Wild (3 page)

****

She left Vic’s with enough meth to get her high for a few hours and keep Harris happy until tomorrow morning. And by then maybe she’d have broken up with him.

Back in the Mazda, Harris grabbed greedily at the bag Vic had given her, red with feverish excitement. The excitement faded abruptly when he saw the contents. “This is all you got?”

“That’s all he’d give me,” she replied, putting the car into the gear. “You should have gone up there yourself.”

“This isn’t enough for both of us,” he complained. “That cheap git!”

“There’s enough for tonight if we’re careful,” she said, glancing at the bag of powder in his lap. She wet her lips, a greedy tendril of need working its way through her. Her hands itched and her nerves jangled. She couldn’t wait until they got home. “Wanna stop at the bombed-out church?”

Harris nodded, his sulky expression lifting a little.

They’d been getting high in St Luke’s for years. The church had been bombed during the war, and now it was a quirky tourist attraction during the day, and a gathering place for the homeless at night. It was their thing, their place, and it would be deserted on a miserable evening like this. She and Harris would have it all to themselves.

It was a beautiful building, despite the scars left by the bombs. Tall arched windows, empty of glass, revealed the wrecked innards of the church. It was filled now with trees that sprawled throughout the building as if the church had been built around them, like some sort of sacred grove. Lights from the pubs and off-licences across the street shone on the pale bricks, giving the whole structure an unearthly, surreal air.

Lizzie’s skin prickled in anticipation as they slipped through the gates into the shelter of the church. Harris followed close behind, the meth and his wallet clutched firmly in hand. They found an alcove out of the drizzle, and Harris sat cross-legged, head bent over the meth as he cut a couple of lines on the stone ledge with his credit card. His face was flushed, eyes bright as he set up. His glee was almost childlike, endearing, and for a second she forgot she was planning to leave him.

She leaned over and kissed him. He turned his head to catch her lips, turning the kiss into a deeper, longer one.

“This is so old school,” he said when they broke apart. “I should snort it off your stomach. Remember coming out here when we were first dating?”

She grinned. “Me cutting class, you sneaking out of work…” She trailed off as he finished the lines, remembering how fun and casual it had been then. An adventure. A joint here, a couple of pills on a night out. Maybe a few lines of coke before sex to spice things up. Harris had been charming, wicked and dangerous, and the life he offered had been so much more vibrant and exciting than the constant lectures and essays and seminars… So she’d started cutting more and more classes, doing more and more drugs, and then one day it had just been too much effort to go to uni at all. So she didn’t.

And then coke turned to meth when the money ran out, and Harris went from dangerously charming to just dangerous.

Hannah’s face flashed into her mind’s eye, pale and spotted with blood and spit. Lizzie’s breath caught.

“Lizzie? Come on, let’s go,” Harris urged.

Her stomach twisted with need. “I don’t think I can,” she said. “What if I overdose?”

“Oh, come on!” he scoffed. “I told you, don’t get morbid. Shit happens, okay?” He dabbed his finger in the powder and rubbed it on his gums. “This is the good stuff.”

She was quitting, really she was. She wasn’t going to end up like Han. But just one more time would be okay, wouldn’t it? She leaned over, snorted her line, and was immediately gripped with fear. “If I OD, you’ll call an ambulance, won’t you?” she whispered.

Harris, already rolling on the first waves of euphoria, didn’t answer. She leaned back and tried to calm herself, tried to fight down the panic gnawing away at her as the meth flooded her. If she panicked, she’d give herself a bad trip and then …

Well. Who knew?

It was no good though. The trees inside the church were looming and sinister, all long shadows and creaking branches. She felt trapped. Harris was already gone, eyes wide and bright. She raked her nails up her arms and chewed her lip, telling herself that she had nothing to be afraid of. Hannah had been unlucky, that was all, taking drugs off a stranger. And anyway, she was quitting, right? She should just enjoy this last time, right?

Right?

“I need to move,” she said, unable to restrain the growing panic anymore. She ran for the doorway, tripped on a tree root, and fell onto the gravel outside, cutting her palms. Rain lashed at her, soaking through her thin funeral outfit. She sat in a puddle and shivered, staring at the lights of Liverpool glittering through the rain. The desire to run into the road was overwhelming.

“Lizzie, what the fuck?” Harris appeared behind her. “What are you doing now, you stupid bint?” He reached for her, fingers clutching at her hair, his hand feeling heavy and huge.

She shrieked and batted him away. “Get off!”

“Fuck’s sake,” he muttered, storming past her. “If you’re going to piss about, let’s just go home.”

“I’m quitting,” she announced suddenly, leaping to her feet as the mad rush of drug-fuelled energy kicked in. “I’m giving up everything.”

“Oh, this again.” He snorted. “Don’t spoil my night just because you’re freaked out.”

“Hannah died!” she snapped. “Don’t you care, you callous bastard?”

His face flushed with anger. “Get back in the fucking car and stop shouting,” he ordered. “Jesus, why do you have to make such a fucking drama out of everything?”

“I’m quitting! I’m quitting drugs and I’m going to leave you, you tosser!”

His expression turned ugly. “You haven’t got the balls to quit, Lizzie. You’ve been saying it for months and you never do it and you never will.” He darted for her, trying to catch hold of her again.

