by Ryan Casey
The traffic lights flicked back to red.
ONE
Ashley Chester woke to the sound of his phone vibrating on his desk. He reached over for it without opening his eyes, wondering whether it was the first alarm of the day or the second.
Or the third, fourth or fifth. At least he’d set his alarm with good intentions.
He fumbled around the wooden desk for the phone, eventually hitting the screen and cancelling the piercing sound. His head was throbbing. He could feel nausea right in the pit of his stomach. He wasn’t in any mood to get out of bed, not yet.
He opened his eyes slightly and regretted it right away. The light above beamed down onto him. He must’ve left it on when he got in from the club last night. No wonder he felt rough—always felt worse when he slept with a light on for some reason.
He looked to his left. Phew. At least he was alone, nobody else here beside him. He liked going out and pulling, but he didn’t have the best of luck. Kind of a joke with the lads, his luck. But even if he’d pulled the most attractive bird in Preston last night, he was still glad to be alone, especially with his head throbbing like this and his every movement sending aches and pains around his body.
Ashley covered his eyes. Rubbed his hands against his sweaty, tender head. He had a day off work at least. Not that work was the most demanding place in the world—standing behind an empty bar during the daylight hours and serving whatever afternoon alchies walked through the door. Still, the mundanity of the job was part of the problem. With nothing to focus on but the smell of boozy breath and the silence of the bar, he’d only feel even worse.
He tasted a bitterness on his tongue. Vodka Coke. Or a Jager Bomb. Or both. Fuck. How many drinks had he had last night?
But this taste. It was getting stronger. He could feel his stomach starting to bloat. He lifted himself upright, holding his breath and throwing the white bedsheets from over him, then dashed across the wooden floor of his flat towards the bathroom on the right-hand side. He just had to keep it cool. Hold his breath then puke in the toilet. Hold his breath then…
As he opened the door, he was met with a pungent vomit smell.
As well as a woman leaning over his toilet and throwing up.
Ashley stood there for a few seconds, completely forgetting about the vomit seeping up towards his throat. This woman was big. Like, really chunky. The toilet seat was dripping with carrot-laden sick, as was the white tiled floor, and the shower. Even the sink was filled with brown, rancid-looking fluid.
The girl turned around. Looked at Ashley with her chubby face, hair stuck to her sweaty, sick-covered cheeks. She smiled. “Mornin’. Thought I’d use yer loo.”
Ashley wasn’t sure whether it was the realisation that he had in fact slept with somebody he wouldn’t sleep with sober—putting it lightly—or just the fact that he’d drank too much last night, but he too vomited onto the tiled bathroom floor in front of him, wondering where his life had gone so damn wrong.
Ashley nibbled on the edge of a dry piece of toast. The woman opposite him—who had cleaned herself up but didn’t exactly look his kind of girl—wolfed down slice after Nutella-laced slice of toast. Every bite she took, crumbs dribbling down her double chin, made Ashley’s stomach turn with nausea as he chewed what he could of the cardboard-like bread.
Neither of them said a word.
The door to the bathroom was closed, but it wasn’t doing a great job of containing the mess that Ashley knew was in there. Neither were the hundreds of deodorants and air fresheners he’d sprayed. And yet here this girl was, grinning away, helping herself to his food after spewing her guts up. It should be her on her hands and knees clearing it up, yet somehow, Ashley felt like the guilty one. Like she was punishing him for their one-night stand. Fuck. A one-night stand with her was punishment enough.
After she’d finished what must have been her eighth or ninth slice of toast, Ashley escorted her to the door of his flat with his arm around her shoulder. Again, he didn’t say much. Just enough to get her out of his flat. Fast. He wasn’t planning on doing anything today, not with his head throbbing like it was, not with the burning tang of vomit in his mouth.
But the problem in the bathroom. Shit. He supposed he’d have to see to it eventually. Just not…not right now, anyway.
