by SJI Holliday
‘Oh, aye,’ Scott says, still trying to engage her. He’s lit another cigarette from the butt of the last one. ‘I had a good chat with your brother the other day. He was coming out of the front door just as I was coming in. Didn’t know who he was, so I just says “All right, mate?” and we got talking.’
Her hand tenses. Her fingers go numb. The bottle slips through her fingers and smashes on the paving.
‘Whoa!’ Scott says. ‘Watch yourself there.’
She doesn’t react, but she can feel herself shaking. ‘The other day,’ Scott said. Before she saw Graeme. Before he came down to her flat. ‘What did he say to you?’ she wants to ask, but she doesn’t. She’s too scared of the answer.
The door to the shed opens and Laura pops her head out. ‘Everything OK?’
‘You got a brush and shovel in there?’ Scott shouts. ‘If you’re not too busy . . .’
Laura reappears a moment later with a long-handled broom. She trots across the lawn, Mark following close behind.
‘Thought you weren’t speaking to him?’ Marie nods towards Mark. She is glued to the spot. Broken glass at her feet.
Laura scowls, but her expression changes as she gets closer. ‘You OK?’ she says to Marie. She starts sweeping up the glass.
‘Will everyone please stop fucking asking me that?’ Marie kicks at the head of the broom and shoves past, knocking Laura onto the grass.
‘Hey,’ Mark says.
‘Someone needs to take a chill pill,’ says Scott.
She heads straight for the downstairs loo. Locks herself in. Her heart thumps in her chest. The rum might be gone, but the night’s not over yet. Those fuckers out there. Pissed up, drugged up. What do they know about anything? She sits on the toilet, rummages in her bag. At the bottom, hidden under her purse, tissues, phone and all the other handbag detritus, she finds the plastic bag. The one she took from Harry at Jack Henderson’s party. Three capsules still inside. She takes one out, rolls it between her thumb and forefinger. Inspects it. Sniffs it.
‘Just one,’ she mutters. Harry took too many. So did Mark. Stupid boys. Too greedy. Just one, and this party might get started. She catches her reflection in the mirror as she lifts the capsule to her mouth. What are you doing, Marie? She glares at herself. Smirks.
Someone thumps hard on the door. Bang. Bang.
‘All right, all right. I’m coming,’ she says. Impatient bastards.
She drops the capsule back into the plastic bag. Scrunches it into a ball and shoves it to the bottom of her handbag. She flushes the toilet. Turns the taps on full blast. Maybe later.
She yanks the door open. She’s fired up. Ready to shout abuse at whoever’s outside.
He’s leaning on the wall opposite. Hands in pockets. Smiling. Waiting for her. Just like he used to do at school all those years before. That stare.
Eyes like glass.
‘Hey,’ Graeme says. ‘I think you forgot my invitation.’
24th July2015
Hi Marie,
Sorry for the delay. My friend in the office was on holiday for a few days and there was no one else to post the letters for me. I don’t trust anyone else. The doctor came to see me yesterday. Asked me if I was feeling myself, or if I felt like I was slipping away again. I asked him what he meant, but he couldn’t explain. He asked me all sorts of questions. How long did I sleep for? What did I do between breakfast and lunch? What was my favourite game? Did I want to do an Open University course? They’ve asked me that a hundred times over the years. I’ve always said no. Remember when we used to watch that on the TV? That bearded man in the lab coat talking about Newton and particle physics and stuff that you didn’t need to know about protons and electrons. Did you go to university, Marie? Did you meet boys there? I wish I could’ve been there with you. We could’ve shared a flat. One bedroom. One bed.
Me and you.
I’m still waiting to hear from you. I ask the girl in admin if I’ve got any letters and she always says no. But I’m starting to wonder if she’s lying to me.
It wouldn’t make sense, me writing all these letters to you, and you not writing any to me, would it?
I love you, Marie.
Graeme xxx
34
The party is becoming raucous. Laura has sent Mark in twice to get them drinks, but this time he insists that she goes to get them. She leaves him lying on the picnic blanket on the floor of the shed. He’s got his eyes closed, an arm thrown back behind his head. Just snoozing, after their recent attempts to rekindle their romance. They haven’t had sex. Not this time. Just snuggled up in there with cushions and candles and spent the night chatting and drinking – trying to zone out the sounds of the party that are spilling from the house into the garden.
