The Exclusives

by Rebecca Thornton

  And just like that, all my suspicions of Freya, my fears of her seeking revenge evaporate. Her emails, which all seemed so sinister at the time, now looking back in a different frame of mind, take on another hue: not onerous, but desperate – pleading.

  ‘We were, weren’t we?’ I say. ‘Young, I mean. I felt so old at the time, like I’d lived ten lifetimes. Now it just seems so ridiculous. We were babies.’

  ‘Yes, yes that’s exactly it.’ The agreement brings back some of our old comradeship and Freya seizes upon it. ‘Did you ever feel bad? About what you did to me, I mean? With Mrs Kitts and everything? Did you ever regret it? Any of it from that morning the next day to . . . to the very end? I never understood any of it. I thought we knew each other so well.’

  I can’t look at her as she is saying this. There’s so much bubbling under the surface and I know if I don’t keep my cool, or if I give her a loaded answer, the whole meeting will end horribly. So I try to speak truthfully but sparingly.

  ‘Yes I do. If I could go back, I would undo a lot of things,’ I say carefully. ‘I don’t look back on any of that with any sense of pleasure. To be honest I can’t bear to look back on it at all.’

  ‘Really?’ She seems surprised, hopeful even. ‘What would you do differently?’ I’m wrong-footed by this and I’m about to flare up, but I realise she’s not being accusatory.

  ‘I would have . . . I think I would have told someone. I think you were right. But at the time . . . Now though I think maybe it would have worked out in the end. I was just so focused on . . .’ Freya’s frowning, nodding. I start to whisper the last, ‘Focused on not being my mother.’

  ‘What was that?’ Freya’s saying. She’s cupping her ear but I can’t go any louder.

  ‘My mother.’ I was all set on reciting a whole load of things to Freya. I’d been practising them in my head all week. In fact, since she got in touch. But none of it comes out.

  Then I think about how we once were. Me and Freya. And I’m looking at her face and she’s barely aged at all, really. Her skin is still totally smooth, the light in her eyes is still there and that same smile on her face too, even when her mouth is set. I think of the old days and I’m overcome with a sense of nostalgia and I want to make it right. To grab back those heady, hilarious times of friendship and laughter which I’ve never since been able to share with anyone else. And Mother. I’d never even intended to mention Mother to Freya. As it is, I’m already starting to feel this is the best thing I could do to let go of the fear of her. Releasing the sadness surrounding my mother’s life that had turned malignant inside me, so long ago.

  ‘It hurt, you know,’ I continue, unable to stop. ‘I was even jealous of you that your mum had died, when I was stuck with my own mother being so ill. I’m sorry to admit that. I was devastated, of course, for you and your family, but her death gave you a freedom that I could never have. Well, until now.’ Freya looks horrified, then her eyebrows relax and her mouth turns upwards.

  ‘That’s some admission there,’ she says breathlessly. And then she cries again.

  I want to reach out and comfort her but I daren’t. ‘I know. I wasn’t expecting to be so honest with you. I guess there’s no point in all the deception anymore.’

  ‘Yours, you mean? With The Lens and everything?’ Freya is asking without nuance.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry about The Lens,’ I reply. I’m crying now and seeing her here, in front of me, I realise how much I have missed her, how much in trying not to think about her for eighteen years I have done nothing but. ‘I didn’t mean for it to get so out of hand. I mean, firstly, there was that night. Then, part of it was because I was so cross about you and Verity. Jealous. And then I’d become so obsessed, so focused on being this success, being different to my mother, that I became totally blinded by it. I didn’t think there was any other way. When, of course, there was. We were a team, Freya, and then all this stuff happened and suddenly you were my enemy and I guess I was even more of a prisoner to the way I felt. I made so many mistakes, and the stupidest thing was that I really did think, or at least convinced myself, that it was all for the right reasons, but it wasn’t. I am so sorry.’

  Even though the tears won’t stop coming, my entire body and mind unclench for the first time in years.

  We are both silent. It’s strange to be talking so openly with Freya, after everything. After not having seen the girl for eighteen years, after hiding from my own truth for . . . well, my whole life, really.

