Dedication
For Baria,
Gonzo to my Duke
and Pats/Eds to my Eds/Pats,
with much love.
Sarah Pinborough
GOLLANCZ
LONDON
Contents
Dedication
Title Page
Part One
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Part Two
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Part Three
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
Fifty-Four
Fifty-Five
Fifty-Six
Fifty-Seven
Fifty-Eight
Fifty-Nine
Sixty
Sixty-One
Sixty-Two
Sixty-Three
Sixty-Four
Sixty-Five
Sixty-Six
Acknowledgements
Also by Sarah Pinborough from Gollancz:
Copyright
Part One
One
Ophelia.
She was young. No more than eighteen. Probably less. Her hair could be blonde or brown, it was hard to tell, soaked wet in the gloom. She was wearing white, bright against the dark river, almost an accent to the fresh snow that lay heavy on the ground. Her pale face, blue lips slightly parted, was turned up to the inky sky. She was snagged on twigs as if the bent branches, bare of leaves and broken by winter, had grasped to save her, to keep her afloat.
His breath steamed a harsh mist.
He could hear his chest wheezing loud, although Biscuit’s frantic barking, the alarm that had brought him from the path to the bank, seemed to be coming from somewhere far away. He couldn’t move. It was five forty-five in the morning and there was a dead girl in the river.
I am a cliché, was his next coherent thought. I am the early-morning dog-walker who finds a body.
Biscuit ran in small darts up and down the dirty snow at the water’s edge; furious, eager, disturbed by this change to their daily routine. By this wrong. The dog turned and whined at his owner, but still the man couldn’t stop staring, fingers gripping the phone tucked deep in the pocket of his thick coat.
And then he saw it. Just the slightest twitch of her hand. Then, moments after, another.
He walked Biscuit early not out of necessity but because of the quiet. Because time moved more slowly in the hours before the world woke up. It was perfectly peaceful and sleep had never been his friend, anyway.
The later walk was for polite chats with other owners as the dogs raced through the woods and parkland. The mornings were his own. It was his routine, clockwork, never broken for the weather, only rarely for illness. Rise at five, even if he hadn’t finished recording until two a.m. One coffee. Leave at five-twenty on the dot. This morning, however, they had been a rare five minutes late. Biscuit had hidden his collar, finally found under the sofa. Then across the meadow and past the meandering river, an hour or so in the woods, and after that he’d fetch the papers on the way home to read over breakfast. If they were ready, he’d have a warm croissant from the bakery, too. This time was sacred and belonged to only him and Biscuit; extra hours of precious life. Sometimes he called his little sister in New York – catching her before she went to sleep and checking that her world was still turning in the right direction – and they would have a bitter-sweet moment before the river of her own life reclaimed her and swept her away from him. Some mornings she surprised him by being the one to call, and those were the best.
The marbling hand twitched again and suddenly he felt the cold on his skin and his heart beating and could hear Biscuit’s bark loud and clear and then the phone was at his ear and his voice added to the clamour. When he was done, he threw the phone down and pulled off his coat. The river would not claim this girl before her time.
*
The rest was a blur. The cold water on his legs that knocked the air from his lungs with the shock of it. Slipping. Almost submerged. Gasping. Numb fingers pulling her to the bank. The heaviness of her soaked clothes, the unexpected heaviness of his. Wrapping his coat around her limp body. The crispness of her soaked hair. No warm breath from her mouth. Talking to her through chattering teeth. Biscuit licking her frozen face. The sirens. The blanket wrapped round him. Come with me, please, Mr McMahon, that’s right, I’ll help you. It’s okay, we’ll take it from here. Pulled up onto legs that wouldn’t quite work and led to the ambulance. But not before he saw the grim faces. The shake of a head. The defibrillator.
Clear!
The dreadful quiet as they worked. Him, the world, nature: all frozen. But not time. Time had ticked on. How many minutes? How long had they sat on the bank with her not breathing? How long before the ambulance arrived? Ten minutes? More? Less?
I’ve got a pulse! I’ve got a pulse!
And then his tears, hot and sudden, bursting up from deep inside.
Biscuit, beside him, pushed his stinking damp fur closer, paws scratching at his face, tongue on his cheeks, licking, snuffling and whining. He wrapped his arm around the dog, pulled him under the blanket and then looked up at the winter sky which was neither truly night nor morning and thought he’d never loved it more.
Two
Saturday, 09.03
Jenny
ur not picking up. Pick Up! OMFG.
09.08
Jenny
ur fone on silent? WAKE UP!
09.13
Jenny
I’m freaking out. My mum is crying. Think she’s still drunk. Wants to go to the hospital. WTF??
09.15
Jenny
FUCKING PICK UP!!!!!
WTF is going on?