He smiled at the girl, woman, whatever, as he opened up the heavy door of his flat.
“See you round town again,” she said, grinning at Ashley as she walked down the corridor, which was lined with other flats.
Ashley nodded. Smiled. But he closed the door as quickly as he could. Wouldn’t want anyone seeing her walking away from his—
“Oi, I think I left me phone.” A bang on his door. Another bang.
Ashley bit into his tongue and sighed. This was a nightmare. A legitimate nightmare. Her phone? Where the hell had she left it?
“I…I’m not sure you—”
“Just let us back in for another look, mate.”
Ashley heard a door open down the corridor. He knew what he was going to have to do. To let her back in. To show everyone else how much his standards had slipped since Grace. Otherwise he could be done for theft, couldn’t he? Theft for having this heffer’s phone in his possession.
He lowered the handle of the heavy door and opened it up again. He tried not to look the girl directly in the eye, squinting as the bright lights of the corridor outside pierced into his room again.
The girl started to move back towards Ashley’s room, hand stuffed in her black leather handbag. Behind her, one of the neighbours, Ross, looked on with raised eyebrows. He pursed his lips together and pretended to whistle, tilting his head at the girl. Ashley could only stand and wait as his cheeks got hotter and hotter.
“Oh, wait,” the girl said. “Got it ‘ere after all.” She giggled—or rather snorted—as she waved her greasy Blackberry in Ashley’s face.
Ashley raised his eyebrows and smiled. He swore he could still smell the sick on her breath, mixed together with Nutella. A beautiful mix…
“Well, see you round—”
“Yeah. Bye.” Ashley slammed the door shut before anybody else could see the one-night stand walking out of his room. He held the cold steel handle. It was too late anyway. Ross was the worst possible neighbour of his to see this girl leaving his flat because he’d definitely tell Carlo, and Carlo would definitely tell the world. Carlo exaggerated, too. Hell only knew how he was going to exaggerate about this girl. She was an exaggeration in herself.
After listening and making sure the girl’s heavy footsteps had disappeared down the corridor, Ashley turned around to his room. The marble worktop was covered with crumbs from the toast. The bed, over on the right of the studio flat, looked much more unappealing now he knew he’d…Ugh. He’d done whatever with her in there last night. Possibly multiple times.
His arms prickled. Another knot of nausea in his stomach.
Worst of all was the door. The white bathroom door, closed shut, hiding the mess behind it. He knew he was going to have to deal with it eventually. And it was going to be horrible to deal with whenever he did. But not now, surely? He’d just end up being sick again. Being sick and messing everything up all over again.
Damn that fat girl. Damn himself for being so drunk and stupid as to invite her back. Kind of got what he deserved, in a twisted sort of way.
Ashley heard his phone rumbling against the desk at the side of his bed again. He looked over to it. Saw the way the light peeked through from underneath the blackout blinds. He always left a little gap between the blinds and the windowsill. Something Grace used to always be all OCD about. Because what was the point of blackout blinds if you weren’t going to black anything out, Ashley used to always argue. But here he was, one year after the freak accident—one year after he’d lost Grace—still doing it. Still reminding himself of her in any little way he could.
Ashley staggered in the
direction of his rumbling phone. The sickness in his stomach, the taste of vomit in his mouth at sleeping with this other girl, he knew it was harsh. But he always felt sick after waking up with someone new, no matter whether they were supermodel material or underwear model or whatever. Because they weren’t Grace. And they never would be, never again.
He sat on the right-hand side of the bed, where this girl he’d slept with must’ve stayed judging by the warmth of it, and he let the alarm on his phone continue buzzing. He covered his eyes with his hands, let the phone buzz as he sat on the warm side of the bed and imagined he could hear Grace in the shower. Imagined she was going to come walking back towards him, smelling of that sweet perfume she always wore, kissing him with those cherry-flavoured lips. And sure, his friends joked around with him since she’d gone. And he joked along with them. Pretended he’d moved on. Allowed himself to bear the brunt of the banter because that’s what lads were supposed to do.
