Fry

by Lorna Dounaeva

  “Me too.”

  She catches sight of my knife.

  “Oh my god! What were you going to do, stab me?”

  “I…I…”

  But then she laughs her irritating Minnie Mouse laugh and I can see she’s not serious.

  I smile weakly and accept surrender. She’s got me. Again.

  My brain aches.

  We traipse downstairs and I watch as she pulls on her boots. I hadn’t even noticed them, lined up by the front door.

  “Well, Merry Christmas,” she smiles.

  “You too,” I echo lamely. It’s really dark outside and I should probably offer her a lift but I just want her out of my house. Besides, there’s no way I’m getting in a car with her again. She lingers on the doorstep, as if expecting me to offer, but I just say good night and shut the door. I watch from the window as she skips off down the path. I wait until I’m sure she has gone, then I bolt the door behind her. Exhausted, I collapse into my favourite armchair. My poor, jangled nerves.

  The phone shrills, making me jump. I ignore it. Let the answering machine pick it up.

  “Isabel, it’s Holly. Just checking you got back all right?”

  I make a grab for it. “Hi Holly, I just got in.”

  “Everything OK? You sound a bit shaky.”

  “Alicia was in my house!” I blurt out. “Kate gave her the key.”

  “You’d better change your locks then. Tonight if possible.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yeah, you shouldn’t take any chances.”

  I touch my throat. Oh god, she’s right. Alicia has a key to my house.

  Why, oh why didn’t I ask for it back?

  I think back to the expression on Alicia’s face when I caught her in my bedroom. It wasn’t fear, was it? It was pleasure. Just like the day she jumped out in front of my car. She’s getting a kick out of scaring me, the sick little freak.

  And just in case you ever think of ringing a locksmith at eight PM on Christmas Day, don’t bother. Forty-five minutes later, the saucer I’ve been using as an ashtray is completely full and I’m no closer to getting the locks changed. What to do, what to do? I drift around the house, checking that every window is shut tight, then drag the coffee table over to the front door and wedge it up against the handle.

  Ding-Dong!

  At last!

  I peer through the peephole. But it isn’t the locksmith.

  “Deacon?”

  “Who were you expecting? The Dalai Lama?”

  “Yes, he always pops round for tea about this time. Just wait there a minute and I’ll let you in.”

  I scramble about, pulling the coffee table back to its original position, and then I unbolt the door.

  “What was all that about?” he asks as he strides inside. “Sounded like you were rearranging the furniture.”

  “Er, yes - I was, but I decided it looks better the way it was.”

  He raises an eyebrow and perches himself on the sofa.

  “I came to give you your Christmas present.”

  “You already gave me a Christmas present,” I remind him, pulling a face. He left me a book called ‘Managing your finances’ when he came for dinner.

  “Your real Christmas present, silly. I wanted to see your face when you opened it.”

  “Oh!”

  He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out an envelope.

  “What’s this?”

  “Why don’t you open it?”

  I slit it open.

  “Depeche Mode tickets? Oh my god, this is amazing! You’re the best!” I hug him violently. “I have wanted to see them forever.”

  “I know. I couldn’t believe it when I heard that they’re finally coming to the Arena. The tickets are for Saturday night. I know it’s a bit short notice but I really wanted to surprise you.”

  Wow!

  I start mentally thumbing through my wardrobe, deciding what I should wear.

  But wait…A big grey cloud drifts into my thoughts.

  “There are only two tickets. What about Alicia?”

  “Oh, she won’t mind. I mean, it’s Depeche Mode. They’re a bit before her time, aren’t they?”

  I smile, but inside, my stomach is churning.

  This is Alicia we’re talking about. I can’t accept Deacon’s invitation.

  “You do want to go?” he asks, studying my face carefully. “You’ve gone awfully quiet.”

  “Of course I do!” I hug him again. “Best gift ever!”

  I’ll just have to come up with an excuse in the morning.