09.17
Hayley
Soz dad was in here!!! Woke me up. I’m fucking shaking. WTFWTFWTF?? Will call from shower. Delete txts. Yesterdays 2. FUCK??
09.18
Jenny
K.
09.19
Hayley
DON’T SAY ANYTHING.
Three
‘Rebecca!’
Her mum’s voice, loud and demanding, was a thorn in the meat of Becca’s brain, and she pulled the duvet over her head to block i
t out and sink back into her half-sleep. It was Saturday. It was too early. Whatever time it was, it was too early. It was also cold. Her toes felt like ice and a draught was creeping through the gaps between the covers. She hooked them closer with her foot, cocooning herself.
‘Rebecca! Come down! It’s important!’
She didn’t move. Whatever it was, it could wait. Five more minutes at least. She breathed shallow, not wanting to come up for air. Her hair stank of smoke and her head ached slightly, a parting gift from last night’s weed and tobacco. If it was before midday she was going to kill her mum. Saturdays were hers. That was their deal.
‘Now! I mean it!’
She pushed the covers off and sat up, angry. What the hell was so pressing? She scanned her bleary memory. No late-night snacking so no pizza boxes or Coke cans abandoned in the kitchen. No TV left on. She’d double-bolted the door. All she’d done was come home, go quietly to her room and smoke one last joint through the window before passing out in front of some shit comedy on Netflix. She wasn’t even home late. She glanced at the open window and sighed. Good work, Bex. No wonder it’s like Antarctica in here. At least there was no trace of stale smoke in the air.
‘Becca!’ A pause. ‘Please, darling!’
‘Coming!’ she shouted back, voice like gravel, head pounding with the effort. No more straight cigarettes, she thought, tugging on her joggers and pulling last night’s sweatshirt over her head. Her chest felt like shit. Her room was ice-box cold and goosebumps shivered across her skin. Juice. She needed juice. And a cup of tea. And a bacon sandwich. Maybe going downstairs wasn’t such a bad idea. At least it would be warm. But still, conversation with her mother first thing in the morning was not what she needed ever. She preferred to get up when they were all out. Have some quiet time that didn’t require locking herself away in her room. Two more years and then she could escape to university. Out of this house, out of this suffocating town, and onward to freedom. London, maybe. A big city, definitely. Somewhere Aiden could come with her and work on his music career.
They would live like bohemians and eventually, one day, magazines would write stories about the successful couple who once lived on Ramen noodles in a run-down (but still cool) grimy flat somewhere while they followed their dreams. That’s how it would be. But there were still two long years to get through before that would be anything more than a stoned fantasy.
She scraped her hair back into a semblance of a ponytail, sprayed it with deodorant and shuffled out of her sanctuary, grabbing her phone from the side of her bed. She pressed the home button for the time. Ten thirty-four.
Fourteen iMessages, six WhatsApps and two missed calls. She frowned, confused by the list of names appearing. She wasn’t that popular. She never woke up to fourteen texts, unless they were from Aiden when he was high and horny. She scrolled through as she headed downstairs. Mainly group texts. That figured. She was a social add-on. She didn’t let the tiny needles sting. Like she gave a shit.
U heard the news?
Seen about Tasha Howland?
Crazy shit on the news!
U gotta see!
By the time she’d read them all and reached the kitchen she was wide awake. Her mouth was dry.
Her mother was standing at the kitchen island watching the small TV in the corner – the one her dad had fought so hard to stop them getting – too many TVs, too many computers, too many phones, everything’s technology, nobody talks any more – but had lost the battle, two to one. There was toast on a plate in front of her but she wasn’t eating it. She didn’t even look around, just stared, pale-faced, at the screen.
Becca’s skin tingled, part apprehension, part strange thrill.
‘What’s happened to Tasha?’ she asked. ‘My phone’s gone mad.’
Her mum turned then, wrapping herself around Becca’s stiff frame, bathing her in the warm scent of foundation and citrus perfume. Even on a Saturday Julia Crisp made an effort. Her thin arms were all sinew and muscle beneath her cashmere sweater, and Becca instantly felt like the fat kid she’d once been all over again. Like mother, like daughter was not an adage that fitted them.
‘It’s terrible. She’s in a coma. It’s all over the news.’ Her mother’s hand stroked her back but Becca pulled away, pretending to get a better view of the TV. Her mum made her feel uncomfortable. The teenage years had drawn lines between them that neither knew how to cross.
‘I’m sure she’ll be fine, darling. I’m sure she will.’
‘Was it a car accident?’ Natasha in a coma? It couldn’t be real. Shit like that didn’t happen to girls like Natasha. It happened to girls like Becca.
She pulled up a stool and sat and watched, ignoring the buzz of her phone and her mother’s bird-flutterings of care around her. Up onscreen Hayley and Jenny, red-eyed and yet still so perfect, hurried into the hospital, their parents clinging to them like dry autumn leaves to wool. The other two Barbies. Of course they were there. Rushing to their beloved leader’s side.
