13 Minutes-9780575097407

by Pinborough, Sarah

  . . . I suck in a deep breath, tearing pain through my lungs again, but the air is warm and sweet and there’s no freezing water choking me.

  ‘Natasha?’

  ‘Oh my god, Natasha!’

  ‘Tasha?’

  ‘Get a doctor!’

  My mother’s face looms over me and my instinct is to swat her away. She’s too close. I’m too confused. I’m still trying to breathe. My heart is racing. I don’t know quite where I am. I blink and blink and blink. It’s hot and bright and dry. Hayley and Jenny are in the room. I can hear their shrieks as a nurse pulls them back so she can get close to me.

  I’m alive, I think, and then comes the flood of relief. I’m alive. This is the hospital.

  I move my mouth but no words come out. My throat is dry and hoarse. There is a drip in my arm. How long have I been here? What day is it? My head throbs.

  Too much activity around me. I try to turn my head sideways to look over to the door where more people are hurrying in. The bones and muscles in my neck scream at me. I see blonde hair spread over the pillow and it surprises my confused brain. My hair is dark. This is not my hair. No, my hair was dark. I dyed it to be like my friends. Blondes together. Interchangeable.

  Everyone is talking, or so it seems. A stream of loud noise. I realise there’s also familiar music playing, an iPod plugged into a speaker somewhere. Is it mine? Who brought it here? How long have I been here? Talking and noise. Talking and noise. It’s all too much. Hard to focus. Suddenly I think of Becca.

  ‘Was Becca here?’ I ask. The voice, all sandpaper-rough, doesn’t sound like mine. More like some possessed girl in a horror film. I guess it must shock everyone else, too, as silence answers my question. The room settles into some strange calm, blissfully quiet, as they all stare at me.

  ‘Was Becca here?’ I ask again.

  ‘Yes,’ my mother says. Her hand is tight around mine, papery dry and desperate. ‘Yes, she came in yesterday and talked to you.’

  ‘I thought so.’ I smile and close my eyes.

  Six

  Excerpt of CONSULTATION BETWEEN DR ANNABEL HARVEY AND PATIENT NATASHA HOWLAND,

  MONDAY 11/01, 09.00

  NATASHA: It feels weird. You’d feel weird, wouldn’t you? I mean, to have been dead like that. I mean, I guess I must not have been properly dead, otherwise I wouldn’t be here now.

  (Small laugh)

  But to think my heart wasn’t beating for almost a quarter of a school lesson, when I think about it like that . . . yeah, it freaks me out. You know, if that guy walking his dog had been two or three minutes later or whatever, what would have happened then? It’s all bad stuff to have in your head. But I feel fine now. I mean, it’s not like I saw a tunnel or bright lights or any of that stuff. Nothing I can remember.

  (Small laugh)

  But then my memory isn’t working right, is it?

  DR HARVEY: How much anxiety is that causing you? The loss of memory?

  NATASHA: I think that makes me feel stranger than the being-dead thing. I remember going for lunch on Thursday lunchtime. That’s it. I don’t remember what I did that evening. I don’t remember any of Friday or Friday night. It’s like that whole time just didn’t happen. When I woke up last night, I had a vague memory of being in freezing water and panicking that I was dying. Apart from that, nothing.

  DR HARVEY: The flash of memory you had about being in the water – how do you feel in it? Aside from the fear of the water. Are you aware of anyone else?

  NATASHA: Like an attacker or something?

  DR HARVEY: Try not to apply a label in your mind. Just think about the memory.

  NATASHA: I remember being in the water and trying to reach the bank. I don’t know if there was anyone else around. It’s just a momentary memory . . . kind of like the end of a dream when you wake up. You know? Like you remember it, but it’s just tiny images of something. I don’t know if I’m remembering the memory or what I remember of the memory.

  (Small laugh)

  That sounds crazy but you know what I mean?

  DR HARVEY: Why do you think you’ve lost those hours of your memory?

  NATASHA: I don’t know. We’re just machines, aren’t we? I was dead for thirteen minutes. That must mess up the wiring.

