Game Girls (19 page)

O
UTSIDE, the thunder grumbles. Lying on
the bed in the candlelit Love Nest, Fern folds
her hands across her chest and rubs her arms.
'A storm is spot on for our last working night
together,' Alix had laughed, rummaging in her
kitchen drawer for extra candles. 'You could
say we're going out with a bang. And the
power cut will just add a bit of atmosphere.'

Fern wishes she didn't have to do this one
last 'newie'. She wishes she wasn't here, but
Alix picked her up from college – had been
there instead of a taxi in the car park – and
persuaded her to do this one last time.
Although she's been fine about Fern wanting to
finish – she's said it's time they wound
everything up anyway.

'Time to move on,' she'd said. 'I'd already
decided that myself.'

Fern thinks that Alix already deciding is a
good thing – she hasn't had to make her cross.
The door knocks and she gets up off the bed,
walking over to open it. 'Hi.'

'Hello.' He has a posh voice although she
can't see his face very well. Faceless Fred. She's
glad he is faceless. She won't have to gaze into
his eyes.

Faint washes of lightning shudder in
through the cracks in the curtain, and his
shadow on the wall is very tall. 'My name's
Honey,' she says softly. 'It's lovely to see you. I
just need to ask you to get washed – you know
– properly washed – and then I'm all yours.'

All yours. Alix has taught her to say that.

She says lots of clients like the idea of
owning you, even when they've only bought
you for half an hour.

Fern has to lead him to the sink because it's
too dark to just point the way, and she stands
quietly, waiting for him to finish.

Lightning shudders in through the cracks in
the curtains. She flinches, but doesn't mention
it. He hasn't exactly come to talk about the
weather.

'I'm ready,' he says, his very tall shadow
turning towards her.

She moves closer, laying her head against his
chest.

He has kept his clothes on – done himself up
again, which is a good sign. It probably means
he's shy. The 'newies' often are.

He strokes her hair in the dark and she
thinks how gentle he is. She's dead lucky to get
a gentle one on her last night. Maybe he won't
even want to do it properly. Not all of them do.
Not all of then can manage it.

'Let's lie down for a while.' She takes both
his hands and leads him to the bed. 'We can
have a bit of a cuddle.'

He lies next to her, keeps stroking her back
and her hair and all the time he is whispering
to her, talking softly but urgently, although
she's not listening to what he's saying.

She's thinking about her river figures. She's
started on the fish now, only giving them wings
instead of fins. The first ones have gone in the
kiln and she hopes the fine feathers on the tips
don't snap, because it took her ages to get in all
that detail.

She feels his grip on her get stronger.

The whispering goes on.

She strains to hear what he's telling her,
thinking perhaps she needs to say something
too.

'Aren't you? Aren't you?' he is saying, and
his grip becomes pinching. Painful. She is used
to this. She'll ask him to stop in a minute.

'Aren't I what?' she murmurs back in her
best Alix voice. Beautiful? Sexy? Maybe both
those things. She could be anything to him, in
his paid-for-half-hour – especially in the dark.

And then she hears him properly – and it's
not a whisper now. And she's not beautiful or
sexy either.

'You're a bitch, aren't you? A slag. A dirty
whore. Aren't you? Aren't you?'

He is tearing at her, wrestling with her
clothes.

She hears her shirt rip. His hands, now
under her skirt, scratch and twist her thighs.
'Aren't you? Aren't you?'

And he enters her and he has his hands over
her face now, crushing it, screwing up her skin
and her nose is bent sideways and her eyes are
being stretched out as if her face is a mask that
can be wrenched off. Torn away like her clothes.

'A bitch. A slag. A dirty whore.'

She tries to move with him. She mustn't
make him worse. Mustn't make him worse.
'Yes,' she answers. 'Yes.' Outside the thunder
smacks and smashes and the wind screams and
she stretches out her hand to find the buzzer.

And then she remembers the electricity is
off.

* * *

'Fern?'

