by SJI Holliday
‘I thought you said no one was in there any more?’ she says.
‘There’s not meant to be. I heard the user crew had moved on. Something spooked them. I dunno what. There’s a thing everyone’s trying at the moment, it’s—’
‘I’m not really interested in the latest headfuck of choice. That shit’s for losers.’
Mark grins. ‘Maybe you should live a little, Laura. You’re too straight for your own good.’ He doesn’t let her react. He’s trying to wind her up, and it’s working. ‘Actually, tell you what – I know the perfect place to go right now, if you’re up for a bit of fun. What time is it?’
‘Nearly three, why? What you thinking?’ Laura hopes he’s going to suggest going back to his place. She knows that both of his parents are out all day at work. There’s no point going back to hers, with her mum doing her stupid stuffing-envelopes-for-cash job, and her dad doddering about in the garden, waiting for his next project to come in. He works freelance in IT, and it’s always a case of him sitting about bored for weeks on end, or never seeing him for months while he jets off to work twelve-hour shifts in Dubai or somewhere. He’s on a home stint at the moment, and he’s doing her head in.
Mark grabs her hand and starts walking fast down the road towards town. ‘When was the last time you went to the shows, Laura?’
Laura frowns. ‘Not since I was about ten and I got scared by the midget in the seven dwarves exhibit. There was a Shetland pony in there too, for rides. I don’t know what I was more scared of.’
Mark laughs. ‘I remember that! They don’t do stuff like that any more, though. Not politically correct or something. Shame. My sister loved the Shetland pony. Come on. I think it opens at three.’
‘I don’t know. I’m not really great on those rides and, Christ, the food from the vans there is awful.’
‘Come on. I’ll try and win you a goldfish. You can call it after me.’
They don’t give out goldfish any more . . . too many people complaining about it being cruel, Laura thinks, but she doesn’t correct him. She lets herself be dragged, just happy that she’s holding his hand. She wonders if he’ll drop it when they’re out on the main road, where people might see them. She hopes not.
She decides not to tell him that the last goldfish she had died after three days . . . and her dad flushed it down the toilet.
* * *
The shows are already in full swing, despite it being early in the day. Everyone’s still off school, so there’ll no doubt be a load of people from her year hanging around. Younger kids, too – with parents more than happy to spend too much cash on the hook-a-duck if it keeps the bairns occupied for a while.
Laura doesn’t have any younger siblings, and her older brother moved out three months ago, the minute he turned eighteen. He lives in a shared flat in Edinburgh now, and she’s hoping she might get an invite to one of his many parties before long. He’s still playing the protective big brother with her, though – which is nice but doesn’t really help her in her quest to become more worldly-wise. Was that not the whole point of big brothers? Mark has an older brother and sister, and some of the things she’s heard about them make Laura ache with jealousy, mixed with shock . . . and awe. Maybe Mark’s right – she needs to live a bit. It’s not like she’s going to do something stupid like get mixed up in drugs and end up pregnant before she’s old enough to go to university, is it?
The fairground – or the shows, as they call them locally – are set up on a piece of empty grassland on the edge of town, opposite an old cemetery, not far from the local golf course. It’s a huge expanse of land, but she can’t remember seeing much happening on there apart from the annual visits from the shows and the circus. It’s the kind of land that’s too big and too plain to have much use for playing on. It’s not level enough for football, and it’s too exposed to play host to any more interesting games. Most people still hang about in Garlie Park across the other side of town, where there’s an adventure playground, tennis courts and loads of space for games – as well as loads of dark, wooded areas for people to get lost in while they drink or snog or whatever else they do in shady corners. For a small town, Banktoun has its share of places for kids to hang about – she doesn’t know how anyone could ever be bored. She loves the leisure centre, too – the only one in the county to still have a full-length slide into the deep end, although it seems to be out-of-order more often than not. Too many half-drowned kids getting fished out can be a bit of a health and safety nightmare.
