A is for Apple

by Kate Johnson

  “Uh, boyfriend.”

  “Someone called Docherty,” Clara said loudly.

  “Thought your blokey was called Luke?” Lucy giggled. I glanced at her in the rear view. She’d been at the alcopops before she left the house.

  “Um, yeah. Luke Docherty.”

  “You call him by his last name?”

  “Sometimes. In a Scully and Mulder sort of way. You know.”

  “Oh my God, I love Mulder!” Clara wailed. “Why did they ever cancel the X Files?”

  “Because it had been running for a decade and they’d run out of freaks to show,” Laurence said.

  A hand touched my shoulder and I jumped, nearly running into the middle of the road.

  “What happened to your arm?” Marc asked, his voice low behind the chatter of the girls in the back.

  “Oh! I, er…” Shit, you’d think I could have come up with an excuse by now. “I fell over. On holiday.”

  “In America?”

  “No!” This time I nearly hit a tree. “How do you know I went to America?”

  In my head, I crashed the car good and proper for being so bloody stupid. I should have asked what made him think I’d been to America. Stupid, stupid Sophie.

  “Laurence said. Last month, right?”

  “Yeah. With my dad.”

  “You went to New York?”

  If I said I’d been to Boston or Florida or LA, doubtless he’d call my bluff.

  “Yeah. Just for a few days.”

  “It’s cool. But you can’t drink there.”

  Wanna bet?

  “You can’t drink here,” I said. “Officially.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Amber piped up. “Sophie, do you mind getting in all our drinks? Marc said you have a fake ID.”

  “I thought you were eighteen,” Lucy said, sounding confused.

  Dammit, I should be a better liar than this by now.

  “Well, yeah,” I said, “but only just. I haven’t got my full licence through yet.”

  This seemed to satisfy them and we drove the rest of the way in comparative peace. Every now and then the girls would break into a bad rendition of an even worse pop song, and Laurence and I exchanged suffering glances in the mirror.

  Clara knew somewhere to park that was by this bar she knew, and it was free, so I said goodbye to Ted and hopped out, wondering how it was that I never knew any bars when I was seventeen. I left my Nokia in the car. It was useless now, and for once I didn’t have my wind-up charger with me. It simply wouldn’t fit in the booby bag.

  Amber clocked me checking my Siemens phone, just to make sure it still had battery (although there were no useful numbers stored in it) and exclaimed, “How many phones do you have?”

  “Oh,” I was used to this now, “this is my old one. I’m just running down the credit on it.”

  Clara led us off to the wine bar, which was big and modern and soulless and expensive. I got money off them all and ordered a round of Smirnoff Ice, and a Diet Coke for myself, then watched the girls clatter off to greet a group of blokes enthusiastically.

  “Amber didn’t want to bring her boyfriend?” I asked Laurence, who looked singularly unimpressed.

  “Didn’t she tell you? They broke up on Monday night. She was stringing him along anyway,” he said with distaste.

  “They broke up? How come?”

  He shrugged. “I dunno. Think she has her eye on someone else.” But he wouldn’t say who.

  “Who are those guys she’s with?” I asked.

  “Rugby team. She trains with them.”

  I stared. “Amber does rugby training?”

  “Yeah. Clara, too. Not properly. They just do it for the boys.”

  Why hadn’t I ever thought of that?

  I was beginning to wonder how far away the club was, and if we were ever going to get there. My feet were already masses of pain, no matter how I stood, and enough people had bumped into my leg to make it throb patiently and consistently. The girls had disappeared upstairs, and so had Marc, and I was about to go and find them when Laurence said, “Not a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, that skirt…and the steps are open…”

  “I’m wearing very pretty knickers,” I told him, and he blanched.

  “More than I needed to know.”

  I hung around near the bar while I waited for him—or someone—to come back. If I’d made the knickers joke to Luke or Angel or Ella, they’d have grinned and said, “So show them off, then.” But not this lot. This lot didn’t get half of my jokes, or they thought my normal comments were hilarious.