Alix can see Fern's bulk on the bed, lying
diagonally. 'Oh God – she's asleep. I told you
she would be.' She steps into the Love Nest,
holding the candle that she's carried upstairs.
'Fern – come on. Wake up. Me and Courtney
have been waiting for you. We were busy talking
and we didn't hear your guy go, so we've come
up to . . . oh – my God.'

'What's happened?' Courtney is pressing in
behind her. 'What's happened?'

Outside the storm has blown over but it's
raining now, pouring. Everything rattling.

She holds the candle closer, flickered light
wavering over the face she doesn't want to look
at too closely.

She reaches down to touch the ripped sleeve
of Fern's blouse, and Fern winces, and groans.

So she isn't dead.

'She looks rough,' whispers Courtney
behind her. 'I'd better get an ambulance.'

'No – no!' Alix's response is jagged and
high. She forces herself to sound calmer. 'We
can't let an ambulance in here. It'll mean the
police. Loads of questions and everything.'

And everything.

Alix know she doesn't have to explain to
Courtney what 'and everything' might mean.

Shit shit shit. Why did this have to happen
tonight – the last night. Her life has turned
round and she's got her new plan and a
glittering future that Fern might just be about
to give the kiss of death to.

What would Hugh say if he knew?

What would happen to her glittering future
then?

'But she needs help.' Courtney's voice is
panicked. 'I'll get a cloth. Clean her up a bit.'

'No! Not that either. Look . . . ' Alix's mind
is racing, not sure what it is she is going to say.
'. . .we'll put her in my car and drive her home.
Tell her mum that she turned up on my
doorstep in this state, and we didn't know
what else to do. Help me carry her, will you?'

Between them, they get Fern downstairs.

She moans softly, 'No – no.'

'It's all right.' Alix takes her car keys from
beside the front door. 'We're going to get you
home.'

* * *

Courtney keeps twisting round in her seat, trying
to check if Fern is all right. She doesn't put her
seat belt on. So what if the police stop them?
Maybe it would be better if they did. She's not
sure why she wants this, because she knows it will
mean the end of everything for all of them, but
Fern beaten senseless is a weight too heavy for her
to deal with.

'She's still breathing,' she says to Alix. 'I can
definitely see she's still breathing.'

'Shut up.' Alix is speaking in a voice
Courtney has never heard. 'I need to concentrate.
I've got to find a way to get us through
this. I've got to try and stop Fern from
blabbing.'

The rain whips the windscreen, the night
thick with grey clouds that roll on through the
black.

They reach the main road and pull onto it.
There is no other traffic about. No one else
desperate enough to be driving in this. Turning
right, the Mini bumps along the unmade track
that leads to
River's View
.

'No,' pleads Fern. 'No no no. Please, no.'

As they reach the guesthouse, Alix turns the
corner, driving round the side.

She stops, killing the engine, and the rain
beats round them like a drummed warning.

The headlights pour cold light on the black
water that slops up against the slipway, creeping
inland.

'The tide's really high.' Courtney's gut is
churning and her hands are shaking. She hopes
she's not going to be sick. 'I think it'll probably
flood. It did that this time last year. You'd
better not stay parked for too long.'

'I won't. Just go and tell them what's
happened. And remember the story – the way
we've agreed it.'

Courtney isn't sure she's agreed anything,
but this isn't the time for an argument. She
squints out through the window. There are no
lights on in Fern's house, but they've probably
had the power cut here too. She half opens the
door, and then turns back to Alix. 'I can't see
her mum's car,' she says.

'I expect they've moved it. They'll have seen
there's a flood coming.' Alix cuts dead the
headlights. 'Try the front door. They'll hear
you better from there anyway.'

Courtney still hesitates. 'But the house looks
so dead – I don't think there's anyone in – we'd
see a candlelight or something.'

'Just go.' Alix's voice is grit hard. 'I'll look
after her here.'

From the back seat, Fern calls faintly, 'No.
Please no.'

'OK – but you've got to promise me – if
nobody comes – we take her straight to
hospital.' Courtney leans on the handle.

'I promise.'