Someone keeps changing the music. A couple that she doesn’t recognise are laughing and rolling about on the grass. They’re drenched, after turning on the sprinkler. Smokers are huddled by the back door, downing beer from cans. She slips past them and into the kitchen. Marie is standing by the sink.
‘Hey, you! You OK? You seemed a bit rattled earlier.’
Marie glances at her before going back to what she’s doing. Mixing something up in a glass. Crushing ice cubes with the back of a heavy spoon.
‘What are you doing?’
Laura opens the fridge and takes out two cans of cider. There are jumbo packs of crisps on the worktop nearby and she picks up a bag of onion rings and shoves it under her arm. Pushes the fridge closed with her elbow.
‘Making cocktails?’ she tries.
‘Yeah. Something like that.’ Laura hears the sound of a spoon rattling off glass as Marie stirs her drink. ‘You back on with Mark, then?’ Marie says, turning round to face her.
‘I know, I know . . . don’t say it,’ Laura says. There is laughter in her voice. ‘He’s apologised. I got it wrong, anyway. He wasn’t with someone else. Hayley is just being an idiot.’
‘So’s Mark, messing around with those drugs and that arsehole from the shows.’
‘Yeah, well, that’s over now. He’s talking to Davie about it all tomorrow. He’s going to tell him where he got the drugs.’
‘What?’
‘He’s going to tell Davie about Gaz. Get it all sorted out. It’s not illegal anyway. But the police are looking into it all.’
‘That so?’ Marie takes a can of cider from the draining board and takes a drink. ‘You been in the living room yet?’
‘No . . . trying to stay outside. It’s all a bit mental in there.’
‘You’re telling me. Irish Tracy has commandeered the stereo. If I hear “Drops of Jupiter” one more time, I’m going to throw the thing out of the window.’
Laura laughs. ‘Good song, though.’ Irish Tracy is called that to distinguish her from the other Tracy that they all know. Tracy Bennett – unfortunately known as Tracy ‘Bent It’ after an encounter with someone who ended up having to go to casualty following a prolonged bout of what Tracy called ‘Drunken Carnal Monkey Sex’. Laura can only imagine.
‘Maybe the first five times . . . Everyone’s pissed, anyway. You’re not missing much. Better get back to your love nest, eh?’
Laura is about to leave when someone walks into the kitchen. Someone she doesn’t recognise. Yet there’s something oddly familiar about him. Laura wrinkles her nose. He seems to have brought a strange smell into the room with him too. It’s noticeable even above the sticky stench of spilled beer and burnt pizza. He looks grubby. He smells off.
‘Hi,’ he says.
‘Oh, er. Hi,’ Laura replies, smiles. Tries to be polite. She glances over at Marie, gives her a ‘who the fuck is this?’ look.
Marie puts an arm behind her and picks up a pint glass. Hands it to him. ‘I made you a cocktail,’ she says. ‘I think you’re going to like it.’ To Laura, she says, ‘Sorry, where are my manners? Laura, Graeme. Graeme, Laura.’ She takes a slurp from her can. ‘Laura, this is my brother, Graeme. He’s been, er . . . working away for a while. He’s j
ust got back. Excuse his appearance.’
‘Hi,’ Graeme says again. He takes the glass from Marie.
‘I didn’t know you had a brother,’ Laura says. ‘How come you never said?’
‘How come you never asked?’
Marie and Graeme are both staring at her now.
‘I, uh . . .’ She feels uncomfortable. Doesn’t know what to say. ‘You’re very alike.’
Graeme takes a sip of his drink. Chuckles. ‘We’re twins,’ he says.
‘No way! Marie, I can’t believe you never told me this before. In fact, I’m sure you said you were an only child.’ She watches a glance pass between Graeme and Marie.
‘I don’t think so,’ Marie says. She tips back the can and drains the rest of her drink. ‘Pass us another, will you? In fact, is there anything stronger kicking around? This stuff’s making me feel sick.’