  Was I that sad when I was seventeen?

  I watched the three girls clatter down the stairs in their minuscule outfits, big hair, glittery shoulders, drag queen makeup, shoes they couldn’t walk in, and thought, yeah, I was that sad. I thought I looked good in stuff like that. It’s only when you grow up and look back that you realise how Godawful you used to be, and you wonder how anyone who knew you then could still even speak to you.

  But then I guess that’s the point of friends, or family or whatever. They’ve seen you at your worst and they still love you. People who have never seen you look bad or get paralytically drunk or cry until your face is a tomato are not your friends. They can’t be.

  “Hey, what happened to your leg?” asked a drunk guy at the bar, pointing and nudging.

  “Birth defect,” I said, smiling, and he dropped back. The girls came over and announced they wanted to go to the club now. Marc, Laurence and I didn’t seem to be included in the discussion.

  The club seemed to be not only on the other side of Chelmsford, but the other side of the damn county. It wasn’t that I was cold walking around in my teeny tiny little outfit, far from it. For September it was suspiciously warm. It was just that I was wandering around in slightly less than I usually slept in.

  Even when I was sleeping with Luke.

  Amazingly, no one ID’d us at the door. I wondered why, until I saw Clara hugging the bouncer. It’s not what you know, it’s who you know, huh? And I had proper ID, too. Damn.

  Inside, the club was dark, and cooler than the air outside, thanks to ferocious air-conditioning units that would probably have been deafening were it not for the ear-breakingly loud club beats thumping out. But I’ve been to a lot of Chalker’s gigs, where they play in clubs the size of my living room with a rig more suited to Shea Stadium. And I’ve been meeting 737s on stand for years. My ears can take a lot.

  I was dispatched for more drinks and the irony of my choice of beverage was soundly laughed over. The man at the bar asked me if I had any ID and I thought, oh honey. If only you knew what kind of ID.

  I checked my booby bag into the cloakroom and tucked the ticket in my bra and wandered off to find the main dance floor. The club was well into its own happy hour now and the floor was full of boys trying to dance and girls ignoring them. Up on podiums impossibly pretty girls with amazing legs were writhing about athletically, occasionally kicking out a hefty shoe at the guys trying to join them. I found a spot and lost myself in the beat for a couple of songs. It was cheesy time and I danced to S Club and Abba and Gloria Gaynor, revelling in the lyrics. I’d lost sight of the others as soon as I gave them their drinks. My usefulness was painfully obvious.

  But not as painful as my feet. I gave up when they started playing Steps and hobbled over to the bar for another drink, then found a seat on a banquette, hauled my feet up onto the table, and glared at people for walking into me.

  “Those are great legs,” came a voice in my ear, and I whipped round to see Marc there with a bottle of Becks.

  “Oh. Thanks.” I studied them. They weren’t bad.

  “Apart from that massive bruise.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Told you, I fell over.”

  “Must have been a hell of a fall.” He was still looking at my over-exposed thigh.

  “Well. I’m clumsy.”

  “I’m so glad you’re driving us home.”

  God,
yeah, driving. My feet could barely support my weight—although, to be fair, there was a lot of me. I’d never get my feet back into my trainers or get any kind of control over the pedals. All the others had been drinking and besides, I couldn’t ask them to drive Ted. Poor Ted.

  Something slower came on and Marc looked at me speculatively. Uh-oh.

  “You wanna dance?”

  God. My feet had ears of their own and they were screaming in protest already. But wasn’t I supposed to be gaining Marc’s confidence?

  “I’ll warn you,” I said. “I’m six foot two in these shoes.”

  He shrugged. “Doesn’t bother me.”

  Liar. It bothered all men if a girl was taller than them. Even Luke complained when I wore big heels. So I did it to annoy him anyway.

  I drained my drink and stood up. Marc looked up at me—then a little bit more—and his eyes widened.

  “You weren’t kidding,” he said, and I wondered how he hadn’t noticed before.

  I’m not one for slow dancing. I always feel awkward and usually, too hot and sweaty. Despite the heroic efforts of the air conditioning, movement made me sweat, and so did being pressed up against someone else.

