Game Girls (5 page)

She wishes now that she could ring Mum
and beg her to come later, but she can't because
River's View
demands they make such an early
start in the mornings. She doesn't want to be
unfair.

He sits next to her again, his arm stretched
back along the top of the sofa.

'My mum's coming at eleven.' Her voice
sounds silly. Squeaky. She starts worrying
again. Will he think she's pathetic? 'We always
have to be up early on a Sunday.'

He has had to lean forward to hear what
she's saying, and she feels herself trembling, as
if every nerve in her is waking up to him.

Alix is laughing up at Aaron's friend, her
arm round the other one. She is drinking vodka
straight from the bottle. Fern wonders if she
should try and get her to slow down but she'd
probably just laugh at her. And Aaron might
think she was a goody-goody spoilsport wimp.

'So tell me . . . ' Aaron's face is close to hers
again. '. . .what are you doing at college?'

Fern takes a breath, hoping he's not just
being polite. Hoping he might really be
interested. 'Pottery is my main thing. The thing
other people seem to think I'm best at.' She can
feel her voice warming, the silly squeakiness all
gone. She can tell him all her dreams about Art
College and the future. She is hardly thinking
of Alix now. And anyway, she was just being
stupid. It's Alix's eighteenth birthday and even
if she does get drunk, nothing bad could
happen to her in her own home. Fern doesn't
need to worry about her.

* * *

Alix sits on the edge of the bed. Her head is
muzzy. The room is muzzy. How did she get up
here with Tom? And Dale.

'Are you OK?' Tom slides his arm round her
and she rests her head against his shoulder.

'Think so.'

Dale is behind somehow, rubbing her back.
The movement makes her feel like she wants to
throw up.

'No, don't.' She murmurs this, tilting her
head to look over her shoulder. Dale's face is
very close. He starts kissing her.

Tom pulls her chin round and away from
Dale, and he kisses her too.

She breaks away. 'I don't feel well,' she
whispers.

'Why don't you lie down, baby?' Dale
moves round to one side of her, making room.

She feels Tom lift her legs, straightening her
out.

'That better?' She realises he is stroking her
through the shimmer-blue silk of her dress.

'The room's spinning.' She is whispering
again. She closes her eyes.

After a moment it starts to seep in that they
are both lying next to her. One either side.
Maybe it isn't Tom touching her. Maybe it's
Dale. 'No,' she says. 'Stop.'

'It's OK. We won't do anything you don't
want to.'

This is definitely Tom, and it's the 'we' that
startles her eyes open. Up until now she's had
the vague idea that Dale was here more by
chance. He just helped Tom get her upstairs –
and stayed.

'I . . . no.' She struggles to sit up, wincing
suddenly. There is something sharp sticking
into the base of her spine. 'Ouch. What the hell
is that?' She reaches round, fumbling for
whatever it is. Her fingers grip something spiky
and hard and there is the sound of shimmer-blue
silk tearing.

'Hey,' says Dale, his voice warm in her ear,
'are you ripping your clothes off for us?'

Us. We.

'Something's snagging me.' She struggles to
look behind her and see what it is.

'Here, I'll do it.' She feels Tom's fingers
fumble with the fabric. 'You're all caught up.
Hang on.'

She slumps forward, her head on her knees,
closing her eyes. All this effort is too much. Too
much.

There is another long rip.

'Sorry. Your dress is a bit torn. But this is the
culprit.' Tom gives a low whistle, holding his
hand out to her. 'A necklace.'

She opens her eyes again. Takes the crucifix
from him. One of them– she's not sure if it's Tom
or Dale, is stroking her skin through the rip.

Lacing the chain around her fingers she
remembers a story Mum used to tell her, a
hundred years ago. 'The Princess and the Pea,'
she says out loud. 'Do either of you know that
story?'

'Didn't she feel something hard in her bed?'
Tom or possibly Dale starts laughing. It is a
soft raspy sort of sound, not much above
breathing.

One of them is down the front of her dress
now, exploring the edges of the stick-on bra.

She drops the crucifix onto her open palm.
The room mists round her again. Her and
Mum. Mum has woven herself a different fairy
tale now. The drawbridge is up, and Alix is on
the wrong side of the moat.

