Wasted (9 page)

Something crawls around her back, tightening. It is the rope, she thinks, at first. Until she hears its hiss, holds her breath, clamps her mouth shut. The snake weaves around her back. It is cold and oddly dry. It is on the bare flesh beneath her armpit, and on the back of her neck. Her skin creeps with it. She wants to scream and perhaps she does. Needs to run but can't. Jess tells herself she's having a nightmare, tries to shout herself awake, jerk reality back. In her head thoughts rush and tangle, coloured worms swirl through the black night and stab her behind the eyes. She doesn't know where the floor is, which way up she is. How to speak.

Her legs give way and her feet stop working. But she does not fall. She is being carried, dragged, by someone she cannot see. The hunter has found her. And now Jess knows nothing. She is not with us. She is nowhere. Her mind has gone to a place of such darkness and horror that we cannot follow, for our own good. It is best not even to imagine it. For Jess herself will forget.

Jack is half dragging Jess out of the club. How did she get so drunk so fast, he is wondering? Did she have more than he'd realized? Was the drink stronger than he'd thought? He has had more than normal himself, but he's fine, in control. He feels responsible – he's brought her to this club. One moment they'd been dancing and then suddenly she had stumbled in his arms and her eyes had gone glassy. She didn't seem to hear what he was saying. When people had started giving her weird looks, he'd decided to get her out of there, and here they are, outside. “Taking her home,” he mouths to Chris and Ella as they leave. Ella looks concerned. He shakes his head, smiles. “It's OK,” he says. He doesn't know if it is OK, but it will have to be. It must be. Maybe she's tired, or hasn't eaten anything, or maybe she's on some kind of medication. Whatever, he wants to get her home, let her mum take over.

He walks Jess past the bouncer. She is limp, his arm around her waist holding her up, her feet barely touching the ground. Her head lolls forward, thick hair dishevelled. He feels the shape of her, the lightness of her body, but he will not think of that.

The bouncer rolls his eyes. “There goes another one. You need any help with her, mate?”

“No, thanks. She'll be fine.”

“Yeah, well. Anyway, don't try anything on – remember, I've seen your face.”

Jack stares back at him. Says nothing. Turns away. Something in him wants to speak out but it does not.

There is Kelly Jones, with Samantha and Charlie. Of course. They are laughing. Why are they there? At that moment? Where did they come from? And what is behind their laughter? These are questions Jack doesn't ask himself, not at this time, though he may later if he remembers to. He
should
ask these questions but he has other concerns.

Kelly weaves her drunken way towards him. “You know what, Jack?” He says nothing but she continues anyway. Her voice is full of spite and vodka. It is slurry and thick. “Your girlfriend should learn to sort her own life out before she accuses someone else of being a drunk.” The others laugh again.

“She looks pretty sorted to me!” says Charlie.

“Have a good night, Jack!” calls Samantha.

Jess moans. Leans forward, retches. Jack moves her forcibly round the corner, away from Kelly and the others, away from the bouncer and from a police car sitting near by. She throws up in the gutter and moans again.

She is vaguely back with us now, and probably wishes she wasn't. She fumbles for a tissue from her bag and wipes her mouth.

“I'm taking you home, Jess.”

“Don't feel well.”

“I know. You've had too much to drink.”

“Wolves. And dragons. I saw them.” They're still there in the shadows, she sees. She shrinks towards Jack. He will look after her. Somewhere at the back of her mind she knows this was not how this evening was supposed to be, but she feels too ill, too strange, to care much about that. A small curl of shame hides in the pit of her stomach.

“Yeah, sure.” He begins to walk her away, towards home. It may take them half an hour, but they won't get a taxi with Jess like this, and the night is warm enough. Sticky hot, thick air, ready to thunder.

“Were we at a fancy dress party?”

“No. We were at a club.”

“What about the ucinorm?”

“The what?”

“Ucinorm. Like a horse. White horn.”

“Unicorn.”

