He grins and takes a long, slow sip of water out of his sports bottle as he stares at me. I see the slight pink of his tongue as it wraps around the end. I’ve never been so jealous of a water bottle in my whole life. He knows exactly what he’s doing and I like it. “I’m into brains,” he says casually.
“Brains and fannies,” says Ruby. “Nice combo.”
“Are either of you anywhere near figuring out women yet?” I ask.
They both laugh at the same time and shake their heads.
“Do lots of people that work at the hospital live here?” Ruby asks.
Ben nods. “Most of this building is full of doctors or nurses. Mainly doctors though, except there are a couple of apartments on the ground floor that aren’t our guys.”
“Who are they?” she pushes.
Ben sort of shrugs. “Solicitors, lawyers and I think a judge. They mostly keep to themselves,” he tells us.
“Except Candy,” interrupts Owen. “She does the complete opposite of keeping to herself.”
“Candy?” I ask, trying to not screw my face up.
Owen smiles. “It’s short for Candice.”
I don’t miss that they both glance at each other. Oh dear.
“So you two have fucked her then?” asks Ruby. “And I take it that you’re not the only two?”
Wow. She really can be blunt sometimes. I stare at Ruby and slowly shake my head. “Don’t answer her,” I say quickly. “We don’t need to know about your—or Candy’s—sex lives.”
“Fine,” she says, “don’t answer it.” She rolls her eyes at me and frowns. “Is it a good place to live?” she asks, turning back to them.
“Yes,” says Owen, glancing between the two of us. “It’s quiet and the people that share the building with you are colleagues, or at least people that understand what it’s like to work the sort of hours we work. It has an indoor gym, pool and underground parking.”
Indoor gym? Ah, that explains the ridiculously short shorts.
“There’s a rooftop terrace and it’s serviced,” he continues. “Not to mention, it’s only a twenty-minute walk from the hospital. What’s not to love about it?”
“Sounds dreamy,” Ruby says jokingly, giving them a couple flutters of her eyelashes.
Suddenly remembering that we still have stuff to get out of the car, I say, “Speaking of dreamy…you both have lovely big muscles.”
Ben rolls his eyes. “How much stuff?”
I give him my best smile. “Only a couple more boxes.”
“And what’s in it for us?” he asks.
I shrug, letting my eyes scan over him. “What do you want?”
Fifteen minutes later I say a sultry goodbye to Ben with promises of seeing them both later at some rooftop birthday party. It feels like the first day at a new school and all the boys are a lot more attractive than the boys at our old school.
“Are you going to sleep with him?” Ruby asks as I push a heavy box across the floor and into my room.
I stop pushing and sit on the top of it and shrug. “I’m not sure.”
“Oooh,” she says, sounding excited. “Are you worried about your stupid rule?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I just don’t like shitting on my own doorstep.”
Ruby screws her face up. “You’re gross at times.”
I smile and throw an empty box at her. “Ha! You’re one to talk.” I watch her run into her bedroom, which is on the wall opposite mine, then I take another good look around our new home.
Plain white walls and huge glass windows stare back at me. Polished wooden floors run throughout the huge, rectangle-shaped apartment and glossy furniture litters the apartment. The living room merges into the dining room that then merges into the U-shaped kitchen, complete with an open breakfast bar and an island in the centre. Open-plan living was definitely on the spec. It has all the modern technology that two young girls could ask for, and I can even connect my iPhone and control the lights, heating and speakers from it.
Mum and dad would love how different this place is. Mum would have been measuring the windows so she could get us proper-fitting curtains and Dad would have been messing around with all the electrical knobs. I sigh loudly. I still miss them like crazy, even after all these years.
Chapter 7
THEN
The Graveyard
The snow hasn’t stopped the whole time we’ve been out here. It’s so heavy that I can no longer see the coffins at the bottom of the grave.
When the last person from the congregation disappears into their warm cars, I crumble all over again. I’m still on my knees, which are now completely numb and freezing to the bone. My fingers are blue and I’m shaking so badly that I don’t think I’ll be able to actually stand up and walk. I don’t care. I want to hurt. I want to feel pain. I want to feel what they’re feeling.
Anger consumes my every waking moment. Why them? Why us? Why was it our car? Why did my brother have to be born? I feel the rage trembling through my veins every single second of every single day. Sometimes it’s lingering in the background, but other times, like right now, it takes over and all I can feel is hatred for what has happened. I hate my life. I hate God. I hate Jesus. I hate Mary for giving birth to Jesus. I hate Michael. I hate myself.
I haven’t slept for more than an hour at a time since it happened, except when I was unconscious. But that doesn’t count. I’m tired. I’m numb. I can’t accept this. I won’t accept this.
With nothing to punch or kick, I throw my head back and look up at the deep grey, fluffy clouds. I open my mouth and feel the snowflakes burying themselves in my mouth, deep down in my throat. I swallow them and then I scream as loud and for as long as I can. I think I start talking to God. I think I ask Him ‘why?’ But I can’t be sure because the girl acting like a complete nutter isn’t really me. Maybe I’ve dreamt all this. Maybe the crash was real but no one died. Maybe I’m still unconscious and these are all just medicine-induced nightmares or some complication of a head injury. Maybe…
“Why?!” I shout up at the sky again. “Why the fuck did you decide to pick on me?”