She lies back down, grips the crucifix
tightly, the diamond-hard edges pressing into
her skin. Dale has moved away slightly, pulling
off his shirt. Tom moves one leg over hers,
pressing down on her. 'We've both got
condoms,' he says.

Alix squeezes her eyes tight shut. She would
like Mum to appear out of the haze. She'd like
to hear what sort of fairy tale she weaves
around this.

When Tom or possibly Dale presses his lips
against hers, she lets her mouth open slightly.
Lets herself sigh. Her fingers release the
crucifix and it slides away. She circles her arms
around Tom or possibly Dale. Valuable. Very
valuable. She wonders if Mum has taken out
insurance on
her
.

* * *

C
OURTNEY WALKS ON. The night washes
down on her, rain in her hair and her eyes. A cold
trickle finds its way in at the neck of her jacket,
sliding a slippery snail trail down her back.

The pavements shine up in the glow from
the streetlamps and water ripples down the
road in small rivers, gurgling up out of drains
and streaming round leaves and twigs and
pieces of litter. Rain drums everywhere, on
everything. From nearby she can hear the
heavy rush of a waterfall escaping from a
broken piece of guttering.

A car passes and she shrinks sideways into
the hedge to avoid the spray, seeing at the last
moment that it is Fern with her mum. Neither of
them see her.

Courtney thinks about the Dress Agency
dress again, and decides she is glad she didn't get
Alix anything over the top. Things like that are
a kind of blackmail. I give you the best present I
can think of. You stay my friend through thick
and thin.

Things to do with Fern have always
annoyed her. She was never part of the bullying
– not even at primary school when she was
arguably young enough not to know better –
but she never stopped it. Blind-eyed, head in
sand, she'd always walked by on the other side.

That oh-so-sweet, little girl, please-take-care-of-me
face. But it was more than that – it
was the way she always walked about with her
mum and dad, holding hands, linking arms.
Hugs and goodbyes in the playground.

Her look screamed 'please take care of me'
but she didn't need it.

And those children that did need it – they
probably never screamed out a look at anyone.

It is as she turns the corner into her own
road that she first hears the car. It has slowed
down behind her, keeping pace.

She quickens her step and it seems to speed
up – just enough – keeping the same distance
behind. Courtney won't let herself run. Don't
lose control. Don't lose control. Get your
mobile out. Let the bastard see you're making
contact with someone. And then – oh help. She
hasn't got her mobile. It's upstairs in the neatly
packed bag next to Alix's bed, along with the
overall she's going to need for Easi Shop
tomorrow.

She wants to cross over, so she's not on the
driver's side, but she doesn't want to risk
stepping out in front of the car.

She keeps walking. Her heart hammers at
full speed.

Just past the first bend she comes to the
phone box.

This is supposed to be what Mum calls a
'respectable' area, but it's still never safe from
'drunken yob riff-raff' – and the phone box is
always the top choice for attack. Now, tonight,
the glass is all shattered as usual, the panes a
crazing of tiny fractured lines. Crystal beads
litter the pavement.

But the light is still on in there, and the
handset is on its cradle. It's got to be worth a
chance. She pulls at the door, keeping her back
against it so it doesn't shut, and edges in.

Her hands shake. She bangs on the buttons.
999. Nothing. The phone is dead and outside,
just slightly ahead now, the car has stopped.
She'll have to bluff it. Scream for help down
the dead mouthpiece anyway.

She sounds out silent words. Yes, please.
Norwood Avenue. No, that's fine, I'll wait
here.

The phone booth smells disgusting. Urine.

The car dims its lights.

Dad makes a fuss about things like this, on
his council meetings. Phone boxes not
working. Streetlamps out. Her dad, Saviour of
Cove End.

On the shelf underneath the handset,
someone has wedged a card.

The card has got damp and is curled on the
corner, the last numbers blotted away.

Courtney stares at it for a moment.

The car door closes quietly. Footsteps.

She talks properly now. Loudly. 'Yes, it's a
white car – a hatchback. PGR 7—'

There is a knock on the window behind her,
a small tap.