  ‘You’ve no idea how long I’ve waited to hear you say that.’ Freya takes my hand and I hold my breath. ‘I’m sorry too. I’m sorry that I pushed you so hard. I should have tackled it differently. I was being selfish. Thinking only of how I was reacting. I know . . . knew how you were, I should have thought you would be dealing with it in a different way to me and I should have managed that properly, but I was just reeling from what happened.’ She stops talking. Her features bunch together and she blows out a stream of breath. ‘And I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘About using Verity against you. She meant nothing to me. Did you know that? I felt such a bitch after school. She’s been in touch quite a lot and I only talk to her now really out of guilt. I used her to make you feel bad. Saying those words out loud makes me seem like such a nasty, nasty person. I should be apologising to her too.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I reply. ‘You were hurting. That’s why.’

  ‘Do you think? Do you think that’s both why we did the things we did? Because of that, not because we were . . . you know . . .’

  ‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘I think when you’re nearly eighteen it’s a pretty good reason, don’t you?’

  ‘I do. I really do.’

  ‘Freya?’ I ask, leaning back on the wooden bench. She turns and offers me a piece of chewing gum. I’m reminded of when we both used to come back from smoking cigarettes in the woods.

  ‘Yes?’ she says, crumpling the foil wrapper into her hand.

  ‘When you . . .’ But I can’t quite bring myself to say the words, though I know I must if this conversation is to ever take hold. She’s looking at me, worried.

  ‘When you tried to . . . you know . . . kill yourself . . .?’

  I let the words hang between us. Freya smooths her hand across the bench and picks up a little ladybird. She blows it off her finger and I think she’s about to ignore me but then she starts to speak.

  ‘That. That was so stupid,’ she says eventually. ‘I mean, I can never begin to explain that or rationalise it.’ She looks at me, takes my hand. ‘I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry. That got out of control too. Needed some sort of . . . I don’t really know what. Acknowledgment? Stupid.’ She gives a sad little laugh, pulls up her sleeves and holds them up for me to see. The scars are still there, faded and white.

  ‘You didn’t deserve that, and you know what? I was the one that probably hurt the most from it. Seeing what it did to my father. To Leon. I’ve never got over that. We did such terrible things to each other.’

  ‘And all in the name of survival,’ I finish. Freya looks at me with a little smile then drops her head. I reach over and squeeze her hand. She looks wary at my physical affection and then laughs. ‘God, things really have changed, haven’t they?’

  ‘I guess so. They had to, though. Didn’t they?’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you, Josephine, for coming here and being so open. And kind.’

  ‘That’s not something I’m very good at,’ I reply.

  ‘It is, J. It is. You have no idea how kind you are underneath. You just have a funny way of showing it sometimes. Or did, at least.’ We both laugh. And suddenly, like a rusty squeeze box, the creaky dynamics of our former friendship begin to fall into place again. It’s an amazing feeling. Something close to euphoric. And then we both go quiet. A good, peaceful quiet. The tension rises out of my body. I’m nearly floating and I find I want to hug her. She’s looking at me too and she looks so happy, like the
old Freya, but then she rubs her arms as though she’s chilled to the bone and a weird expression crosses her face. It’s one I’ve seen only once or twice before. I think it’s something close to shame and then she slides herself away from me so she can turn and face me properly.

  ‘Josephine,’ she says. ‘There are things I need to tell you about that night. Things I never told you. Things I couldn’t tell you.’

  I look down and walk my fingers through a pool of coffee on the lid.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well . . . I need to ask you, do you remember any of it?’

  ‘I think . . . I . . .’ How can I explain? It used to dance at the fringe of my thoughts but then I just pushed it away, kept pushing, kept burying. I didn’t want to see what was there; I didn’t want to believe.

  ‘All this time I thought you were pretending, compartmentalising. But you can’t really, can you? Or have you just blocked it out?’

  She’s looking at me in a strange way and suddenly I am reminded of that moment back at school in the spare classroom just after chapel, and that expression on her face that I couldn’t decipher.

  ‘I need you to listen to me, Josephine. I need you to just shut your eyes and try to remember with me,’ she says.

  ‘Look, I can’t remember.’ I am panicking now, my voice rising. ‘And quite frankly I don’t want to. What good does it do?’

  She shakes her head. ‘No. No, I remember everything, you see. Absolutely everything. And I had taken a lot more than you. I know you remember, and it’s time you stopped pushing it away. I need you to try. Just shut your eyes. For me. Please. Shut them for one second.’

