The Accident

by Dawn Goodwin

  ‘I’m Mark.’ He took a sip, then said with narrowed eyes, ‘You’re intriguing.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment, shall I?’ I countered, not sure what to make of it.

  He pointedly looked at my left hand. I looked down too and noticed I hadn’t put my rings back on after baking.

  ‘I’m starving. Crisps?’ he said, pushing up from the stool. His T-shirt rode up to show an inch of tight stomach. I nodded and watched as he swaggered away. What the hell was wrong with me?

  As soon as he was out of earshot, Scarlet leaned in. ‘Look at you! Acting the wanton woman. I’ve taught you well,’ she said proudly.

  ‘I know, what am I thinking? He’s half my age, for God’s sake!’

  ‘And way too cute for you,’ she teased, nudging me. She fiddled with her drink, looking suddenly quite staid. ‘Look, all jokes aside, are you sure you know what you’re doing? After last time…’

  ‘I’m not doing anything.’

  ‘Okay, I’m just… you know… we laugh about this stuff, but…’

  ‘I’m having fun. That’s what you wanted!’

  She looked at me, her eyes boring into mine, then laughed. ‘You’re right. Well, if you need me to disappear, all you have to do is say.’

  ‘What? Look, I’m sorry I snapped.’

  ‘No, I mean it. You don’t need me here as a third wheel. I’ll go so that you can have a drink and a chat, a bit of a flirt, then head home. Come on, it’ll be good for you – blow out the old woman’s cobwebs and all that. I’ll make myself scarce.’

  What scared me wasn’t the idea of sitting in a bar with a stranger and playing a dangerous game, but my feeling of nervous excitement and the realisation that Scarlet wouldn’t have to work too hard to convince me into it. I thought about Tom for a fleeting second, my stranger of a husband, then my teenage alter ego pushed the old lady back into her rocking chair and closed the door on her. I needed to feel that high again, the darts of adrenalin and the thrill of hanging onto control by my fingertips. Guilt tickled my earlobes at how quickly I was prepared to dismiss Scarlet though. Were my recent doubts about her clouding my judgement?

  Before I could stop her, Scarlet stood up, put her jacket on and grabbed her bag. ‘Call me and I’ll come straight back if you need me.’

  ‘Ok, Mum.’

  ‘Seriously, do you have a safety word?’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A safety word. You know, a word for when you’re in trouble. All good wingmen need one, especially you after the other night. I don’t want you getting arrested for assault or anything.’

  ‘Okay, how about something like… strawberries?’ I winced at my hearts and flowers suggestion.

  ‘Really? That’s what you come up with?’ she mocked. ‘I think it should be something more… meaningful, so that if I see it in a text, I immediately know something has gone tits up.’ She paused again, then said, ‘Like Grace.’ Her eyes flashed as she looked down on me; I felt like she had stolen my breath.

  She smiled – a broad, toothy grin, wicked around the edges – and reached out a hand adorned with red Halloween talons to affectionately stroke my cheek. Sweet and sour in equal measure.

  ‘That’s the one,’ she said. ‘Right, bye,’ and she began to push through the crowd, before she turned back and said, ‘Oh, and no running down the road naked wearing Felicity’s parking cones.’

  Then she was gone.

  I felt weird sitting there without her, exposed and naked, as though someone had stolen my security blanket. My hands were cold and started their familiar dance of wringing and clasping, my state of mind not helped by Scarlet bringing Grace front of mind again when tonight was mostly about trying to forget.

  Before I could bolt, Mark was back with crisps and more wine.

  ‘To break the ice,’ he said, indicating the fresh glasses. My head was already spinning from the vodka, but I didn’t object. I told myself I didn’t have to drink all of it.

  He sat down opposite me, looked at my frantic hands. I sat on them to force them to stop.

  An awkward silence fell. I shifted in my seat; he scanned the bar. I had hoped for something more electric than this. Maybe I should’ve left with Scarlet after all. But what was there at home? Silence and ghosts.

  I took a deep breath. ‘So, tell me something interesting about yourself,’ I offered. A lame opener. At first he didn’t hear me and I blushed as I repeated myself over the music.

