. Put your clothes on,” he whispered, trying to help her button her dress as her clumsy fingers fought to stop him.

  “Aw, Callum.” Oliver grinned. “I was enjoying the show!”

  Callum glared but kept talking to Maeve. “Come on. That’s enough now.”

  “But I want to be noticed,” she slurred. “I want to be noticed!”

  “Trust me. Everyone noticed. Let’s get you to bed.”

  “No!” Maeve slapped him across the face. The crowd whooped and cheered. Ellie could no longer keep it together and laughed like a hyena.

  “I don’t want to go to bed. I’m at a party, and I want to have fun!” She raised her arms above her head and jumped, her tits popping out of the dress Callum had tried to close. The crowd cheered.

  “Leave her be, Tripod.” Oliver pushed himself up, ready to intervene. “She’s having a good time, aren’t you, Maeve?”

  Callum shoved him away. Oliver staggered back, then punched Callum in the eye. The crowd gasped. Fists raised, Oliver turned to the ginger and smiled. He looked back at Callum. Callum punched him square in the jaw, sending him back onto the couch.

  Fight, fight, fight . . . the crowd chanted.

  With a growl, Oliver launched himself at Callum. The two little boys—for that was all they were at this point—collided and tumbled in a drunken heap. Both got their punches in as they rolled on the floor. Maeve, in an attempt to dodge the melee, smacked the back of her head against the mantel, toppling the empty bottles that had been left there. Indistinct whoops and cheers echoed from the crowd until Hollis muscled his way through.