Courtney's eyes sting. The wind whirls against
her as if it's trying to force her to turn back. She
battles through the slugged mud, and heads
round the corner to the front of the house. There
is no sound from inside. No sense of life. She
raises her hand and knocks. Waits. Knocks again.
This is insane, wasting time like this. And then
she remembers – Fern told Alix they were going
away. She'd said it earlier in the evening, when
she first arrived. Courtney hadn't really been
listening – she'd been trying to 'think' herself into
being able to go through with it all for one final
time – but now the memory washes in.

She turns, struggling back down the path.
Alix must have forgotten – but she'll have to
take Fern to hospital now. They can still tell the
same story about her turning up on the
doorstep, if that's what Alix wants to do.
Courtney isn't sure if anyone will believe this,
and even if they do, they still don't know what
Fern herself will say. How can Alix stop her
'blabbing' when she's barely conscious? But
that doesn't matter. None of it matters. The
only thing is to get her somewhere where they
can make her all right.

She is hating herself for all the ugly Fern
thoughts she's ever had. She'll make it up to her
– if Fern will let her.

She turns the corner, the wind screaming
round her, and then stops. Everything seems set
in slow motion, and for a moment she can't
work out what she's seeing.

The back door of the Mini gapes open, and
Alix is walking with her arm around Fern's
shoulder, half dragging her towards the black
water.

They reach the edge and stop. Alix shifts
position, and seems to struggle to alter her
hold. For a moment it is hard to make out
exactly who is who. Their bodies blend,
merging together. One dark, strange, two-headed
beast. And then one part of the beast
falls forward. There is a quiet splash that could
almost be nothing. That could almost be
forgotten.

And Alix stands very still. Watching the
silence. Her hair dancing like maddened snakes
in the wind.

* * *

T
HE STREETLAMPS blink back on as Alix
drives down Norwood Avenue in the streaming
rain. She is grateful for this weather. It's on her
side. And the flood is a gift. It will wash away
the tyre tracks. Her footprints. And Fern's.

Tomorrow she'll just have to hose the Mini
down, and vacuum out the inside. Destroy all
traces.

Courtney ran off. Alix thinks that she'll ring
her mobile later, but she's sure Courtney won't
do – or say – anything stupid. If they stick
together, it'll be all right.

The engine ticks a restless rhythm that
seems in tune with Alix's heart.

She runs through what she'll say to
Courtney. They can hatch up an alibi. They can
say Courtney came to see her. They listened to
music. Chatted a bit. Then Alix drove her
home. Neither of them saw Fern – and they
didn't expect to. They ought to drop in some
comment about how she'd been behaving
strangely lately. They can add that she'd
become very secretive. They could press it
home even further by saying they were worried
she'd got herself in with 'the wrong crowd'.

But there's other things to deal with first.
There's evidence to erase.

Back home, the lights glare like accusations.

The candles downstairs have all burnt low,
some of them caving in on themselves. She
hurries round, blowing out the flames and
carrying the last one to the sink along with the
pile of tonight's earnings. The notes burn
easily; soft ashes on cold silver. Alix runs the
tap, stirring the grey sludge with the handle of
a spoon, pushing the last stubborn lumps down
through the plughole.

She leaves the tap running – just to be sure
of washing everything as far away as possible,
and heads upstairs.

At the door to the Love Nest she hesitates.
She'd like to burn the whole room. The whole
house. But that would be stupid. As long as she
gets this right, no one will be able to pin
anything on her. But it feels strange inside.
Eerie. The walls seem hung with a sense of
menace, as if they have gathered a dark energy
of their own.

Don't be stupid. Don't be stupid. But she
jumps – almost screams – when she falls over
one of Fern's cream silk shoes. And she draws
shut the curtains because she can sense ghosted
faces leering in.

All Fern's outfits from the wardrobe have to
go, and also the day clothes she wore round
this evening. Oxfam is the best bet. They'll be
really pleased. In fact, she'll be doing them a
favour.

Shutting down the jittery paranoia, she
works quickly, whipping off the bedding and
bundling it into the washing machine
downstairs. Then she makes herself go back
up. Polishing. Vacuuming. Polishing again.