  ‘Not much to tell. I work as a barman, I live in a tiny flat up the road… and I love salt and vinegar crisps.’ He tore open the packet and placed it in the middle of the table. ‘Help yourself.’ He grinned.

  I studied him as he ate – his blonde, Bieber quiff, chunky hands and wide shoulders. So much of him was the complete opposite of the man waiting at home for me. Middle age had made Tom even more good-looking in his salt and pepper level-headedness, but distance was our marriage’s buzzword and he wasn’t here right now.

  ‘I used the tab, a bit presumptuous, but hope that’s okay? Struggling manual labourer and all that…’ He shrugged unapologetically, then flashed me a supermodel smile and I heard myself saying, ‘Yes, yes, that’s fine.’

  The sharp smell of vinegar filled my nose and my mouth started to water. Since I had bought the crisps, I figured I could eat them, so I grabbed a couple to give my hands something to do. All the while I was conscious of not making too much noise or looking suggestive as I chewed. It was times like these when I realised how long it had been since I had flirted with anyone. Before panic could set in, I reminded myself that he didn’t know anything about me. I could claim to be anyone I wanted to be and he wouldn’t be any the wiser. My heart shivered in my chest.

  He took a long pull on his beer. ‘So what’s your story?’

  ‘No story.’ I reached for the crisps again.

  ‘Hmmm. Well, here’s to finding out more about you then,’ he replied and lifted his glass.

  I raised my eyes in what I hoped was a seductive way and lifted my glass to meet his. His gaze shifted imperceptibly to the Tag watch on my wrist.

  Our glasses clinked and I heard myself say, ‘To new friends and strange friends.’

  *

  The wine flowed freely, despite my intention not to finish the second bottle. We laughed and joked easily, the alcohol clearly helping. He had a faint accent that I spent ages trying to place in a childish guessing game that he instigated, while I gave away as little truthful information about myself as I could. I wanted to shut my other life away and concentrate on the here and now. No thinking about Tom, Grace, Felicity, Scarlet – none of them. I fed him lies about my life and career – a freelance photographic journalist was the persona I went for – and he seemed to fall for it. I heard myself asking questions and making small talk like a normal woman would in a bar with a stranger, and he was attentive and engaging in return. His opinions were interesting, but tinged with the naivety of the young who think they can save the world. By the time you reach my age, you learn there are some things that can’t be saved.

  I could feel the heaviness in my head as the alcohol took over my senses. At one point, Mark put his hand on mine and I shuddered. It felt heavy, hot and rough to the touch. I looked down at his bulky hands, so different to Tom’s. It felt alien to be touched by a stranger, but not entirely unpleasant.

  He tried to steer the conversation towards my family, digging for more clues, but I ducked and dived expertly. Then he tried compliments, telling me I had lovely ‘soulful’ eyes – that much I knew wasn’t true. By then, his hand was starting to get too hot, claustrophobic, with his damp skin pressing down on mine, so I subtly freed myself and reached into my bag to check my phone. No missed calls, no texts. Fair enough.

  The conversation began to lurch between random topics and I noticed Mark’s face was lopsided with three eyes that swam and floated. It was like I was watching myself from afar, part of me knowing I was very drunk but curious to see how this played out. I didn�
��t want to know what time it was or how much money I had put on the tab, but I was strangely content as the alcohol kept the demons at bay.

  ‘Another one?’ he asked.

  I wasn’t ready for the evening to end yet, but I had drunk enough. Although there was always room for one more.

  I hiccupped in response. ‘I better go to the loo first.’

  ‘Okay, go slow,’ he replied, with a smirk over his shoulder as he headed to the bar.

  I stood up, then quickly sat down as the bar swam in front of me.

  Taking a fortifying breath, I tried again, narrowly avoided another head rush, and staggered to the bathroom.

  Leaning on the sink, I peered through hazy eyes at my mirror image. Tom used to always comment on the sparkle in my eyes. There was no sparkle there now. I pulled my thoughts back to Mark: his youth, his swagger, like the male equivalent of Scarlet – or was that just what I wanted him to be? My inebriated self was convinced he was what I needed right now because he was different. I didn’t want the past with its complications and tragedies. I wanted a future, or the hope of one at least – not with Mark as such, but just the hope of a life where I was moving forward, not just treading water. I immediately felt guilt swamp me for even daring to believe I was entitled to such a thing. I could feel my tongue heavy and swollen in my mouth, but my thoughts were disconnected between past and present. This was all still harmless fun, right?