  But I can’t face telling Deacon the next day or the next. Finally, on Thursday night I force myself to drive over to the Beach House after work.

  “Isabel!” Rhett greets me. “Wait till you see what I got in the sales!”

  He pulls me into the kitchen, where Deacon is sitting at the table, reading the newspaper and eating a roast beef sandwich.

  Rhett bounds up to his room and returns, wielding a Frankie Morello shoe box.

  “Wow,” I say eyeing his expensive new trainers. “They’re pink!”

  “I know!”

  “How much?”

  “40% off!”

  “Nice.”

  He places the shoes back in their box, tenderly wrapping them back up in their tissue paper. He keeps all his shoes like that, never even wears half of them. Still, whatever makes him happy.

  “So what did you get in the sales?” he asks me.

  “The sales?” I repeat. “Oh, I haven’t been.”

  Deacon looks up from his newspaper.

  “You haven’t been to the sales?” he repeats in disbelief. “Why not?”

  “I just didn’t feel like it this year.”

  He leans over and puts his hand to my forehead. “You don’t seem to have a temperature.”

  I smile weakly. The truth is, shopping hasn’t been terribly high on my agenda lately.

  “But Isabel,” Rhett gasps, “shopping is your life. I thought we were kindred spirits!”

  “It’s really not such a big deal,” I say lightly. “I’ve just been busy, that’s all.”

  “Hmm…” Rhett is still looking at me like I’m from another planet.

  “So about Saturday night,” says Deacon. “Do you want me to pick you up, or shall we meet at the Arena?”

  “Deacon, about that…”

  “What?”

  “Look, I’m really sorry but I don’t think I’m going to be able to go.”

  “Why not?” he folds his arms. “I thought you were looking forward to it.”

  “I was, but I just found out I have to work that night,” I lie feebly.

  “On a Saturday night?” Deacon frowns. “Look Isabel, if this is about Alicia…”

  “It’s not about Alicia.”

  “Cos I already talked to her and she’s fine with it.”

  I bet.

  Alicia!

  I sense her watching from the banisters. Her eyes are lasers, scorching the back of my head.

  “I really have to work that night,” I say more emphatically. “I’m sorry you went to so much trouble.”

  Alicia chooses this moment to make her entrance.

  “Hi Isabel, what’s up?”

  “Isabel has to work on Saturday night,” Rhett fills her in.

  “Oh no, isn’t the concert on Saturday?”

  I nod.

  “Oh, that’s a shame.” Her large eyes are wide with pity. “And you were so looking forward to it.”

  “Well, it can’t be helped.”

  “Hey, how about I talk to Sonya?” she says, snapping her fingers. “Maybe I can cover some of your work?”

  “No really, it’s fine.”

  “It’s worth a try though, isn’t it?” Deacon says. “If you do still want to go?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Well, then.”

  *

  “There’s rubbish on your lawn,” Mr Krinkle points out as I arrive home. This is the probably
the highlight of his day, poor man.

  Gingerly, I stuff the discarded chip papers into the bin, and hurry down the path towards the house. I’m not in the mood for small talk.

  “There’s another bit on your doorstep,” he calls after me.

  I glance down and find a sliver of brown film. I bend down to pick it up. It appears to be a strip of negatives. I didn’t think anybody used those anymore.

  Inside, I hold it up to the light. It’s hard to make out, but they appear to be the negatives of Kate’s Camp Windylake pictures. They must have fallen out of the box Julio brought round. I pull out the box from under my bed, where I’d shoved it. I didn’t even attempt to give it to Kate when she came for Christmas dinner. I didn’t want to spoil the mood by bringing up my brother. It is still taped up, but there are a couple of hand holes for carrying it. The film could have slipped out of one of those. I open the box and riffle through it for the corresponding photographs but I can’t find them. Which is a shame because I never took any photos at Camp Windylake. I kind of wish I had.

  Alicia bounces up to me as I walk into work the next day.

  “It’s all set,” she announces, her eyes sparkling.