  Marc was so different from Luke it was like they were a different species. But then, if you gave Marc another ten years, maybe he’d have a hard, moulded body too.

  Although there were some parts of him that were coming along nicely. And some that needed no encouragement at all.

  The song ended and I peeled myself away, avoiding eye contact, and stumbled off the floor, through the crowd and up the steps to the ladies.

  In here it was bright, so bright I could hardly see when I walked in. I hadn’t seen the girls since we came in, and I thought I saw Lucy coming out of a cubicle, but when I looked closer it wasn’t her. I checked out my reflection. My face looked like it was melting, but otherwise it wasn’t too bad. I was glad my hair was up, not hanging round my shoulders like a fur coat. I looked down at my feet, which were once more raw in places, and considered going to get my bag from the cloakroom for some emergency plasters. But nothing short of a full cast would have protected my feet adequately now, and even that would probably rub.

  Back in the club, there was no sight of Marc. Or of anyone I knew. I hadn’t seen Laurence since I gave him his drink, and I was partly glad now that I was on my own. They’d have to find their own drinks now.

  I was bored, though, and the music was improving slightly. I took off my shoes, sighing with relief, and went out onto the dance floor, avoiding sticky patches and anyone with a bottle. A guy who was so very drunk he could barely stand came up to me and started trying to get me to dance with him. I gave him one of my Drop Dead looks and he backed off pretty sharpish.

  Nice to know I’ve still got it.

  Pleased with myself for burning off so many calories, I retired once more to my banquette, but found it occupied by an enthusiastically necking couple who seemed completely oblivious to everything around them.

  In shock, I realised it was Lucy and Laurence.

  Go Laurence, I cheered silently, and moved off to get something to drink before I completely dehydrated.

  I found another table and spent an amusing half an hour fending off men who were very interested in the backless nature of my top and kept walking past pinging it. One of them was even quite cute, but I reminded myself firmly that I was a taken woman.

  “Are those real?” asked one lad, staring openly at my chest.

  “No. I’m a man really,” I replied, and he vanished.

  I looked at my watch and wondered what time the club closed. I had a feeling the girls wouldn’t want to go home any time soon. They seemed the sort of people who love clubbing and wild parties. Me, I’d prefer a night in with the Scoobies any day of the week. Which just goes to show you how very old I am now.

  I went back to see if Laurence and Lucy could be separated, and was surprised to find that they’d vanished.

  “Excuse me,” I shouted to the guy in their place, “did you see where the couple here went?”

  He shrugged. “Think he went outside. Dunno where she went. Off to the bog I think.” He looked over my little skirt. “You can stay if you wanna.”

  Yeuch, no. He had baggy jeans and a Porn Star T-shirt and his hair was in greasy curtains. Not my type.

  “I have to go and find my friends,” I said, backing away on my bare, blistered feet. He was watching me go, so I approached the bouncer, who was looking bored. “Can I go outside for a second?” I asked, thinking some cool, fresh air would be good.

  He pointed to the girl on the admissions desk. “Need to get your hand stamped.”

  The girl rammed a rubber stamp down hard on my hand and I looked through the redness to see the word TART imprinted on my skin. I scowled. The men got a GEEZER stamp. Not fair.

  I stepped outside and breathed in the glorious air. So clean and cold and clear. Ahhh.

  “Laurence?” I called. “Are you out here?”

  Silence, but something was moving on the other side of a couple of giant wheely bins. “Laurence?”

  Foolishly, I stepped around them, the tarmac cold under my bare soles. I was checking the ground for broken glass and other nasties, but at a sharp sound behind me I snapped my head up.

  “Laurence?”

  And then I tripped over something, someone grabbed my arm and twisted it behind my back, making me yelp, and something sharp pricked the skin of my inner arm.

  “Fuck,” I yelled, thinking, someone’s trying to inject me. Someone’s stuck a needle in my arm!