  I feel too vulnerable with my eyes closed in the middle of the day, so I sit, eyes wide open into the sun and, all of a sudden, Freya’s holding my hand again.

  ‘Go on, shut them. I’m here, with you.’

  For a moment, I’m tempted to pull away but the squeeze of her fingers feels nice. I shut my eyes.

  And with the warmth of her hands, after all this time, I finally allow myself to be taken back to where it all began. All those years ago. Freya and me.

  1996: THAT NIGHT

  ‘I love you.’ Freya clutches my hand.

  ‘That’s nice,’ I reply.

  ‘Come on, just say it back. Go on. I dare you.’

  ‘No, don’t be annoying.’

  ‘Want some?’ Freya pats her bra and mouths something to me.

  ‘What?’ I cup my ear.

  ‘AMAZING,’ she’s saying, rubbing her hands down her chest. ‘They’re amazing.’

  ‘No. I’m only drinking tonight. You know that.’

  The club is filling up and we’re both smoking on a beanbag upstairs from the main dance floor.

  ‘Come on, don’t be so boring,’ she says, pointing at the large black speakers. ‘Come on. The music . . . it’s amazing. You’ll feel amazing. These pills . . . they’re . . .’ She rests her head back on the wall and rubs her temples.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You are so lame,’ she laughs. ‘I’m not on your wavelength tonight so you’ll just have to get drunk. Wow, this music.’ Freya’s tapping her foot and looking blissed out and I start to feel left out of her elation.

  ‘Oh for fuck’s sake,’ I say. ‘I’m Head Girl, though.’

  ‘Oh don’t get all uppity,’ she laughs, pulls herself up and crouches over, fiddling around in the dark. She takes my right hand, puts crumbled bits of pill into it. ‘Here. Here’s half. Barely counts. No one will know and you can still be Head Girl.’

  OK. Half. That’s basically nothing so I can still wake up tomorrow and pretend I’ve been totally sober all night, can’t I?

  My throat closes around the bitter taste and I swig back some water. More water. I fall back into the floor and shut my eyes. An hour later and Freya’s taken another half and, by that time, my thoughts have finally faded from my consciousness. They are separate from me now and, as soon as I try to clutch on to that very notion, it drops into a dark abyss. I try to catch it back but it’s gone. I start to laugh.

  ‘What?’ says Freya. She looks like a cow chewing on grass. Mouth side to side, forwards, backwards.

  ‘Nothing. Can’t talk. I love you, Frey.’ I do love her, I think to myself.

  ‘Love you too.’

  ‘Shall we go and dance?’ My foot is tapping against the sticky floor.

  ‘Are you feeling any effect?’ Freya asks. I’m no longer really aware of the time but it can’t be more than half an hour since I took it.

  ‘Yeah . . . it’s nice. Not too much. I still feel quite normal. Just a tiny bit.’

  Freya gets up and tells me to wait.

  ‘I’m going to get you another drink then,’ she says, pulling out a note from her sock. ‘Wait there. To be a bit more on my level.’ She leans her head back again and pushes back her hair from the sides of her forehead. ‘Phew,’ she says flicking her hips from side to side in time to the music. I can’t help but think how effortless and beautiful she is. ‘Wow. Wait there, for one sec, OK?’

  ‘Yeah, OK then.’ I wait for what seems like twenty minutes and then Freya’s back holding two drinks.

  ‘Here. Sorry about that,’ Freya says. We stand by the beanbags, half dancing and finishing our drinks.

  ‘What is this by the way? It’s pretty rank.’ I hold out my empty glass.

  ‘Oh some weird cocktail mix thingy . . . I can’t remember what I asked for. It’s rum, vodka . . . can’t remember what else.’ Freya says she needs to chill out for a bit and so it’s an hour later before we walk downstairs. I feel like I’m walking on a huge, bouncy castle. Green laser lights and flashing strobes startle my eyes and I start convulsing to the rhythm. This is weird, I think. ‘What the fuck was in that pill?’ I shout. ‘I only took half . . . you must be feeling absolutely wasted.’