He doesn’t answer, but I’m not expecting Him to. I don’t think I actually blame Him because I’m not even sure if He exists, but shouting at the clouds and blaming someone makes me feel just that little bit better.
“And what the fuck am I supposed to do now?!” I ask.
I let my head drop forward, forcing the tears and snot to stream down my face again, feeling the thundering sobs rattle and vibrate through my empty chest. I take a deep breath…and then I scream some more.
I don’t know how long it’s been since I started shouting, but my voice is completely gone. I look—and feel—like a complete idiot with my mouth hanging open, so I slump to a sitting position and let my legs dangle over the side of the grave.
“Have you been drinking?” a deep voice asks about five minutes later.
I look up at the stranger and frown at him. He’s wearing black combat trousers and a black collared t-shirt underneath a black jumper, all of which are completely filthy. I don’t think he was at the funeral, but then again, I didn’t really pay attention to who did or didn’t come. I blink at him as he stands at the edge of the grave, patiently waiting for my answer. I notice the mud that’s underneath his fingernails and streaked across his forehead. His hair looks dark, but I can’t really tell because of how much the snow has soaked and flattened it against his head.
“Y-y-yes,” I finally tell him. “Why?”
“I can smell you,” he says. “Whiskey, am I right?”
I didn’t think I’d drunk that much. “Yes. W-w-who are you?” Maybe he’s a friend of Michael’s, I think. I quickly glance at him again but decide he’s older than us, maybe early twenties.
He doesn’t answer me, nor does he look at me. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t want to look at someone who has cracked into five separate pieces.
“I’m a nobody,” he finally says. He lea
ns forward and looks into the grave, shaking his head. “Do you know who they were?”
I don’t answer him. Would I be sitting here, looking like a complete mess, if I didn’t know them?
He finally turns and faces me properly. I see his pale blue eyes that look almost ghostly against the white snow that’s littering his face. “Who were they?” he whispers.
I wipe my nose with the back of my hand and sniff. “My whole family.”
“What?” he asks, looking confused. “What do you mean?”
What else could I possibly mean? “Why are you here?” I ask.
He rubs at the dark stubble on his chin as what I’ve just said finally registers. “Shit,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry.”
“Why are you here?” I ask again.
He sucks in a deep breath and says, “Honestly?”
I blink at him through the falling snow and nod.
He shrugs his shoulders. “Morbid curiosity.”
“Are you being sarcastic?”
“What? No,” he says, turning slowly towards me. His eyes lock with mine and widen. “No, I was just curious. Forget the morbid bit. Sorry.”
I don’t know what he’s doing here or what he wants, so I just stare at him, willing him to go away and leave me alone to my own pool of pity.
“I had to dig this out,” he says, nodding towards the grave. “I was wondering why I had to dig it so big. Normally, they’re single or double. Never this big.”
I turn and look down where the snow-covered coffins lie side-by-side at the bottom of the grave that this guy had the misfortune of digging out. “I should be in there,” I confess. For some reason it feels good to tell a complete stranger what’s going on in my head.
“No, you shouldn’t,” he says confidently.
I huff and decide that I should get up. My bum is so cold that I’m afraid I’ll get piles. My mum used to tell me that all the time when I sat outside on the steps, reading my books until bedtime. I know it’s not true, but I can’t get the thought of potential piles from out of my head now that’s it’s there.
I place my cold hand onto the snow and try to push myself up from off the ground. I stagger on my shaking, numb legs and slip on some slushy mud. My knees don’t bend properly, causing me to stumble, and then I feel my feet disappearing back into the hole. My legs quickly follow them. I hit the ground and huff as my ribs take the impact. I start sliding across the wet, damp mud.
“No!!”
My hands lash out across the snow, but it’s completely useless. There’s nothing to grab onto and nothing to save me.
Oh, no. Please, no.
“Help!” I scream.
He scrambles around the grave towards me as my bum slips over the edge. I push my fingers into the wet mud and dig them in as far as they’ll go, but it’s not enough.
“Hurry!” I call. My hands are a mixture of snow and mud. And failure.
No, no, no.
I feel sick. I can’t go in there.
Just as my body slips over the edge, I feel wet fingers circling around my hand. I feel a stab of pain in my sprained wrist, but I ignore it. He holds on for a second and then I continue to fall.
Oh, God.
I’m pulling him in too, dragging yet another person down with me. I deserve to freeze to death in that hole. But that doesn’t mean he does. “Let go!” I scream.
My chest drops off the edge and his fingers remove themselves from my hands. There’s a horrible split-second where it feels like everything’s moving in slow motion, and then I feel hard wood beneath me and hear the sound of my face hitting against one of the coffins.
I open my mouth to scream but nothing comes out and nothing comes in either. There’s no air down here. There’s no oxygen in this hole. If there’s no oxygen, then how can they breathe? I feel vomit tickling the back of my throat and try to swallow it down. I will not puke on them.