  There was a plastic crack and something snapped against my skin. My assailant shoved me, hard, and I fell facedown into the grubby shadows behind the bins.

  “Hey,” I started to shove myself to my feet, aware of footsteps behind me, running away. But then I saw what I’d fallen on, and I forgot about looking for anyone.

  I’d fallen on Laurence, and he didn’t look like he was breathing.

  By the time I’d blown some air into Laurence’s lungs and mercifully, spattering him with frustrated, frightened tears, got him breathing again; by the time I’d gone back into the club and requested the phone from the girl at the desk, explained that it was for emergency services and wrestled it from her grasp; by the time I’d called for an ambulance and police too, for good measure; by the time I’d got the bouncer to go and tell the DJ to make an announcement for Clara, Amber, Lucy and Marc to meet me outside; by the time the ambulance had arrived, the club was shutting down, the girls were crying and I had to get Marc to go in and fetch our handbags. The hot, grumbly weather decided to break, smashing great big raindrops down on me as I sat on the ground, holding Laurence’s still hand.

  I couldn’t find my ticket, but I explained what the bag looked like as I handed Laurence over to paramedics and tried to tell the police what had happened. Now, I judged, would not be the best time to tell them I was a government agent and didn’t really have to answer any of their questions, so I acted like a normal person (well, as much as was possible) and told them what they wanted to know.

  “Something pricked your arm?” the policewoman asked. She was probably only a couple of years older than me but she looked tired, really tired, not just physically, but sick of attending scenes like this in the middle of the night. I couldn’t blame her.

  “Yeah.” I squinted at my arm in the darkness. “A needle or something. But it broke.”

  “It broke before it pierced the skin?”

  “No—well, I thought it went in.” I rubbed the vein below my inner elbow. There was something there. “I think it might have broken off…sort of…in me.”

  She looked horrified, in a weary sort of way. “Mike,” she called to the paramedic tucking a blanket around Laurence’s body and hurrying him into the ambulance, out of the rain. “We’ve got another one for you.”

  I repeated the story to Mike, obviously another veteran of club/drug crises, and he told me I’d better come along to the hosp
ital for blood tests.

  “No telling where that needle might have been,” he said. “You need to get it out or you could get infected.”

  What I really wanted to do was go home. Marc and the girls needed me for lifts and I didn’t want to leave Ted here. Thoughts of my warm, soft bed drifted by me. And with the immortality of youth, I was sure there was nothing really wrong with me.

  And, I needed to keep an eye on Marc and the girls. I wasn’t at all happy about the fact that I’d let them out of my sight tonight.

  “Can’t I do it tomorrow?” I pleaded. “If I don’t drive then they’ll be here all night.”

  “We can take them home,” the policewoman said, not looking too pleased at the prospect.

  “What about my car?”

  “I’m sure there must be someone who can bring you back here tomorrow. Where do you live?”

  “Stansted. Near the airport.”

  “Oh.” She considered this. “That’s quite a way.”

  No shit, Sherlock.

  “I’m not going to the hospital,” I said, and finally saw Marc emerging from the club with my bag.

  “Had to wait until all the others had gone,” he said apologetically, handing the kitsch little clutch over. I glanced at him, then at the policewoman, and lowered my voice.

  “Can I speak to you in private?” I said, and she frowned, but led me away to the far side of the ambulance where the rain as coming down harder.

  I withdrew my wallet from my bag and pulled out my military ID.

  “I don’t actually have to do what you say,” I said apologetically.

  She inspected the card. “Special agent?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She shook her head. “Damn. Had one of your lot over near the airport a couple of weeks ago. Cocky bugger, he was.”

  “Tall, blond hair, really good bone structure?”

  “You know him?”

  Intimately. “We work together.” I put my ID away. “Can we go now? You’ve got everyone’s addresses and everything?”

  She nodded gloomily. “I suppose this will go to higher powers? Attacking an agent and all that?”

  “You’d be surprised,” I replied, and we walked back around the ambulance.

  “Watch your feet,” the policewoman called as I hobbled away, leading the gang through the fierce rain.