‘Maybe you should take it easy,’ Laura says.
Graeme laughs.
Marie crosses over to the other side of the kitchen, where she’s spotted a few bottles of spirits. She pulls a bottle of vodka from the middle of the collection. Inspects it. Tucks it under her arm. Lifts a bottle of cheap fizzy wine. A four-pack of Red Bull.
Laura is about to say something when a couple of girls come bundling into the kitchen. ‘Yay, ay, ay, ay, ayyyy,’ one of them is singing. Tracy Cavan, aka ‘Irish Tracy’. Laura knows her from coming into the Rowan Tree, where she is usually seen huddled in a corner having a deep and meaningful with someone or crying down her phone. While her friend Susan Pola, a quiet blonde girl who Laura has never seen taking a drink, sits and observes. Susan looks rosy-cheeked tonight. Having fun. Tracy starts opening cupboards, pulling stuff out. ‘Sangri-a-a-a,’ she chants. ‘Anne said there was some Martini Rosso somewhere. Her and Ian have fucked off out to the camper van. Her last words were: do what ever you like. So that is exactly what I intend to do.’
Laura puts her cans and her crisps down on the side and goes over to help. ‘I could go a sangria,’ she says. ‘Don’t make it too strong, though.’
Tracy laughs. ‘Oh, little one . . . You have much to learn.’
She finds a jug and starts pouring things into it. Laura finds some oranges and a knife, starts chopping them up. It takes her a few minutes before she realises that Marie and Graeme have disappeared.
25th July 2015
Marie,
Here’s something I’ve been working on:
The prettiest face I ever did see,
The loveliest girl, one half of me.
The widest smile, her biggest gift,
Touched my heart, gave me a lift.
The day I lost you, my heart broke in two,
When I became me and you became you.
I hope that one day I’ll see her again,
Not so much if, just a matter of when.
What do you think? Don’t take the piss. It’s my first attempt, but I’ll get better. Things always get better when you keep doing them. Don’t they, Marie? That’s why I never really understood why you wanted to start it all again with someone else.
I promised myself I would never ask you this, but what did I do wrong? I don’t know if you realise this, Marie, but I can’t remember a thing about the night I got taken away from you. They’ve told me stuff. They’ve told me what I did to you. But it can’t be true. Can it?
Love,
Graeme
35
The morning after.
Four bodies. Vague shapes. A stale, sticky smell. Spilled beer and vomit. Cigarette smoke. Weed. A sudden flash from the night before: a couple behind the sofa, bangs and thrusts. An audience looking on. The girl riding and bucking. Big grin on her face, eyes closed. Oblivious.
Marie walks slowly towards the sofa, crouches down. Peers around the back. They’re still there, arms wrapped around each other. Totally out of it. A mist of sex lingers. Something else. Something stronger. She knows who they are: Scott and his new girlfriend, Leanne. Leanne had looked down her nose at Marie at Jack Henderson’s party. She didn’t even know her. She knew Scott a bit, just from him coming into the pub. They might’ve been good together. Too late now.
That makes six.
Marie is in shock. She recognises the feeling. She’s been there before. Everything feels unreal, even when the truth of it all is staring her in the face. Her head spins as she stands up. Her eyes sting. She has a vague memory of waking up in darkness, peeling contact lenses off her parched eyes, tugging at dry eyeballs. She can barely see without them, everything fuzzy-edged and hard to decipher. She squints, stumbles against the sofa. A head lolls against her.
‘Shh, sorry,’ she says, low, under her breath. No response. Why would there be? It was an instinct – that was all. She’s seen this man before. Not even a man, still a boy. Sean. Hayley’s boyfriend. The one she dumped for that boy from the shows. Silly girl.
A girl is draped at an awkward angle. Long, dark hair trailing on the floor. She is wearing a blue dress. Same one she wore to Jack Henderson’s. Must be her favourite at the moment. It is stained now. Ruined. Poor Lauren. Sean sits, head leaning off one side of the sofa, his soft hair tickles her hand. She nudges him gently and his head rolls back onto his chest as she moves carefully away.
Try not to wake them.