  I staggered into a cubicle, wrestled with my tight skirt, finished what I had to do, then tried to look sophisticated and in control on the long walk back to the table. I was fooling no one.

  As I approached, Mark was talking to another man. Tall and skinny, he radiated animosity and scurried away like a rat as I took my seat. A fresh, cold glass of wine was on the table in front of me and I immediately grabbed it.

  ‘Friend of yours?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah, kind of. He’s given me something that should really liven things up, if you’re up for it?’

  I frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  He held out his hand to reveal two tiny blue pills lying in his palm like sweets. Each had a childish smiley face stamped on the surface.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘You’ve never tried E before?’

  Drugs had never been our thing as students, so I was very naive on that score. I started to feel ridiculous, old and out of my depth, sitting there in my suffocating skirt, with my make-up starting to run. Some of the lustre went out of the evening, but not wanting to sound like a fool, I answered on reflex, ‘Yeah, course. Just a bit drunk, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s the best time to take it.’

  ‘I dunno, I may call it a night.’

  ‘No, please, I’m really enjoying this, us… If we take this, we can carry on for hours still.’

  I looked down at the pills again. They looked so harmless and friendly with their powder-blue smiles. Scarlet would approve; Tom wouldn’t. But if he wanted to accuse me of popping pills…

  ‘Okay, let me have one then.’ I swallowed it quickly with a gulp of wine and waited for something to happen, not sure what to expect. He was more relaxed at taking his, clearly an expert.

  We carried on talking, but I started to feel like I wasn’t confined to my body any longer. Instead, I was floating above it, like an omniscient camera filming a scene for a movie. I wanted to stay in control, but could feel myself losing my grip. Mark was talking, but it was as if his voice was on fast-forward, rattling through the words, but coming at me through cotton wool. The surf logo on his shirt started to writhe and twist, and I was captivated.

  He had stopped talking and was looking at me so earnestly that I started to laugh, then couldn’t stop. When I managed to stifle my hilarity, I started to talk at him, the words tripping over themselves to escape from my mouth first.

  ‘I think you need coffee. My flat is just up the road.’

  It sounded like the most sensible suggestion I had ever heard.

  *

  Sounds filtered through the mental fog as consciousness started to build. A tap dripping rhythmically; muffled traffic noises; a pneumatic drill in the distance; a whirring of air close to me. My physical presence became apparent, heavy like stone. I was lying on my side on a soft mattress, but my neck was aching as it was propped up on too many hard pillows. I could feel a sheet constricting my legs and I half-heartedly tried to unravel myself. It was the sheet that did it – when do I sleep under sheets? Oh God, where am I?

  My head was pounding. I didn't want to open my eyes because I knew the glare would sting, as would reality. My mouth was papery. I breathed in deeply and slowly opened one eye, then closed it straight away. Somewhere nearby, a phone vibrated on a hard surface.

  How much did I drink last night? I was too tired to think. It must’ve been a lot because I was surely on the edge of death. I lay statue still and willed the darkness behind my eyes to stop spinning and tilting.

  There was a soft snore beside me and my eyes flew open. I looked over my shoulder and saw a hairy, muscled arm. With every ounce of strength, I slowly turned onto my back.

  Ruffled blonde hair over a sleeping pubescent face; a detailed tattoo of a blue-tinged miniature dragon covering an exposed bicep. My mind was slow to react and panic jabbed at me until I could remember: the barman. What the hell was his name? Matthew? Mike? Mark. The panic ebbed slightly, but not for long when awareness of my own body took over. I was naked under the sheet.

  I groaned inwardly and rubbed my hands over my eyes, trying to kick-start memories of the night before, but my head hurt too much and I couldn’t get past the throbbing. Very slowly and quietly, I unravelled myself from the sheets and slid out the side of the bed onto my knees.