The room feels full of eyes. As she pulls out
the bed, the wardrobe door falls open and this
time she does scream. Knife sharp. Shrill. A
sound she has never heard herself make before.
Her hands tremble but she makes herself keep
working, telling herself: 'It's all right', 'It's all
right', 'It's all right'.

It's a relief when she's finished. A relief
when she can get out and shut the door.

She does the same in her own room. Strips
the bed. Polishes. Vacuums. Her house has
never been this clean. She can't think why the
police would ever come here – why they'd ever
suspect – but she's seen enough crime drama to
know how thorough they can be. There's no
point taking chances.

From downstairs she hears the business
mobile bleat out its ringtone. Shit – she'd
forgotten about that. Racing to get it she cuts it
dead, then stands wondering what do with it.
Do mobiles hold traces of all their calls? Should
she smash it? Bludgeon it into pieces? But the
police might find the remains, and they'd sniff
their way round those too. In the end she opens
the back and prises out the Sim Card. She
drops it in the sink, then boils the kettle. Next,
her hand shaking, she pours the water down
onto the card, drowning its damning secrets in
a steaming stream. She'll dump it in a bin
somewhere tomorrow. And she'll dump the
handset somewhere different.

Is there anything else?

Is there anything else?

She searches. She checks. She runs through
scenes in her head, trying to picture what the
crime-drama police might want to poke around
in.

It's all right for Fern to have been here in the
past – it doesn't matter if they find something
of hers that Alix has forgotten about. It only
matters if they find definite evidence that she
was round tonight.

Hopefully no one saw her drive up with Fern
– she'd picked her up from college because she
was late getting back from Hugh's, and had
forgotten to organise the usual taxi. And hopefully
no one saw her being manoeuvred into the
back of the Mini two hours later. The storm
should have meant there was no one out and
about, although Alix still thinks she messed up
with that last bit. If she'd written this as a play,
she'd have thought it through a bit more
carefully. But it is the only weak link in the
chain. That – and Courtney keeping her mouth
shut. She'll ring Courtney in a minute. Or better
still, she'll go round there in the morning. She'll
be more convincing face to face.

Once she's persuaded her that there's no
way they'll be traced – and that if they are,
they'll both end up in handcuffs – she'll have
covered every angle.

With the house immaculate, the silence now
screams. She turns the radio on in the kitchen.
Goes through to do the TV. The CD player. The
rooms all throb with sound and she thinks, if
she keeps it all in the background, it could feel
like a party.

Her eighteenth all over again.

She gets herself a Breezer from the fridge. If
she's at a party, she needs a drink.

And another. And another.

And as the drinks begin to blunt down the
knife edges of the night, she thinks that this
was how it all started. Her eighteenth. Mum.
Tom and Dale. And Courtney finding that card
in the phone box. The beginning was as simple
as that.

She drops her head forward onto her hands.
It's fascinating, how everything in life
somehow pieces together. One thing driving
into another.

Who the hell could have known it would all
end like this?

* * *

Courtney sinks down onto the bed, pulling on a
too-huge T-shirt that she always uses as a
nightgown. She's just managed a shower,
although for a long time she just stared at it,
trying to remember how showers worked. And
once she'd got it going, she couldn't stand under
it for long. The water scared her. The sound too
much like rain falling. She panicked when the
fierce spray touched her face.

The journey back along the landing felt
endless, her legs slow and weighted. It is as if
they are forgetting how to walk. Sometimes,
when she leaves her room, she is scared it won't
be there when she gets back. She doesn't leave
her room very often.

Alix came round – just once – the day after
it happened. Before the story broke. Before
anybody knew. 'Just keep your head down,'
she'd warned. 'Think what might happen if
you told anyone. Everything would come out.
The police would leave no stone unturned.
Imagine your mum. Your dad. Or worse still –
think of your poor brothers having to deal with
something like that, at school. They'd be really,
really damaged by it.'

The brothers bit had been the worst. The
thought of hurting them. The thought of them
hating her.

Mum appears in the doorway, bustling in
to pick up the wet towel that Courtney has
left draped along the floor. 'Does that feel
better?'

'Suppose so.' Courtney has been in bed for
days. Weeks. She's kept the curtains closed and
shut herself away.