From the outside, you can’t see much – there’s the backs of the rides – the Waltzer, the Octopus . . . then the backs of the food stalls, already spewing out their temptingly disgusting aromas of cheap greasy burgers and sticky candyfloss. Tooth decay on a stick, her mum used to call it. Laura has never been keen, being more of a savoury girl. Burgers from a van, though – they’re a special thing – you get dragged towards them by the smell, and they taste so good, in a totally wrong sort of way, but they always give her a sore stomach afterwards. It’s not going to stop her today, though. Or maybe she might have a poke of chips, sitting up high on the Speed Wheel with Mark, swinging her legs and tasting salt in his kisses. She wonders if he’ll take her back to his after this. She gets a flutter in her stomach again, imagining it.
The music is pumping hard out of several sets of speakers as they walk hand in hand through the gap between two food stalls. Directly opposite, a dad is helping a five-year-old boy hold a rifle on his shoulder, prepping him to shoot some skittles to win a giant SpongeBob SquarePants toy. Laura pauses to watch, seeing the look of concentration on the small boy’s face.
‘Three goes for two quid,’ the man behind the counter says, looking straight at her. ‘Up for it, love, or want to get your boyfriend to try?’
‘Come on,’ Mark says, ‘we’ll come back later.’
Laura hangs back, waiting for the boy’s first shot. It hits the foam wall behind the skittles, wildly off target. The boy holds tight to the gun but turns to his dad. Laura can’t see his face, but she can imagine his look of bewildered disappointment. ‘Here,’ the dad says, ‘let me try, then you can take the last one, OK?’
Mark pulls at her hand again, and this time she follows. ‘Fancy a go on the Dodgems?’ he says. ‘I haven’t been on those in years.’
‘OK. But after that, I want to go there.’ She points over at a small tent draped with a purple cover. A gold-painted sign sits outside, where a black velvet curtain has been dropped down and kept shut by a gold rope. A sign says: ‘Reading in progress. Please wait.’
‘A clairvoyant? Are you mad? They’ll tell you all sorts of shit, they will. You know they just make it all up, right? My sister went to one on Brighton pier, she told me all about it – said it was one of those ones that’s meant to be world renowned, endorsed by celebrities and all that. They told her she was pregnant, but that she would lose the baby . . . and they said that her boyfriend was seriously ill. They told her she would take a job in the legal profession and she would move to another country by the end of the year. That was five years ago. She lives round the corner from us, with a guy she met a year after that – they’ve got three kids and she’s pregnant again now. At the time of the reading, she’d just qualified as a make-up artist. She was single. She’s never been outside Europe. She gets scared if the menu doesn’t have sausage and chips on it.’ He laughs and shakes his head.
‘OK, maybe not so accurate then.’
‘Right, which is fair enough. But saying stuff about losing a baby – that’s pretty hard-core shit. She was really upset by it. Said she’d never go near one again.’
Laura sighs. ‘Well, I can’t say I blame her. From what I’ve heard, they ask you questions and use them to guide what they say to you. I suppose a lot of it’s guesswork and instinct, based on people’s mannerisms and their age and stuff. They can’t get it all right – it’s more like a psychology experiment than anything.’
Mark rolls his eyes. ‘Ah, right. That�
�s what you want to do at university, isn’t it? Psychology?’
‘Yeah, I was thinking psychology and biology so I could get into behavioural-type stuff – why people do what they do – I think it sounds fascinating . . . I’m thinking of asking Jo Barker if I can use her as a case study.’
‘Jo Barker? She’s fucking mad, doesn’t take a psychologist to work that one out. Just ask your pal Davie. Plod the Mod. He’s practically her guardian now, isn’t he? After she tried to fillet that bloke up at Black Wood . . .’
‘That bloke tried to rape her, Mark. Twice. She didn’t have a choice. I’m more interested in her relationships with other people. What led her to act like she did. Oh, I dunno. I just think it would be good. I want university to be useful, you know?’
‘Well, yeah, that’s kind of the point – as well as the non-stop partying, of course . . . but then I need to get used to that anyway, if I’m going to work in the City.’