  “What is?”

  “Saturday night, of course. I just had a word with Sonya. She wasn’t even aware you were meant to be working on Saturday. Must have been a mix up with the schedule. Anyway, she said she’d be happy to swap you to another shift.”

  “Thanks.” I am more confused than ever. Does she actually want me to go the concert? Or is she playing games with me, pawing at me like a cat with a ball of yarn? It’s impossible to tell.

  I am so busy puzzling over this, I almost forget to pick up the photographs. I dropped off the negatives at the 24-hour pharmacy on the way to work. I flip through the prints as I walk out of the shop, first quickly, then more slowly. Kate’s going to laugh her head off when she sees these.

  What was I wearing? How could I have ever have thought ponchos were a good look?

  I drive home, where a confused Fluffy circles around me as I go from room to room, checking for intruders. Although the locks have now been changed, I still can’t rest until I’m absolutely certain Alicia isn’t in the house.

  Once I’m satisfied I’m alone, I make myself a cup of tea and take out the photos again. I just can’t seem to put them down. There’s something that bugs me about them, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.

  What’s this?

  I’m looking at a picture of Kate, aged eighteen, surrounded by children from the camp. And there, sitting on her knee is a young girl of about ten years old. A young girl with wild black curls and big doe eyes.

  I suck in my breath.

  Is it really possible? Alicia is a good few years younger than us. She would have been around that age when the photo was taken. I study the photo carefully. There’s no mistaking it.

  It’s her! It’s Alicia.

  And I’m betting she’s come back into our lives for a reason.

  Chapter Eleven

  I am on her trail.

  Alicia has never mentioned Camp Windylake. She doesn’t want us to know she was ever at that camp. She doesn’t want us to know we’ve met before.

  Excitedly, I pick up the phone.

  “Kate, can you meet me at the Beach House in twenty minutes?” I ask. “I have something to tell you all.”

  “What? Why can’t you tell me over the phone?”

  “Just meet me at the Beach House,” I insist. “I’ll explain all.”

  I set the phone down, and lean back with satisfaction. It’s time to expose Alicia for what she really is.

  I hum to myself on the short drive over there. For some reason, I am not the least bit scared of confronting Alicia. In fact, I’m looking forward to it.

  “This is all very mysterious!” Rhett says, as he lets me in.

  “Don’t tell me. Gucci’s having a sale,” Deacon guesses, without looking up from his paper.

  “No, it’s something much more important than that,” I say, pulling off my boots.

  “Well, come on, out with it.”

  “No. We have to wait until Kate gets here. We all have to be here.”

  A nervous buzz of energy pulses through me as Kate arrives. I wait until everyone has sat down. Then, feeling a bit Miss Marple, I slap the incriminating photo down on the kitchen table.

  Explain that, Alicia.

  For the teeniest fraction of a second, a hint of colour rises in her cheeks, but it’s gone in an instant, and she’s all dimples and smiles again.

  No one says anything. I don’t think the rest of them have got it yet.

  “Look closely.” I urge.

  They all look.

  “Wow, doesn’t that little girl look like me?” Alicia bursts out. “Where did you say this was again? Camp Windmill Lake?”

  “Camp Windylake,” I correct her, though I’m sure she knows damn well.

  “Wow, wouldn’t it be an amazing coincidence if this really is Alicia?” Kate whistles.

  “A bit too much of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

  But they don’t seem to be getting it.

  “They do say that everyone you meet is just seven connections away,” Rhett says.

  “I once read about these twins who were separated at birth but found each other years later. And get this – they lived less than a mile apart.”

  “Well, I got talking to this girl in the pub the one time, and it turned out we lived next door to each other when we were 5.” Kate jumps in.

  “This is different!” I interject.

  But it’s no use. Nobody is listening to me anymore. They’re all trying to outdo each other with ridiculous tales of coincidence. I glance in Alicia’s direction and she flashes me a triumphant smile. With a sinking feeling, I realise I should have kept this to myself. It was a mistake to reveal my hand so soon. A big, colossal, gigantic mistake.