But he loved her. And he missed her. And he couldn’t picture a day of his life where he wasn’t going to smell her gorgeous blonde hair, or squeeze that pointy little nose of hers.
He realised then that the room was silent. Sure, there was traffic outside, and footsteps echoing from the flats above, but his phone had stopped vibrating. Weird, considering it was his alarm. He hadn’t been aware it timed out like that.
He reached over for it. Picked it up. Hit the circular wake button, which had been chipped when he’d dropped it—another drunken accident of his.
It was then that Ashley realised his alarm hadn’t gone off. In fact, he hadn’t even set any.
Instead, he had four missed calls. The first two numbers weren’t in the contacts on his phone. The initial impression he got from this was that the girl he’d slept with must’ve got his number. Or he’d given his number to some other girl.
But it was the number underneath that caught his eye. Or the name, rather. A name he hadn’t seen for a long, long time. And the calls were so close together.
Steve Wisdom. Grace’s brother.
He swallowed back a lump in his throat as he stared at Steve’s name right there. Steve was a police officer, so the first idea Ashley got was that maybe Steve had seen him doing something stupid or another last night. Or maybe Ashley had spoken to him and told him to give him a call. But…Steve and him were hardly best of mates, even when Ashley and Grace were together. So it was strange. Truth be told, he’d forgotten he even had Steve’s number in his phone.
The phone jumped. Started vibrating again. Ashley shook as it did. It was Steve again. Steve, ringing him again, after all those other calls in the last hour. What did he want? What the hell had he done?
“Fuck it,” Ashley muttered under his breath before bringing his phone to his ear. He closed his eyes. Took in a deep breath and tensed his muscles. “Steve,” he said, his voice breaking and crackling. “Long time no speak. Sorry I missed your calls, it’s just—”
“She’s back, Ashley,” Steve said.
He didn’t say anything else for a few seconds. His voice was weak. Mumbly. Shaking, like he’d been crying. It was echoey too, like he was in some kind of public area.
“What do you…What do you mean?” Ashley asked. He frowned. He couldn’t understand what Steve was saying at all. Some reason, he thought Steve might be on about the fat girl Ashley had banged last night and was warning him that she was coming back to his flat for more Nutella-laced toast. But no. That didn’t make sense. It didn’t add up.
“She’s back. Grace, she’s back. She’s…She’s come back.”
TWO
Ashley Chester threw on the first clothes in sight—some grey jogging bottoms, a white t-shirt with a faded American flag on the front, and a red hoodie. His head pulsated. His mind raced. He played Steve’s words over and over in his head.
She’s back. Grace, she’s back.
Steve hadn’t said much else. Or maybe he had. Ashley wasn’t sure. Because his head was spinning. He wanted to tell Steve he was a sick bastard. Wanted to tell him that he was a sick fuck for making up jokes and pulling pranks like that about his own sister.
But then the multiple calls. The pain in Steve’s voice. He…he really believed she was back.
How was that possible?
Ashley kept his head down as he stormed down the corridor of his block of flats. He heard a muffled voice somewhere beside him—a laugh, and a few whistles. In fact, he could see people in their flat doors, too. He could see the blurry silhouettes of people either side of him, one of them Carlo—always Carlo.
But he kept his head down. He couldn’t do anything else. Kept his head down and walked as Steve’s words bounced around his skull, shoving everything else aside.
Preston Police Station. That was another thing Steve had mentioned. Where Ashley was supposed to go to see Grace again. Where she’d apparently just turned up. He jogged down the stairs of the block of flats, down from his second-floor flat and towards the double doors. His skin prickled with heat. The nausea of earlier churned up inside him, stronger than ever—but for an entirely different reason.
He rushed for the double doors at the front of the flat block and crashed into them. As he did, the cold spring air outside washed his face. The light from the bright, part-sunny sky was way too bright for this time of day, especially when he was hungover.