‘You still think that’s what you’ll do? Go and be a broker or a funds manager or whatever it is they do there.’
‘Yep – and travel the world, go work in Singapore and New York, and anywhere I want, actually . . . you could always come with me, if you like. You don’t even need to work. I’ll look after you.’ He grabs her and spins her round so they’re face to face, then he kisses her again – no hesitation this time, right in full view of anyone who might be watching. The tingle hits her hard, shoots down her body. Her cheeks burn. He runs a hand up and down her spine, and there’s a moment: dance music blaring out all around them, shrieks and laughter, the pops of rifles, the ringing of bells, the mingling scents of hot dogs and candyfloss, the thick smell of engine oil from the ancient rides, the thump of the Dodgems bumping off each other . . . it all swirls around them both, and they’re lost in each other, in a daze, and Laura thinks that she could never, ever – if she lived for a hundred years – be as happy as she feels right now . . .
‘Oi, you two – get a room!’
Someone slaps her on the back. Her teeth rattle against Mark’s, and Laura bites her lip. She can taste blood. They pull apart. She catches Mark’s eye, and it’s like slow motion . . . they’re still gazing at each other, as if they’ve been drugged. Laura knows right at that minute that she will sleep with him as soon as he asks. She’s sixteen. There’s nothing to stop her, and everything inside her body is telling her she wants it.
The person who slapped her on the back is standing with an arm around each of them. Laura turns to meet his gaze and realises she has no idea who he is. She shrugs herself out from under his clammy grip. He’s about their age, maybe a couple of years older, but he has a hard, weatherworn face, and dirty blond hair. He smells strongly of grease, sweat and fags. He grins at her, showing cigarette-stained teeth. He has no top on and, despite his repulsiveness, she can’t help but notice the defined muscles on his chest. He’s one of the fairground boys. He makes her skin crawl. She moves away from him.
‘Your missus isn’t very friendly, is she, mate?’
‘All right, Gaz. Give it a rest, eh?’ Mark moves away from the other boy, and Laura watches as a cloud seems to darken his face. ‘Listen, Laura – why don’t you wait here, pop in and see that mystic what’s-her-name, if you want? I just need to talk to Gaz about a few things, then I’ll be right back.’
Laura stares at Gaz, trying to read his expression. He is still grinning at her, but his eyes are hard, cold. ‘Off you pop, love. Come back and see me after and I’ll give you the ride of your life.’ He tips his head towards the Waltzer, then plucks a half-smoked cigarette from behind his ear, using the other hand to guide Mark away by the elbow.
‘I’ll come and find you . . .’ Mark’s voice carries on the wind and the two of them disappear into the crowd. She sees them huddled together in between the Dodgems and the Helter Skelter, and then they’re gone.
Laura feels a little shiver. The charged, happy mood from earlier has vanished into the thick, greasy air. She glances around, taking in the hoards of excited children, hands and faces covered in candyfloss, cellophane bags of cheap sprinkle-coated chocolate buttons wedged under their arms. She turns back towards the clairvoyant’s tent and sees that the black curtain has been lifted, tied at the side by the gold rope. A flame-haired woman in a long emerald dress is standing next to the entrance, smiling placidly. How predictable, Laura thinks. She can’t help but be drawn to the woman. Catches her eye. The woman raises a hand, curls a finger towards her, beckoning her.
Laura walks towards the tent.
7
Marie walks home quickly. She’d checked her phone as she’d left the pub and noticed a couple of missed calls and a text, all from Davie. ‘Am I still seeing you later? Call me’ the text says. Maybe later. She’s in no mood for a date now.
She opens the front door to her building and hesitates in front of the row of mailboxes. Number 9 . . . she takes a chance, pulls at the flap on the front, but it doesn’t open. Of course it doesn’t. They’re all locked, and there’s only one key per flat. You can’t even get a copy made. There’s a phone number on the inside of the mailbox with a code on it, and that’s the only place you can get a replacement.