  DR HARVEY: So there was nothing concerning you? That you remember?

  NATASHA: You sound like DI Bennett. Same questions. Didn’t she show you her report?

  DR HARVEY: Yes, she did, but I’d rather hear it from you so I can make a better assessment of how to help you. I’m sorry if I’m making you repeat yourself.

  (Pause)

  NATASHA: I’m sorry. I know you’re only trying to help. I’m just . . . Anyway, I was fine. Pissed off to be back at school after the holidays, but even that wasn’t so bad, not really. It can be a drag being around my mum too long. She always wants to do stuff together, which is sort of sweet but she can be too much. I’m not a baby any more.

  DR HARVEY: Is that why you sneaked out through the window?

  NATASHA: I don’t know if I did sneak out. I guess if my parents say I told them I was going to bed then I must have done.

  DR HARVEY: The front door was locked and bolted on the inside.

  NATASHA: Then I must have gone out through my window.

  (Small laugh, nervous)

  You know more about what I did than I do. I don’t know why I went out. I wish I did, but I don’t.

  DR HARVEY: What about the text you received that night?

  NATASHA: I don’t know. I don’t know the number. It’s not answering when the police ring or text it, apparently. Goes straight to voicemail like it’s switched off. I think that police detective said it was a pay-as-you-go phone. Most of my friends have contracts. Our parents pay for them. No one’s had pay-as-you-go for ages.

  DR HARVEY: Does it bother you?

  NATASHA: Does what bother me?

  DR HARVEY: That you don’t know who sent the text. That the police don’t know who sent it.

  NATASHA: Should it bother me? I don’t know. It’s probably just some random guy I gave my number to when I was drunk.

  DR HARVEY: Does that happen often?

  NATASHA: Being drunk or giving my number away?

  (Pause)

  What’s often, anyway? Sometimes I give my number out. Sometimes my friends do it as a joke.

  DR HARVEY: The text told you to meet that night at three a.m., in the usual place. And then, in the middle of the night, you went out.

  NATASHA: I know, but the two things might not have been related. I didn’t answer the text, did I? Not according to what Inspector Bennett said. I bet that text wasn’t even meant for me. Could have been a wrong number. How can I have a usual place with someone I don’t know? I don’t have ‘usual places’ with people I do know. Not even—

  (Pause. Slight hiccup of hesitation)

  Not even with my closest friends.

  DR HARVEY: Are you all right? Did you remember something?

  NATASHA: Yes. I mean yes I’m all right, no I didn’t remember something. Sorry. Just tired.

  (Shuffling in chair)

  Look, I’m sure this will all come back to me and it’ll be nothing. I was probably just stupid and went out because I was bored and fell in the river in the dark. Maybe that wrong-number text got in my subconscious and made me think about going out. We don’t even know what time I left the house. Probably after the time in that text. I don’t know. Maybe I’ll remember, but right now I don’t know.

  DR HARVEY: I have something for you.

  (A pause)

  NATASHA: What’s this for?

  DR HARVEY: I want you to keep a diary. Your thoughts, feelings. Events. It can often help patients with memory problems. You don’t have to show it to me.

  NATASHA: Which means I don’t have to w
rite it. I just want to go home. I feel fine, honestly. This place stinks of disinfectant. It’s going to take me three showers to get it off.

  (Small laugh)

  Still, better than freezing river water, I guess. Can I go home?

  DR HARVEY: I’m afraid when you’re released is not down to me, but I’m sure the doctors won’t keep you longer than necessary.

  NATASHA: I’ll promise them I won’t go out at night without swimming bands on in future. Just in case.

  (Small laugh)

  Extract from DI Caitlin Bennett’s case

  report – Monday 11th January

  Natasha Howland has some bruises and cuts but there are no clear physical indications of an attack. Hospital psychologist Doctor Annabel Harvey believes that, despite the memory loss surrounding the accident, had Howard undergone a trauma such as an attack before falling, or being thrown, into the river, then PTSD would be evident in her reactions and behaviour. At present she appears calm and well.