“That's what I said. Amazing.” She laughs. Then shivers in the heat. Jack wishes he had something to put around her shoulders but he doesn't. He holds her more tightly, rubs her arm. “Come on, Jess, we need to get you home. Have you got any water with you?”

“In bag.” She holds it open and he takes out the water bottle, unscrews it, offers it to her and she drinks.

“Don't feel well.” And she doesn't. Thoughts and images are flying around her head like bats. Sometimes she wants to laugh and at other moments fear clutches at her.

“I know. You said. You'll feel better soon.”

Jess wants to explain. She feels weird, more than drunk. She can't remember how she got out of the club. That is a time of nothingness. She has no sense as to whether it was a long time or not. And before, there is a horrible confusion, exactly like a nightmare. As though something had invaded her mind for a time. She can remember the wolves and dragons, the snake around her back, the unicorn which looked oddly like Kelly, but already she is beginning to know that none of that could be true. Though it still
feels
real.

“Jack.”

“Yeah?”

She stops walking.

“Carry on walking, Jess – we need to get home.” He keeps her moving.

“I'm not drunk.”

“Trust me,” Jack says. “You are. You'll feel better in the morning.”

“It was different, Jack. Honesh.” But she can hear her words blur at the edges, can feel her body unsteady, still feels sick. Which is exactly what she knows being drunk is. And her head feels thick and heavy, which again fits the symptoms. It doesn't take a fully trained doctor to say that Jess has had too much to drink.

But she is right. There is something else.

Kelly knows. Well, to be strictly accurate, she doesn't know what it is, or not by name. She'd just asked her contact to supply something, something – anything – that would have an interesting effect when combined with alcohol. And the contact came good and supplied exactly that. It was expensive. But worth it. It makes no difference to Kelly what the effect is. If sober, she would probably have said she wouldn't want serious harm to come to Jess – after all, the consequences for Kelly would be less than ideal if that happened. Police and all that. But Kelly is not sober, and couldn't give a toss what happens to Jess. She is thinking only of now, and she is feeling a considerable amount of pleasure at the thought of Jess throwing up for the rest of the night and perhaps hallucinating while Jack has his night out ruined.

And even if she had tried to look ahead, could she have seen what the consequences would be? She might have worried about Jess being seriously ill and ending up in hospital, or worse. She might have imagined Jess being caught by the police. She could have been a little concerned that Jess might be hit by a speeding car as she tried to cross the road in a spaced-out state.

No one, least of all Kelly Jones, whose brain is not of the highest quality, could have predicted the knock-on effects of what she did when she slipped a small white pill into Jess's drink. Or maybe it would all have turned out the same anyway. It's one of those many things that we cannot know.

“REALLY,”
says Jess.

“Really what?” says Jack, humouring her. Her throwing up very close to his feet has not altered his feelings for her. It will take more than that, much more. Of course, he wishes he was dancing with her in the club right now, not walking her home so early, but he'd rather be walking her home than not with her at all.

“Really not drunk. Listen.” She stops. She feels sick again. Takes out the water bottle and drinks several small sips. Feels better. Swills her mouth out and spits onto the ground. Fumbles more in her bag and finds some mints. The taste and coldness help. Now she can't remember what she was going to tell him. She swallows, breathes deeply. There's a wolf in the bushes and she fights to quell her fear.
There is not a wolf in the bushes
, she tells herself.

“There's a wolf in the bushes,” she says.

“No, there isn't. There are no wolves in Britain.”

“You don't know that.” She knows there's no wolf in the bushes and that he is right. But it doesn't help. Fear invades her. “Jack, wanta go home.”

“That's where we're going, Jess.”

“Protect me from the wolves.” She laughs. But she doesn't feel amused. It's just a laugh that appears. Bit like the wolf, not really there but very much there.

“I'll protect you from wolves. And dragons. And ucinorms.”

“Unicorms.”

He laughs. They walk on, in silence. Jack keeps a watchful eye; for what, he does not know. Not wolves, but anything else. There are a few people around, cars. No one takes any notice of them. He thinks about Jess and how much he likes her. Even like this.