Courtney turns slowly. This is it. This is
how it starts. Or ends. She tenses, ready to
bolt. Ready to fight. 'Don't you dare try to—'

A middle-aged lady with prim neat curls
stares out from behind very round goldfish-bowl
glasses. 'I'm so sorry, my dear – I hope I
haven't frightened you, but I'm nearly out of
petrol. Is there a station nearby? An all-night
one? I could probably manage a couple more
miles on what I've got, but it would be dreadful
to be stranded on a night like this. Terrible
weather, isn't it? I'm barely able to see where
I'm going.'

Courtney is still shaking. 'Texaco should be
open,' she manages to croak. 'Just turn left at
the end of this road and it's about half a mile.'

'Thank you, dear.'

The woman is gone, back in her car,
crawling away as if going slowly will help her
save more petrol. Maybe it will. Courtney
hasn't a clue. She's not going to ask Dad if he'll
let her learn to drive.

Pushing back into the rain, Courtney runs.

Her shoes make a stabbed clicking that she
thinks must be waking the whole street up.
They'll be at their windows, tutting and shaking
their heads. That Courtney Benton-Gray, out all
hours, running about like a common yob waking
up the whole street. And her dad a councillor too.
Respectable people, or so you'd have thought.
That's teenagers for you. Not enough discipline
these days.

Minutes later she is at her gate, a stitch in
her side, her breath tearing out of her.

And then she realises that not only has she
left her mobile and her Easi Shop uniform at
Alix's – her key is there too. She would never
never never risk ringing the door bell. She'll
have to sleep in Mum's car.

Slipping off her shoes, she tiptoes round the
side, her bare soles stinging on the hard gravel.
The garage key is under the stone, where it
always is, and she opens the side door carefully,
edging past the silent broom and the
lawnmower and the cupboard stacked with
tins of super gloss paint.

Sliding into the back seat she curls up,
shivering.

Rain batters the garage roof.

Mum's car smells of clean shampooed seats
and air freshener.

Mum, who is probably sleeping, and who
has no idea that Courtney is out here in the
cold.

And now the image of Fern comes back to
her. Fern always holding hands with her mum
in the playground, every morning for the whole
seven years they were at primary school. Fern
out walking, sandwiched between her mum
and her dad on a Saturday afternoon.

Fern just now, safe in a car, rattling past
through the puddles.

And Courtney starts to cry.

* * *

It's 2 am and she's in bed but Fern has never
been so awake.

It is as if she's floating, the evening glowing
– almost magical – in her mind.

She can still feel the warmth of his arm
around her shoulders.

She has a hope she is almost afraid of
shaping; a dream that he will ring her
tomorrow. He might ask Alix for her number.
She doesn't believe that he will – not really – and
she knows she shouldn't be wanting it. She
should just take tonight and fold it in bubble
wrap and tuck it away in the back of the
wardrobe where it will always be safe. Every
now and then she could get it out and look at it.

Please please please
ask Alix.

He came to the door with her when Mum
rang the bell.

Gave her a hug.

His lips brushed her hair.

HIS LIPS BRUSHED HER HAIR.

There was nothing else. There had been
nothing else.

Mum stood in the rain watching them both,
and Fern nodded a hurried goodbye, then
followed her down the path to the car.

'Thanks for your company,' he called, as she
climbed inside. 'You've been great.' The words
dazzled her. Sparkled her.

A sudden gust of confidence made her wind
down the window, her hand waving into the
darkness as they drove off. The rain blew in,
peppering the dashboard. Mum glanced
sideways. 'Fern!'

She'd wound up the handle and stared
ahead, the windscreen wipers swishing a slow
frustrating rhythm. She wished she could have
stayed with him longer; afforded a taxi; had the
sort of parents who'd let her make her own
way home.

'Who was that anyway?' Mum said. The car
hit puddles. Slowed for lights. Tutted its
indicators at junctions.

'Alix's brother. Aaron.'

'He's older than Alix, isn't he?'

'Yes.'

'Is he . . . is he anything like her? In
personality, I mean?'

'I don't know. I don't know him properly.'

'Alix isn't like you. She's a bit more –
worldly. I just wondered if he was like that
too.'

'I don't know. I just told you. I don't know
him properly.'

Mum didn't say anything else but the silence
brimmed with warnings unspoken. Don't run
down the stairs. Always look both ways before
you cross the road. Don't do anything silly.