  Howland’s phone records show no unusual activity before the incident apart from the receipt of a single text from an unknown number at 12.33 a.m.: Meet tonight at 3am. The usual place. Howland claims not to recognise the number and it is not in her contacts list. The text came from a PAYG phone sold by the One Cell Stop in Brackton Shopping Centre. It, and an identical phone, were bought for cash on October 14th. Security footage has been requested from the shopping centre and from One Cell Stop.

  Howland suggests the text was a wrong number. I am concerned by her lack of response to it. When asked, more than twenty teenagers from her school say in that situation they would respond with, ‘Who is this?’ Howland did not. Despite my concern over her lack of reply, this proves nothing; she may have chosen to ignore a text she did not recognise.

  There was no indication of a struggle at the riverbank, or in the woods behind it, although the heavy snow that night and morning hindered the search. Until such time as Natasha Howland recovers her memory, there is little the police can do once further inquiries about the source of the text have been made through her friendship circle, and until CCTV footage has been recovered from the shopping centre.

  At the present time there is no reason to consider this a criminal investigation.

  Seven

  On Monday, the hive was, as expected, buzzing, and Becca felt eyes turning her way as she moved between classes. Everyone knew she’d been at the hospital. They knew, thanks to a local newspaper photographer loitering outside, that Aiden worked for the man who’d pulled Natasha from the river. They knew that, long long ago, Becca and Natasha had once been friends and that Becca was the first person she mentioned when she woke up. It was all humming on the lines today.

  Oh yeah, I think I remember that. Shit, Tasha had braces then, didn’t she? Wasn’t that Becca Crisp quite fat? Proper lard-arse?

  Whispers. Mutters. Looks. She wished it would all stop. She didn’t need it any more than Tasha did. Occasionally someone tried to talk to her but she just pushed past them. They could talk to the Barbies if they wanted news about Tasha. The Barbies wanted the attention.

  Aside from seeing them surrounded by a throng of gossip-hungry wannabes in the common room at break, Becca had managed to avoid Hayley and Jenny for the first half of the day and was hoping to keep it up until the final bell rang and she could escape. It shouldn’t be hard. She had double Art all afternoon, which neither of the other girls took.

  ‘You okay?’ Hannah asked. Hannah was kind of Becca’s best mate these days, as much as anyone who wasn’t Aiden could be, and they were sitting, as they did most cold days at lunchtime, on the radiator in the Science corridor sharing the dregs of a packet of crisps. Hannah hadn’t mentioned the Tasha thing all day – not since Becca snapped on a text yesterday saying she really didn’t want to talk about it – but it was still there between them, a darker knot in the grey cloud that hung over the whole school. In some ways, Becca wished Hannah had asked. It would have shown some fucking spine. Hannah was sweet and could be funny when she was relaxed, and she was great at listening when Becca was either gushing or raging about Aiden, but there was no denying she was a bit of a doormat. Becca was the one in charge of the friendship. Becca had other friends: Casey in Theatre Tech Club, Emily who she sat with in English, and of course Aiden. Sometimes it felt like Hannah only had Becca. Hannah never had other plans. Hannah was always available. Hannah was always happy to see Becca.

  Becca was acutely aware that, basically, she was now best friends with the dull girl from school whose name no one would remember in five years’ time. It was a massive fall from being Natasha Howland’s forever friend. It bothered her more today than usual. Hannah didn’t seem to notice, though.

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine. I might go for a cigarette before Art. You coming?’

  ‘No, I’ll stay in the warm.’ Hannah always said her mum would go ape if she came home stinking of fags, but Becca knew that deep down it was Hannah who hated the smell. If they were out somewhere, she always stood a couple of feet away when Becca smoked and her face didn’t lie so well that Becca couldn’t see that she thought it was a bit disgusting. And she was right, it was. But it was also decadent and devil-may-care and she’d got used to it. She liked the feeling of the hot smoke deep in her lungs. A taste that carried in it a thousand ‘fuck yous’ to her mother and the hive.

  ‘Cool,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘I’ll text you later. Have fun in Geography.’