She slides her hand into the narrow flap, but the space is too small. Her fingertips brush against paper. There’s mail in there. Probably just junk. She doesn’t want to imagine that there’s anything in there that’s meant for her.
Forget it.
She pushes open the door of her flat and is almost assaulted by a large brown ball of fur.
‘Oh shit.’ She drops her bag on the floor and picks up the cat. It’s miaowing, but not in a ‘pleased to see you’ sort of way. ‘I’m sorry, Cads. Did I leave you shut in there all day?’
Despite the fatness and furriness, Cadbury has never been much of a house cat. She likes to roam the streets, only coming back occasionally for treats and, if she was feeling particularly loving, a tummy tickle. Cadbury is one of those cats that make you feel like they’re doing you a favour just by hanging around.
Marie can’t remember shutting the cat inside that morning, but she obviously had. ‘I’m starting to think I’m going a bit mad,’ she says to the cat, dropping it on the floor and watching it shoot off into the hall. There’s a cat flap on the main door to the building, but not on her internal door. She usually leaves the kitchen window open so it can come and go as it pleases, but the sky had been threatening rain when she’d left that morning. She must’ve closed it.
She watches as the cat hesitates, turns to look at her, then coughs up a hairball, before disappearing through the flap. She wonders if other pet owners have cats that are capable of such disdain.
Marie takes a tissue out of her bag and picks up the hairball. Tries not to grimace, thinking of the crap that might be packed in there with the hair. She closes the door behind her, balls up the tissue and throws it in the bin. Sighs. She’s in. She’s about to flick the kettle on, when her phone buzzes. Another text.
Davie again: ‘Where are you?’
She replies: ‘Home. Talk tomorrow. Sorry.’
Switches the phone off.
It’s starting already. Pushing him away. She thought that maybe he was the one. The one to help her open up, move on. God knows she’d spent a long enough time trying. But she has that same feeling every time – as soon as someone tries to get close, she clams up. Pulls back. So far they’ve only been out a few times. Kissed. He’ll be expecting more soon, but Marie’s not sure she has more to give. Yes, she could have sex with him. But she knows she’ll feel nothing when they do; and there’s not a damn thing that either of them can do about it.
She makes herself a tea, takes a Twix out of the cupboard. Pulls the letter out of her bag. She takes a bite of the Twix and lays it back down – it’s tasteless. Like sawdust. Her mouth is dry. She takes a drink of tea, but it tastes stale. Bitter. She picks up the letter and tries to stop her hands from shaking. She skims past the lyrics. Sweet Marie . . . Tries to push the voice out of her head.
It’s dated 31 July. Over a week ago.
31st July 2015
Marie,
We were ten, I think. You were playing in my room, I was playing in yours. It was that little game we used to love. You’d pretend to be me, and I’d pretend to be you . . . I know you loved my toys more than I loved yours. Yours were pretty fucking lame, actually. For someone of your obvious intelligence: Sindy dolls, Girl’s World, those books full of cardboard outfits with the little tabs on the sides to hang them on the stupid cardboard dolls? I suppose Mum and Dad were just giving us what they thought they were supposed to.
Pink for girls, blue for boys.
Little did they know that we played our own games, though. . . I remember the first time. Do you? Anyway . . . I was talking about my toys: G.I. Joe (who was pretty much as useless as Sindy, although I did like the idea of the two of them fucking – if they hadn’t had such useless non-genitals), Meccano . . . that chemistry set? We had chemistry, didn’t we, Marie?
I know what you liked best, though.
You were good at it too – much better than me. Smaller hands. More patience. I watched you through the keyhole as you built the final turret on that castle. The smallest of bricks at the top to make it seem as if it was curved. Quite clever
Did you hear me breathing that day, Marie? Did you feel me watching you? I always loved watching you . . .
Anyway. . . that’s it, I think. I’m done now. I started on our birthday and I stopped today. Do you know why I stopped today? I guess you’ll work it out soon. I’m not going to write again But I hope you think of me, Marie. I hope you remember. What we did. All the things we did .