“Hey!” he shouts. “Are you alright?”
I open both of my eyes and scramble over the top of the brass plaque. I brush the snow off and start to cry over the engraved words.
ANDREW CHRISTOPHER MILLER
Died 10th December 2014
Aged 52 years
I’m on top of my Dad. Of all the people in the world who would catch me, I should have known it would be him. He would be laughing if this were happening in one of those old comedy films he used to like.
“I’m so sorry, Dad,” I whisper.
“Grab my hand!”
I start to shake my head. This hasn’t happened. I’m not really stuck at the bottom of the grave with my family—all of them dead except me. I’m not.
The guy above me is muttering, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
I look up at the sky and feel the hot tears making a streaky path through my snow-covered face.
“Take my hand,” he says. “Now.”
I feel nothing. I think about nothing. I stand up on shaking legs and take his hand, and then I’m being pulled upwards. It hurts my wrist, but I don’t say anything. I like the pain. It’s a reminder of what I’ve done.
“Fuck!” he breathes as he pulls me out of the grave.
I feel the cold, wet mud underneath me and look back at the hole he’s just dragged me from and back up at him to see his pale, horrified face. And then I lose it. I snatch my hand from out of his grasp and start to crawl away from the hole, gasping for breath.
“No air,” I pant in between sobs.
“What?” he asks, scrambling away from me.
“There was no air down there!” I shriek. “They can’t breathe!”
He stops scrambling and wiping snow from off of him and gapes at me. “You just fell into your family’s grave and you’re worried that they can’t breathe?” He pushes his dirty hands through his hair and then rubs his face.
I don’t answer him. I’m crying so hard that I can’t speak.
“I should get you home,” he says.
I shake my head.
“You have to,” he tells me.
“I’m staying here,” I mumble.
“You can’t.”
“I can and I am.”
“I’m taking you home,” he tells me again.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m staying here with them. I’m going to sleep here and when the cold finally kills me, you can tell the church that I want to be buried in there with them.”
“Don’t be stupid,” he spits.
“I’m not,” I say, feeling my cheeks burn.
“I won’t let you,” he says.
“You can’t stop me.”
He huffs and folds his arms across his chest. “You’re a stubborn little mule, aren’t you?”
I don’t answer.
“You’ll get pneumonia,” he tells me. He unfolds his arms and strides across the slush towards me. I feel his hands underneath my arms and then he hauls me to my feet.
“Put me down!” I scream. I kick against the grass and try to peel his hands off me, but it’s no use. I feel his strong arms wrap around me and I know in that instant that I’ve already lost the fight.
He picks me up and marches across the grass until he reaches the road and shoves me into a dark green Land Rover Defender. Before I can find the door release, he’s in the seat next to me, pulling my seatbelt across my chest. He starts the engine and then his wheels spin over the tarmac.
He jabs at a button on the radio and a song about lost love comes floating through the speakers. I think about what’s just happened and feel a pain deep in my stomach as if I’ve just been booted. I gasp for air but there’s nothing there. He doesn’t move. His arms are locked straight onto the steering wheel and his eyes are hooded. I scream and feel my hands scrambling around to grab a hold of something. I can’t be in here with him. He’s suffocating me. That’s why I can’t breathe. It’s because of him. I have to get out.
“Get me out of this car!” I yell. “I want to get out.”
He drives away in the opposite direction from my h
ouse.
“No!” I shout, trying to grab the wheel from him.
“Oi,” he snaps. “Pack that in.”
“Stop the car,” I tell him. “Stop!” I unfasten my seatbelt and lean across him.
“Listen,” he hisses. “Stop this right now. You’re going to get us both killed.” He slaps at my hand. “Do you understand, Ariel? You’re. Going. To. Get. Us. Killed.”
His words finally register in my head and I see what I’m doing in a sort of out-of-body experience. I slump back into my seat when I realise that this is just the same as what Michael did to me. The car starts to slow down and then the guy swings it into a verge between the bushes that stick out over the road.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, hearing the shock that clings to my words. “I don’t know what I was doing.”
“It’s alright,” he says in his deep voice. “Are you done now?”
I nod. “Yes. I’m sorry.”
He nods once and pulls away again. The Land Rover bumbles down the lane towards the east side of the village.
I turn my head away from him and watch the snowy hills drift past the windows.
“They’re gone,” I tell him.
“What?”
“My family,” I whisper. “They’re gone.”
“I know,” he says quietly.
I sniff and angrily wipe the hot tears from off my cold face. “I want my mum.”
Chapter 8
NOW
The Party
I take one last look at myself in the full-length mirror and sigh. I’ve never felt comfortable dressing up like this. I might act like it, always appearing as if I’m full of confidence, but I’m not. I’m a fake. What I really want to wear is a pair of fluffy fleece pyjamas with matching silly slippers. I want to make hot chocolate with marshmallows and cream and snuggle in front of a warm fire. I shake my head. Thinking like that won’t get me anywhere. Thinking like that can only lead to trouble, and it’s the kind of trouble I’ve been running from for the past six years.
Noah and Me Page 4