  ‘Oh yeah.’ Hannah smiled and rolled her eyes. ‘All the lolz.’

  *

  The bitter cold outside was sharp after being pressed cosily against the hot radiator, and Becca sniffed into the collar of her thick coat as she made her way around to the back of the Sports Hall. By the time she’d crept through the gap in the snowy hedge and into the small area of no-man’s-land before the playing fields, her cigarette was already in her mouth and her hand was digging around in her cluttered pocket for her lighter. At least it had stopped snowing for now. Her feet were tingling and numbing in her wet Converse and the ground was slippery-damp under the smooth soles as she picked her way towards the corner of the wall. Her mum, as much as it hurt to admit it, had been right. They really weren’t the right shoes for this weather.

  ‘So I can’t even smoke in peace.’

  Becca looked up and her heart sank. So much for avoiding the Barbies for the rest of the day. Behind the slim Vogue cigarette, Hayley looked just as displeased to see her. She tilted her head back and blew out a stream of smoke as if she could blow Becca away with it.

  ‘I didn’t think running and smoking went well together.’

  Hayley shrugged. ‘They do if you run as well as me.’

  Becca lit her own cigarette. Her heart was racing nervously and she wasn’t sure why. It was only Hayley. She didn’t give a shit about Hayley. ‘Keeps you thin, I guess. I know how important that is to you.’

  Hayley cast a perfectly made-up eye over Becca. ‘It wasn’t me who used to be fat.’ She leaned back against the wall, her blonde hair floating out over her furred hood as she smoked, cool and casual. She was beautiful, Becca had to admit. Maybe even more beautiful than Natasha. Striking, her mum would call it. Elegant. Even last term, when she’d fallen down some stairs and had to wear a support on her arm for weeks until nearly Christmas, she’d made it look stylish. Becca tried to picture Hayley halfway up a tree, but instead only remembered how close they’d been back then. Suddenly she felt too tired to trade spiteful digs. What was the point? As soon as Natasha was better and out of hospital, Becca would be forgotten and they’d slink back to their opposite ends of the social spectrum.

  ‘You okay?’ she said eventually, hating how Hannah-like it made her sound. Submissive. Meek. A doormat.

  ‘Like you care?’ Hayley countered.

  Becca wasn’t sure she did, she just wanted to say something to fill the awkward silence. She drew hard on h
er cigarette, willing it to burn down more quickly. ‘I was only asking. No need to be a bitch.’

  Hayley glanced down at her boots. Uggs, of course. Becca could see the tag across the heel. Jenny’s style might be fake – Jenny’s mum, a single parent, had no money – but Hayley must have been wearing two hundred quid on her feet. She scuffed snow from the heel of one onto the toe of the other, dirtying it, as if flipping the finger to the cost. Becca could see where the damp was soaking through the outside. Despite the Uggs’ cost, Hayley’s feet were probably as cold as her own.

  ‘You heard from Tasha?’ Hayley asked, her eyes down. The words were snowflake-light, but Becca tensed.

  ‘Should I have?’

  ‘I’m only asking, Bex.’ Hayley mimicked Becca’s own response, but she sounded tired, the polish her smoking and make-up and designer clothes gave her slipping for a moment. ‘Whatever.’

  ‘No,’ Becca said. ‘I haven’t.’ She paused, her cigarette almost in her mouth, and looked at Hayley, the reason behind her question clicking into place. ‘Why? Haven’t you?’

  Hayley shrugged, non-committal, but the answer was there. A fat no. ‘I’m just worried about her, you know.’

  ‘Can’t you call her?’

  ‘Her phone’s wrecked. I tried her home number. Alison said she’d given Tasha her iPhone and got herself a cheap one that just does texts and calls. She said at last she had a phone she understands how to use.’ She half-smiled. ‘You know what she’s like with technology.’ Becca didn’t, really. The last time she’d been hanging around in the Howland home, phones and computers weren’t important. Building dens and playing pirates had taken up most of their time. ‘Anyway, I called it then sent a text but she hasn’t replied,’ Hayley finished.