On the other side of the room, a skinny figure lies splayed across an armchair, head hanging off one side, legs off the other. She steps closer, but she can already see who it is. Sam. Her heart lurches. She feels responsible. If he hadn’t come . . . if they hadn’t been together . . . if he hadn’t thought he had a chance with her. Marie moves away. She can’t look at him. Under the window, a girl is curled up and facing the wall. Her fair hair is matted and spread out around her like the head of an old mop. Susan Pola. She remembers the name. Unusual. Not from the area. An incomer to the town, like Marie. She remembers her from the night before – dancing, singing. Laughing.
The room shifts. Tilts.
Marie feels sick. Brings up bile and swallows it back. The syrupy taste of Red Bull burns the back of her throat. Memories of vodka and cheap fizzy wine whirl around her head and her stomach like an aspirin fizzing in water. What was she doing? Why had she gone to the party? Her head was all over the place. She’d wanted to get away. She needed to escape from Graeme.
Where is Graeme?
What has he done?
She walks around the room in a haze. All around, there are shadows. Dark patches and pools. Spilled things. Dirty things. She squints, faces swim in and out of focus. She holds her breath . . . thirty . . . twenty-nine . . . twenty-eight. Her head thrums. The smell is getting worse. Body odour. Piss. Carnage and decay. Bottles and cans everywhere. Discarded bits of clothing. Upended ashtrays.
Her stomach lurches again. She has to get out. Now.
It is too quiet. Too claustrophobic.
Wings of panic flutter in her chest. She feels like she is being attacked. Birds flapping and slapping around her head, her body. Hitting her, scratching her.
Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .
She lifts the latch. The door opens with a squeak and she flinches. Hears a soft thud from somewhere behind her. She turns back. Sees that Lauren’s hand has slid off from where it had been resting on her stomach, and it now flops uselessly on the laminate flooring. But she hasn’t woken up.
Of course she hasn’t.
There’s a faint banging sound. Tap. Tap. Tap. A draft. Someone has left the back door open. Maybe someone is out there now, having a fag or a morning sup from one of the cans of warm beer she imagines to be littering the kitchen worktops. She hesitates. Should she go through? Offer to help clear up? Sort out the drunken mess of bodies scattered across the lounge like a pile of coats?
They’re not drunk, Marie. They’re not asleep.
She squeezes her eyes shut and sparks flip and leap across her vision. No.
No.
She has to get out. She needs air, water and sleep. She needs a wash too. A long hot bath, to g
et rid of the stink that seems to be seeping into her pores from the toxic air. She needs to shake off the memories of the night before, threatening and bothering her like tiny pinpricks jabbing at her skull.
Something happened. Something went wrong.
I wasn’t there . . . I passed out.
What happened? WHAT HAPPENED?
She walks out into the early morning sun, shielding her eyes. She takes a gulp of fresh air and feels the nausea subside – for now, at least. A chorus of blackbirds twitters in the trees. Anne and Ian’s camper van is parked on the road outside. The awning has been popped up. The curtains closed. Marie hopes they are in there. Hopes they haven’t seen . . .
Marie wonders if she will manage to walk home without bumping into someone, or something . . . or getting knocked down by a car as she stumbles, half-blind, down the road. She hugs her jacket across her chest.
What now, Marie?
She bangs the door shut. Hard. Starts walking. Fast.
Something pings at her. Get away from here. You need to get away.
Behind her in the house, no one flinches. No one stirs.
No one breathes.
She has to find Graeme before the police do. She has to find out what happened. What went wrong.
This is all wrong.
This is not what she wanted. A tear runs down her cheek, tickling, itching. She rubs it away.
Four . . . three . . . two . . . one.
She’s gone.
36
Davie is busy whipping up eggs with a fork. He’s stuck four slices of bread under the grill. The kettle is boiled. It’s not often he sits down to breakfast like this, but he’s enjoying looking after his house guest. They’d shared the beers and the curry. Chatted into the night until he’d fallen asleep on the couch and Callum had passed out on the chair. Despite the beers, and the half bottle of vodka Davie had found at the back of a kitchen cupboard, Callum is bright and breezy this morning, and Davie is glad to have him around. He’s barely been in the station lately. He realises he misses it. Or maybe he just misses the banter.