  The Night of the Concert

  I try on practically every item in my wardrobe on Saturday night, before finally deciding on skinny jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt and Ugg boots. I refuse to let this latest business with Alicia ruin my night out with Deacon. I have decided I’m going to go to the concert, and what’s more, I’m going to damn well enjoy it.

  Also, it’s occurred to me that my friends might be right. I mean, Alicia was just a kid at Camp Windylake. I suppose it’s plausible that she really doesn’t remember me, or even the camp. After all, I don’t remember her. I don’t know, this whole thing is so confusing. I would give anything to have it all go away. No better still, to have her go away. Crawl back to wherever it was she came from.

  I outline my eyes in grey and smudge a little shadow into the sockets. Now, what shall I do with my hair? I try plaits, but they make me look too babyish, so I take them out again. Maybe a French braid? This is silly. Why am I spending so much time on this? It’s not like I’m going on a date! I run my brush through my hair till it gleams and set it down on the nightstand. There. Done.

  All this messing around means Deacon’s been waiting a while when I finally arrive at our meeting place.

  “Sorry I’m late.”

  “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”

  But he’s relaxed and smiling, as if he half expected me to be late.

  He’s shaved, I notice, and he smells of soap. His breath is warm on my face as he leans in and kisses me on the cheek. And when he pulls away, I have to fight the urge to pull him back again.

  “You look great,” he tells me. I wait for the punchline, but instead he glances at his phone to check the time. “We’d better get going.”

  The atmosphere in the Arena is electric. The warm-up band is just finishing and people chatter excitedly as they wait for Depeche Mode.

  “Where are we sitting?”

  “Let me see…”

  As he stops to examine our tickets, I feel a pair of eyes on me. I glimpse a face in the periphery of my vision. Pale, with curly black hair. I tur
n my head to look, but she’s already melted away, into the crowd.

  “I hope this is OK,” he says, leading me to a row near the back. “I couldn’t get anything closer to the front.”

  “This is great,” I assure him, scanning the stands. I can’t see her, but I know she’s here somewhere, watching. I just wish I knew her plan.

  The lights go down and everyone cheers as the first notes sound. My spine tingles with excitement as they start to play one of my favourite songs.

  I won’t let Alicia ruin this for me.

  Then someone in front of me flicks on their lighter and waves it about in time to the music. One by one, lighters light up around the arena. They look fantastic in the darkness. Smiling, I reach for my own lighter and give it a flick.

  The flame bursts into the air, three times higher than normal, narrowly missing my fringe, and the back of the girl in front of me.

  “Whoa!” I snap it shut quickly and stuff it back into my bag. Alicia must have tampered with it.

  I glance at Deacon, but he’s so caught up in the music that he hasn’t even noticed.

  I need something to steady my nerves.

  “Do you want a drink?” I whisper in his ear.

  “Yeah, I’ll have a beer, thanks.”

  I head for the loos first, amazed to find there’s no queue. I walk into a cubicle and set my bag down on the ground, then I hover gingerly over the seat. I try to pee, but I can’t go. I squeeze my eyes shut. Sometimes that helps.

  What was that?

  My eyes snap open. For just a second, it felt like there was someone in the cubicle with me. I glance around.

  Nope, no one here.

  Hold on.

  There! There it is!

  A hand.

  Reaching under the wall that separates this cubicle from the next. Small, pale fingers close themselves around the straps of my favourite green Prada handbag and begin to tug it from view.

  “Hey!”

  I grab hold of the handle and try to pull it back. For a moment, we both tug, and then my beloved bag disappears from sight.

  “No!”

  I yank up my jeans and struggle with the zip.

  To my surprise, the bag slides back into view. I grab it back. The hand slips away.

  I am up and out of the cubicle as quickly as possible but the thief has already made a run for it, leaving the door to slam in my face. I run out and look up and down the corridor.