  ‘Ha,’ she says. ‘Told you they were amazing.’ She holds her hands up to her mouth in a girlish giggle and, when she pulls them away, I can’t tell where her face ends or begins. If I laugh, the image won’t be frightening, so I giggle and that makes me feel like I’m pissing myself. I quickly wipe my hand down there and feel nothing.

  ‘Freya, can we go for a breather in a minute, please?’ I’m shouting but she can’t hear me because the music has just gone up a notch. The vibration from the speakers is riding up into my pelvic area.

  Boom. Doof. Boom. Doof. Boom. The crowd roars and whistles.

  ‘Freya?’ I look around for her and she’s four rows in front of me, dancing and laughing with some dreadlocked guy. She’s whispering in his ear. Everyone’s faces suddenly start melting into the floor. I shake my head to purge the image and gulp back some water.

  Boom. Doof. Boom. Doof. Hold it together, I think, as my heart punches my breastbone. And then I can feel someone’s hands up my top. Freya, I think, but I turn around and she’s not there. I have no idea how long has passed from when we hit the dance floor.

  ‘Freya,’ I mouth and then I catch a glimpse of her and she’s standing in front of the guy with dreads now, weaving her hands through her hair and twisting it in her fingers. She’s reacting to his gaze, eyes half shut, sliding her hand down her stomach.

  ‘It’s me. I’m here.’ I hear a deep voice and I can feel a pair of hands snaking down my skirt. I cannot talk.

  ‘Freya,’ I say, again.

  I look down and don’t see anyone. There’s a curtain of laser beams blocking my vision. And then I see. A flash of a large, shaven-headed guy with a lip ring and an enormous dragon tattoo emblazoned on his chest. With the lights in my eyeline, he’s spectral. He’s there and then he’s not. There and not. I feel his hands again. I try to push them away but it feels sort of nice. Relax into it, I think.

  ‘Freya,’ I say. Now his hands are actually in my stomach, scooping out chunks of flesh, intestine and food. He makes a throwing motion and my innards splatter against the crowd of people. I look up and see the man and he’s grinning
at me although there’s no intestine, no food, no chunks of flesh. Just people dancing, grinning, waving their hands in the air and having a good time.

  ‘Freya,’ I say. I feel something hard, like a stone, pressing into my back. I try to walk away and then the stone is inside me, isn’t it? And now I do see Freya, two people away from me. She’s being kissed by the sweaty, dreadlocked man with yellow face paint on his cheeks and he’s giving a thumbs-up to the guy with the dragon on his chest. I can’t see his other hand but I think it’s down somewhere near Freya’s skirt. As the music gets louder and peaks I start to cry. I haven’t cried for about ten years but when I wipe my face, my hands are dry.

  We stand there, me and dragon man, swaying. To any onlooker, we must look like lovers. He’s whispering to me but I can’t understand what he’s saying. My heart is going nuts and I’m too frightened to move. And what I think is about two hours later, Freya tugs at my hand.

  ‘Come on, let’s go,’ she says. ‘I’m beginning to freak out. Let’s just go for a cigarette somewhere quiet. The music. It’s too much. Those guys. He’s nice but starting to freak me out. Think I’m just a bit . . .’ She pretends to slit her throat with her hand. I see blood gushing from her neck. I blink and it’s gone and her neck is flesh-coloured again.

  ‘Me too,’ I’m trying to say but I can’t respond. So I nod and follow her. We end up leaving the dance floor via one of the green emergency exit arrows. It glitters.

  ‘Here. Come on. We can get upstairs this way I remember. It’s where we used to smoke joints on that landing.’ I walk behind her, body swooping up and down into the floor, the ceiling. Lurching forward. I think I’m going to be sick, so I pull Freya into a cubbyhole, off one of the emergency stair landings. It’s covered with a thick, red velvet curtain which stinks of mould.

  I swallow hard and try to breathe. Freya gestures for me to inhale deeply, which I do and I am nearly sick again. We sit down, me behind the curtain. She rubs my back. The curtains are ripped apart. Two men. Both topless. One with the tattoo, staring eyes, lip ring and torn black combats. The other with the dreadlocks. Handsome. Ripped bodies. Freya is the only body they can see. They shut the curtain and one of them places his foot on the hem. I try to get up, because I know something’s wrong, but if I move, my head, my heart, my lungs, my guts will explode, so I stay where I am. And then I can’t hold it back any longer.