  Goosebumps sprung up all over my body as I felt an intermittent blast of cold air. Still kneeling, I wrapped my arms around my waist, feeling exposed and vulnerable. A fan slowly rotated recycled air across the bed. I focused on it, feeling the cold awaken the rest of me, then I dared to look around and take it all in. I was in a non-descript, minimally decorated bedroom that contained a wardrobe with its doors ajar, a chair holding a haphazard pile of clothes, a sports bag regurgitating kit and random items of men’s clothing strewn across a beige carpet.

  I focused on a flash of pink and noticed some of the clothes I was wearing last night thrown into the mix. The bed behind me took up most of the floor space, but I was frightened to turn and look at that again. The cream wall in front of me was dominated by a large, framed poster of a Mexican tequila advertisement. ‘Lick the salt, shoot the tequila, suck the lemon’ shouted out at me in red letters. Even with my reduced mental capacity, the irony was not lost. In front of me were two doors, both open. One looked to lead towards a kitchen area and the source of the dripping tap; through the other I could glimpse white porcelain. I struggled to my feet and tiptoed towards this door, picking up the bits of clothing I recognised as I went. They weren’t all here, but it was a start.

  Very gently closing the door behind me, I rested my head on it and took a steadying breath. Just that slight movement had my stomach churning. I didn’t want to think, but my brain kept repeating to itself, What the hell have you done?

  I turned around and considered the bathroom. It was surprisingly clean. I was expecting a dirty toilet and toothpaste-splattered basin, but instead saw a neat, organised space with matching blue towels hanging haphazardly and toiletries standing in clusters on a small shelf in front of a mirror that was clearly positioned for someone much taller than me. I bent over the basin and splashed some cold water on my face, then braved my reflection. I could just make out the top half of my face peering from the bottom of the mirror: dark, wide panda eyes, jaded complexion, lips stained an unnatural pink and what looked to be stubble rash on my chin. I looked away. My swollen brain was now doing somersaults, banging against my skull as I tried to figure out how I got here, but there was a void where knowledge should’ve been.

  My chest started to heave in panic. I knew I
had to get out of the flat before Mark woke up. I couldn’t face him, could hardly face myself. I dropped my head onto my chest and gripped the edge of the sink with white knuckles. Did I sleep with him? All the evidence was certainly pointing in that direction. I really hoped we used protection if we did.

  This realisation proved one too many to bear and I rushed to the toilet bowl and threw up disgracefully. I immediately felt physically purged; mentally would take more work. I remained on my knees for a second, but the cold of the tiles forced me to stand up. I moved back to the sink, rinsed some water around my mouth and drank a little down in tentative sips. I felt dirty, like there was a thin film of grime on my skin, and my pores smelt musty. Part of me wanted to climb into a scalding shower; another part of me relished my discomfort. Moving as quickly as my physical distress allowed, I started to dress in the few items of clothing I had collected – pink knickers and my skirt; the rest was still AWOL.

  I turned back to the closed door and began to psyche myself up into opening it in case I had woken him with my violent puking. What was I going to say to him, especially wearing just a skirt? I gripped the handle, eased it down and slowly opened the door. He was still in bed, but had turned away from me and was apparently still sleeping the slumber of a young, untroubled mind.

  Holding my breath, I tiptoed into the bedroom, frantically scanning for more clothing. There was none immediately apparent, but I did notice a torn condom wrapper on his bedside table. One mystery solved. It didn’t make me feel any better, just dirtier.

  I headed through the other door and gently pulled it closed behind me. Then I allowed myself to release my breath.

  I was in an open-plan lounge and kitchenette, again minimally decorated, but marginally neater than the bedroom. A leather couch was strategically positioned in front of a large, flat-screen TV unit that also housed various gaming paraphernalia, all alien to me. A coffee table was covered with sports magazines and CD cases. The kitchen had a few cups and plates washed and stacked on a drying rack. Everything shouted bachelor. There were no signs of femininity, no cushions, flowers, photographs even. The only hint of disorder came from my sparkly top and jacket that were tossed near the door and my shoes lying abandoned in the middle of the carpet. Looking closer, I saw my bra dangling from the arm of the couch. That told a story of its own right there. I cringed and let the shame, remorse and disgust claw its way to the surface.