Jess thinks about other things. She remembers something. “I was going to say…”

She stops walking, turns to him, pale in the strange half-moon, half streetlight, half not-quite-blackness. Three halves – he knows that's not right but
What the hell: we're not at school now
. He feels drops of water on his face. It is beginning to rain. Her hair hangs in seaweedy tendrils and she looks like something from a Greek myth.

“Keep walking, Jess. We're nearly home.”

She keeps walking but talking too. “OK, I know I seem drunk. And yes, OK, I am. A bit.”

“Quite a lot, actually,” Jack says. Rain is coming on fast. He speeds them both up.

“Yes, but it's more than that. I felt really weird. Really. Really. Still do bit. Can't explain. But the wolves. And back there in the club – was horrible. There were animals and… Not what happens when you're drunk.”

Large round globules of warm rainwater splash on their faces. “Jess, let's run – can you manage?” They run, him half dragging her, to the shelter of some trees. He pulls her to a halt, puts his arms round her and they stand like that, protected. A car passes and some young men shout from the windows at them, making crude gestures.

The smell of the rain is rich and organic. No other aroma is like it: in the whole world, only rain smells of rain. The sound of it rushes through the leaves. Jess tilts her head back and licks the water from around her mouth. Her hair is flat on her forehead. Jack takes a strand and lifts it off her face. With the tips of his fingers he wipes the rain and hair from her eyes. He almost cannot breathe with the beauty of her. He feels himself wanting her.

“So thirsty,” she says. She takes the water from her bag again. “Really tired now. Legs like lead. Head. Need bed.”

“We need to get you home, Jess. Come on – the rain isn't going to stop. Let's go.” And they hurry on through the rain, Jack pulling Jess, and Jess just wishing she could lie down there and then.

He could have stayed with his arms around Jess in the shelter of the trees much longer but he doesn't. Could have kissed her, could have let himself go. But he doesn't. She is not well. He needs to get her home. And besides, what she said – about how she feels more than drunk. Is it possible? That someone has spiked her drink?

He knows, deep in his heart, that it is entirely possible. And if so, it does not take a genius to guess who is responsible. Or actually, is it so simple? Because he is partly responsible himself. He should have been more careful about Jess's drink.

There is a place of darkness in Jack's mind. It has always been there but he has become brilliant at keeping it shut away. By playing the game and following the rules of luck – he thinks – he has kept himself and those around him safe. The place of darkness is a memory, from a time soon after his second mother died, when people used to come to the house and help his dad. There were relatives and friends and most of them said the same things. Jack got used to hearing about time being “a great healer”; he got used to seeing covered casserole dishes and cakes brought to their house like sacrifices. He did not think at the time, of course, being so young, but since then he has wondered: did they bring those stews and traybakes as acts of pure kindness or to ward off bad luck themselves? There was a friend of his dad's at the time who did not call, did not help, and who did not try to come to the funeral because he was wrapped up in his own new romance. He remembers his dad being hurt about that. There is much else he has forgotten but he remembers this especially because the friend had been killed in a car crash on the day of the funeral. And his dad had said nothing about it. But years later Jack realized that if the man had come to the funeral he'd probably be alive now.
Wrong choice, mate. Serves you right.

One woman he remembers, a casserole-bringer. Now he does not even know who it was, just that she had a flowery dress and a kind face and smelt of perfume, as he discovered later when she picked him up and hugged him. She was in the kitchen with his dad and they were talking quietly. Jack was coming down the stairs when he heard them and he stopped because he didn't want to meet another person. So he sat on the stairs and waited, picking at a curling corner of wallpaper. He couldn't hear their words properly but he heard bits – “playing football … so, stupid … I was always telling them” – and then one other word: “guilty”.

Jack was not sure what this word meant. But the
playing football
and
stupid
bits were quite clear to his young mind. Something had choked him and he had run downstairs and into the kitchen and his dad had picked him up. His dad's face looked startled. The woman's expression crumpled and the next thing he knew he was sitting in front of the television and being given a chocolate biscuit, his dad and this woman talking brightly and loudly around him.