‘I know you two used to be close, darling, do you want to—’
‘Shh.’ She silenced her mother without even a glance as the reporter, nose red in the blistering cold, pushed back the hair blowing into her face and spoke into the microphone with that insincere sincerity only TV journalists had.
*
An hour later, Becca was standing on the small balcony at Aiden’s flat, shivering alongside him as he sparked up a Marlboro Light. He held out the packet and she took one, her resolve of first thing gone. Fuck it. Anyway, it was too early for a joint, and even in the relaxed sloppy atmosphere of Aiden’s mum’s place, obvious drugs were a no-go. She might suspect he toked – she must be able to smell it coming out of his bedroom – but she was a long way from condoning it.
‘They said she was dead for thirteen minutes.’ Becca shuffled from foot to foot to ward off the icy air while they smoked. ‘They’re calling it a miracle that they revived her.’
‘She’s lucky it got so cold.’ Aiden stared out over the snow that had fallen heavy since dawn. Becca thought he looked almost angelic against the white and grey that coated the world. Maybe not an angel as others thought of them, but her angel all the same. Pale face, sharp features, thick dark hair and those clear eyes that shone bright blue from under his long fringe. An angel or a vampire. Either way, she still sometimes had to pinch herself to believe he was hers.
‘That’s probably what saved her,’ he said. ‘The water would have been freezing – dropped her temperature so fast it put her heartbeat into some kind of survival mode.’
‘How do you know this stuff?’ Becca asked.
He grinned, sheepish. ‘Saw it on some old underwater alien film.’
‘It’s weird, though, huh? To be dead and then not dead,’ Becca said. ‘Thirteen minutes is a long time.’
‘Wonder if she saw anything. You know – bright lights, that sort of shit.’
‘Knowing Natasha, even if she didn’t she’ll say she did when she wakes up.’ It was a sharp comment but she couldn’t help it. Her feelings about Natasha were a ball of wire she couldn’t untangle. She missed her old childhood friend, but she didn’t know the new Barbie Natasha. Her Natasha had braces and liked Chess Club. Her Natasha had been her Best Friend Forever. Becca hadn’t realised at the time that forever would only last until Natasha’s tits grew and her braces came off and suddenly she was hot and Becca was a dumpy geek who got swiftly discarded.
‘If she wakes up,’ Aiden said, exhaling a long cloud of smoke. ‘The news said she was unconscious. She might have brain damage or something.’
Becca tried to imagine that. She’d seen images of brain-damaged people on TV and they never looked quite the same as they did before. Natasha dying would at least be beautifully tragic. Natasha brain-damaged and hooked up to machines that let her shit and piss while she dribbled into soup for the rest of her life was horrifying.
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‘What was she doing out there, anyway?’ Aiden asked. ‘In the woods at night? You reckon someone took her?’
‘Fucked if I know.’ Becca shrugged. ‘No one else seems to, either. Everyone’s too busy being hysterical over it to say anything useful.’ The hive, as she thought of their school sometimes, had been buzzing since the news broke. Texts, WhatsApp, Instagram pictures of Natasha’s beautiful smiling face, tweets of everyone’s shock and upset, the whole school proclaiming how much they loved her, as if somehow a part of what had happened to her could be theirs, too. #TashaForeva was probably trending by now. The hum from it was electric. It fizzed under her skin.
Becca had not uploaded any old photos to her Instagram account, or to her Facebook or Twitter. Partly, she’d not had time. More honestly, she didn’t have that many followers, and, finally, because of the round of Did you see what Becca Crisp posted? Clinging to the glory days! texts behind her back that would no doubt follow.
And although she’d hated Tasha for a while, when she’d so unceremoniously dumped Becca and replaced her with Jenny, the new trio all Barbie-doll perfect, that shit had been a long time ago and there was nothing Tasha would hate more than for the world to be reminded of her bad hair and bad teeth of childhood. Even now, Becca wouldn’t do that to her.
‘There was that girl went missing over in Maypoole a couple of months ago,’ Aiden said. ‘Maybe it’s the same guy.’
‘She probably just ran away.’ Becca threw the cigarette stub into the mug on the table to join the others rotting in the inch of thick brown water at the bottom. Her mouth was dry and her feet freezing. She sniffed.
‘Shall we go inside? Watch a movie?’
Aiden looked at her, thoughtful, and the hairs on the back of her neck prickled slightly under his scrutiny. ‘Don’t you want to go to the hospital?’ he said.
‘Why?’ She smarted suddenly. ‘Do you? Feeling the need to check on the damsel in distress?’
He laughed at that, and then pulled her close. ‘God, you’re a dick. I asked her out once. Nearly two years ago. Before I had better taste.’
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