Mum delivers trays of food that Courtney
can barely eat. Tries to make conversation.
Tries to keep the others out. Especially Dad.
Mum doesn't understand why, but Courtney
won't have Dad in the room. For now, at least,
she seems to be going along with it. She's not
asking questions.

Courtney thinks it is as if Mum has finally
noticed her. Finally dragged herself away from
making everything perfect for 'him'. Maybe
Mum has seen a different newspaper headline
in her disinfected imagination. Maybe she has
replaced the name 'Fern Douglas' for
'Courtney Benton-Gray'.

'Shall I sit with you for a while?' Mum is
standing by the bed now, the towel over her
arm. She does this a lot. Hovers. Hesitates.

'I'm OK. There's no need.'

'You're not OK, Courtney. Of course you're
not. You've been away from college for three
weeks. You've turned off your mobile. You
don't even take calls from Alix.'

Courtney pulls the quilt up to her chin. She
wants Mum to go so she can hide again. The
day outside can fade and there will be night
and then day and night and then day on and on
until she is wrinkled and old and she will never
be part of the cruel real world again.

'Dad thinks we should contact the doctor. I
know it's been a troubling time for you, but
you have to keep going. You're going to miss
your exams next week, and if Fern does . . . '
Mum pauses, the whole weight of possibilities
hanging in the space. '. . . does come back, it
will be so silly to have wasted everything.'

Courtney wants to scream at Mum that
Fern won't come back. Not in any form. Alix
has been too clever for that. Somehow Alix –
who hasn't even lived here for a year yet – had
known about the undertow of the river. She
knew exactly where to push.

Alix has been a great help to the police too.
She knew Fern had been meeting blokes off the
internet. She even gave them the website address.
She'd apparently 'done things' with strangers in
cars. For money. Since then, the papers have been
full of date.com-type dangers, and how innocent
young girls get lured into meeting up with
strangers.

She remembers, suddenly, an old
conversation with Alix – on the afternoon of her
eighteenth birthday. Courtney had been pushing
to find out how Fern got the money for that
dress, and Alix had refused to tell her. 'Maybe
you'll find out one day,' she'd said. 'Secrets
always come out in the end.'

'Courtney – are you listening?' Mum brings
her back to the moment.

'I don't want to see a doctor. I don't need to
see a doctor.'

'But Dad says . . . '

'Stuff Dad. Since when the hell has he cared
how I am? If it wasn't for him. . . ' These words
are out before she can stop them, their meaning
germ-ridden. An ugly truth virus that must be
bleached away.

'If it wasn't for him, what?'

Courtney stares at Mum, and Mum stares at
Courtney. They are like foreigners, struggling
to make some sense of each other's alien
language.

Courtney is the first to look away, staring
down at her hands which are still gripping the
edges of the quilt. Her fingernails are bitten to
the skin, the tips of her fingers blistered and
sore.

'Courtney,' Mum is speaking softly. 'What
did you mean? If it wasn't for Dad . . .what?'

'Doesn't matter. It's nothing.'

'No, it's not. It's not nothing. Tell me.'

'You'd hate me.'

'Why would I hate you? You're my beautiful
daughter. I love you. And Daddy does too.'

Courtney presses her knuckles up to her
forehead. 'Stop it. Stop asking questions. Stop
telling me effing "Daddy" loves me. Stop trying
to make me tell you the truth.'

'The truth? What truth?' Mum has her arm
round Courtney now. She shakes her – not gently
but hard. 'Don't play games with me like this.'

Courtney thinks about games with 'Daddy'.
Secret games. Mummy mustn't know games.
My special girl games. She drops her hands
down and looks up, a fierce hot anger
pounding through her. '
He
used to make me
play games.'

Mum is still watching her. Her eyes grow
wide with a cold, slow horror. 'No,' she
whispers. 'No.'

'Yes, Mum.' Courtney isn't whispering. Her
voice is firm and clear. 'Yes.'

And Courtney can see that they are not
foreigners to each other anymore. They understand
each other's language. Mum has caught
the truth virus at last.

* * *