Now, still awake, it's 2.15 am. The night
spirals on. No night has ever been this long.
Where is his university? Sunderland? Surbiton?
She did ask him but she's never any good at
remembering names of places. She wonders if
it's far away. Getting up, she pulls on her
dressing gown, the pink fleece all soft and
warm. She walks carefully – the night must
always be tiptoed through, she should never
disturb a guest. Soft-footed as a cat she pads to
the window.

The river is oily black and its skin shivers in
the spittling rain. The green marker lights wink
on and off and a couple of houseboats are lit by
deck lanterns, but mostly everywhere is dark. A
gull skims past, headed for the sea, its mewling
call like a cry for help.

Fern remembers the dog.

She used to dream about it. Usually it was
the dream of what happened, but once she
dreamed that it came up out of the boggy
riverbed. It crawled into the house, slinking up
the stairs and into her room, dripping brown
ooze and scrags of weed down onto the carpet.
She knew it had been trying to find her. And in
her dream she might have felt sorry for it
except it suddenly broke out through its
slimed-mud skin and it wasn't a dog anymore:
it was a girl with her head thrown back in a
silent scream, tiny slithering eels all splattering
from her mouth.

Fern shivers now and pulls the belt of the
soft pink dressing gown tighter. She shouldn't
be thinking of things like this. She wants her
head just flooded with Aaron. Conjuring up
the magic again, the memory of the evening
stirs round her. It has been beautiful. Brilliant.
Running back through it she makes it properly
hers; pinches it into the shapes she wants. He
chose to sit with her. There were other girls,
but he stayed with her and even when he had
chances to go, he stayed. A new mood bubbles
up in her. She wants to laugh and sing and run
outside in the rain and who even cares about
the boggy brown sludge.

* * *

When Alix wakes they are both gone. She sits
up slowly, remembering. Oh God. Oh no.

Gripping the corner of the table to steady
herself, she pulls herself out of bed and stands,
wavering, on the crumpled Fern birthday dress.

Struggling to keep her balance, she lurches
across to the mirror. Oh God. God God God
again. Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the
most wrecked one of all? The glass answers
back with silent disapproval. Her hair is wild,
her skin blanched, her eyes hollow and
strained.

Two guys. God God God.

She gropes for her robe, pulling it from the
chair behind, wrapping herself up. The cool
silk is comfortless. The embrace of a stranger.

Heading for the window she draws back
one curtain, squinting out at the day. It's dry
now, the rain all blown away. On the drive
opposite a man in a green jumper is pruning
bushes, the shears making a heavy click of
sound. Next door a woman pulls up in a black
BMW, gets out, fires her automatic key ring at
the lock. From across the rooftops church bells
chime madly.

So much noise.

Too much happening.

And Tom's four-by-four is gone.

Alix turns back from the window, the glare
of the day too light and too bright. She wants
shadows and blankets. Hot chocolate. Dark
corners.

So they went. What did they think of her?
What does she think of herself?

Walking unsteadily out through the
bedroom door, she checks the landing. The
spare bedroom. The bathroom. No sign of
anyone sleeping over. Not even Courtney.

She used to like the quiet, but today she is
unsettled by it.

Downstairs in the kitchen dirty glasses crowd
the worktop. Crumbed plates. A half-chewed
pizza. She opens the fridge door and a can of beer
rolls out. Someone has covered the chilli with
cling film and crammed it in awkwardly,
wedging it between a French stick and an unused
lettuce. The smell assaults her and she turns
away, all the plates and pots shuddering as she
slams shut the door. At the sink she runs the tap,
rinses a glass and then fills it with water. She
drinks thirstily, the cold kicking her awake. She
splashes her face, dampens her hair. More water.
She needs more water.

Still clutching the glass she walks slowly
through into the front room.

A window has been opened and a breeze
filters in, shivering the blinds. Picking her way
across the cushions and the debris of a spilt
ashtray, she thinks the room isn't too bad.
Considering. Just an empty beer glass on the
shelf. Scattered CDs on the floor. The stain of
something she decides not to investigate
shadowing the far corner. And the presents.

She knocks back the rest of the water, goes to
the hi-fi and turns it on. She wants the company
of sound. A band she doesn't know, which is too
loud and too brash, bashes out something about
shaking free.