But Grace. She was back.
As he jogged across the parking lot towards the bus stop just outside his flats, in his head he went over and over the idea of Grace being back. Breathe deep. Think rationally. How could she be back, for one? She’d been lost. Lost, just like the other hundred-and-whatever victims of the Preston sinkholes. As he sat on the hard seat of the bus stop, the exhaust fumes of the horn-honking cars flying past him on the main road into Preston town, he remembered the day so well because it had started just like today: hungover and sitting at this bus stop.
He looked up to the spot where it had happened. Where the roundabout, peppered with daffodils and all sorts of flowers that he didn’t know the species name of, now stood. In the middle of it, there was a tall boulder, with the words, “Remembering the 114” embossed on it. Underneath these bold words, all of the names were listed. All of the names that were lost in the five huge sinkholes that struck Preston that day on April 20th 2013. Almost a year ago exactly.
He pictured it. Thought back to the immense traffic around the junction leading into Preston town. He remembered sitting right here, grinning as Grace’s blue Yaris waited in the queue, honking its horn, revving its engine like all the others. He remembered the exact tastes in his mouth—the taste of cherry Hubba Bubba gum. He’d avoided that gum ever since because he didn’t want to remember the rest of what happened.
But now he had to.
First, the vibrations. The way the ground started to rattle beneath Ashley’s feet as he waited for his approaching bus. The way he thought, at first, it was just all the honking of horns, all the revving engines.
And then he saw the first car fall.
His heart started to thump fast. His stomach churned up. He remembered the road giving way. The first car falling—a black Corsa. And then a white van. And then another, and another, and before Ashley could even think or do anything about it, he watched as the entire bus 4 tumbled down the hole, and then…
A horn honked to his right-hand side. He swung around.
“You gettin’ on, mate?”
The bus 19 was here for him. Its doors were open, and the chubby driver with the greasy brown hair down to his shoulders stared at him with a smile on his face. Always his favourite driver, this guy. Always waited a few minutes for Ashley even when he was hungover to hell.
“Yeah,” Ashley said. He lifted himself from the bus stop seat and looked back down at the roundabout memorial. The place where it had happened. The place they’d filled the sinkhole in, six months after the event, after they’d searched for everybody.
Right a
fter they’d found nothing. Nobody.
“Don’t look dressed for bar work, bud,” the bus driver said, keying in the information for Ashley’s usual town ticket before Ashley even asked him.
Ashley kept staring out of the front window. Grace couldn’t be back. They’d filled the sinkholes in. They’d found nothing, after searching and searching and searching.
She’s back. Grace, she’s back.
“I, er…” Ashley started, turning to the bus driver. “I’m not going to work today. Police station, please.”
The bus driver halted. Hovered his chunky hand over the grey monitor. His eyes flicked to Ashley. Examined his face. “Not in any trouble, I hope?”
Ashley took in a deep breath of the musty bus air, trying to stop himself from feeling too sickly again, and shook his head.
“I…No. Just visiting someone. Just…”
He couldn’t finish. The bus driver didn’t press for more. He hit the monitor again another few times. “Well, just ninety pence to the police station, bud.”
Ashley reached into his pocket. Searched around for change. The only thing in there was a crumpled old ten-pound note.
He placed it on the counter. The bus driver stared at it, perhaps even more surprised than he’d looked when Ashley said he’d be going to the police station.
“You know I can’t give you change for that, ‘ey?”
“Keep it,” Ashley said. He tugged his ticket out of the mouth of the ticket machine and walked onto the bus, past the blurred-out faces, whispering voices and beaming eyes.
He sat down. Sat right at the back where nobody else was, and even though the seat underneath him felt slightly damp, he stayed put and stared out of the window.
The bus started to move.
Grace couldn’t be back. It wasn’t possible. It didn’t make sense.
But he figured finding out was worth more than ten pounds and a soggy backside.