“I will, this time.” She danced out of his way, quaking on a tide of wild courage. “I will! And I’m leaving tomorrow. I’m packing my bags –”

“And going where?” he laughed. “Back to London? Back to Mummy? Yeah, whatever, Lizzie. Just get back in the car and stop being such a twat. You always do this, you think you’re so fucking superior, and you’re not. You’re just a spoilt little rich girl playing at real life.”

Furious, she kicked at him, catching him in the kneecap more through luck than skill. He snarled in pain and swiped at her. She wasn’t quick enough to avoid him this time and he caught her a glancing blow across the cheek.

“Coward,” she cried, as she always did when he went for her. Stupid, really, because it only goaded him further. “Big man, Harris, hitting girls.”

He struck again, making her head spin. Her vision blurred and she slapped at him ineffectually.

“You shut up and get back in the car, or I’ll kick your ass all the way back to London!” he spat, catching her by the shoulders and shaking her, his eyes wide and mad. “You got that?”

“Coward,” she said again. She couldn’t help herself. He hit her. The taste of blood exploded in her mouth. Red flashes sparked in and out before her eyes. “Let me go!”

“Stop being a pathetic little girl and I will,” he retorted.

“Let me go or I’ll call the police! I mean it, Harris!”

Some of the fire in his eyes faded and he loosened his tense stance. Any mention of the police usually made him think twice about hitting her. “Just get back in the car and stop talking shit, okay?”

Her temper got the better of her at that. “It’s not shit! I’m quitting and I’m leaving and you can’t stop me.” Dammit, she was no better than he was.

“Fine!” he exploded, kicking the car hard enough to leave a dent. “Fine! You fucking leave then! Why don’t you start now?” He leapt into the car and slammed the door shut.

“Harris, don’t you dare!” she yelled as he revved the engine. He spun the car fast; she had to jump clear to avoid being hit. A stinging spray of wet gravel hit her face, blinding her for a few seconds. When she’d wiped her eyes clean, the Mazda was gone.

“Shit!” She kicked at the gravel. It was a totally inadequate expression of her rage. He’d stolen her car! She would almost rather he’d hit her again.

He wouldn’t leave her here, though, would he? He’d come back in a few minutes, wouldn’t he? All she had to do was wait. She was sure he’d come back for her.

three

S
HE LINGERED AT
the edge of the pavement, waiting for him to come back for her.

Any minute now, the Mazda would reappear out of the rainy gloom, and Harris would apologise and they’d go home and sleep it off.

That was how it always went when they fought.

But an hour later, she was soaked to the skin and thirsty as hell from the meth. There was no sign of Harris. He really had left her this time. Depressed and shivering with cold, she started walking down Hope Street.

It was a half hour walk from here to Wavertree. In the dark. And the rain.

She was going to kill Harris when she got home. Just dumping him wouldn’t make up for this. He’d stolen her car and abandoned her.

Wind tore at her hair, turning it into a mass of straggling knots that obscured her vision. Disorientated, she lurched into a lamp post, cracking her head on it. She swore in pain, leaning against the wall of a newsagents while her vision swam. Just next door was a pub, full of light and music. She should go in, have a couple of pints while she came down, and forget this whole mess.

She didn’t though. Nervous energy buzzed through her like an electric current, urging her to keep moving, get home. She didn’t have any money, and if she stayed in the pub all night, she couldn’t kill Harris.

The streets were packed; people spilling out of bars or queuing to get into clubs, boys shouting drunken threats at each other, girls falling off their heels. A few streets away, some kids howled and barked like idiots, the sound echoing over the rooftops. The air was pungent with the smell of fag smoke, kebabs, and vomit. She paused in a shop doorway to light herself a cigarette, needing something take the edge off her anger and misery.

Someone tugged on her sleeve, making her jump and drop her fag. She found herself staring into a greyish face and huge, bloodshot eyes, framed by lank, wet hair. The man’s hand was scabby and dry, and the smell of wet rubbish clung to his clothes. “Spare a fag, chick?” he rasped.

Revolted, Lizzie shook him off. “No, piss off!”

“Just one cigarette,” he wheedled, coughing on her. “Just change for a fag then?”

“Piss off,” she repeated, stepping away from him. What was it about the homeless in Liverpool? They never took no for an answer. And God, he stank. “Leave me alone.”

“Bitch,” he muttered, spitting at her feet before shuffling off. Lizzie scowled, lit herself a fresh cigarette and moved on. Soon she was away from the city and walking down a long, row of fancy white-brick houses towards Wavertree. The occasional bus or car shot past, and somewhere close by were some kids doing that stupid howling thing again. The noise echoed down the passages between the houses, making her jump every time.

The sensation of being followed crept up on her gradually, an icy chill that had her looking over her shoulder, jumping at shadows. She was sure she heard footsteps, soft but deliberate. Could be the tramp, could be kids messing around. Could be paranoia, caused by her usual nasty comedown and a good dose of anger. Whatever it was, her spine itched as if someone pushed needles against it. She needed to get off the main road, out of sight.

She quickened her step and rounded a corner, turning onto a side street behind the fancy houses that would take her to Smithdown Road faster. Lights in the windows illuminated huge kitchens and tarnished gold antiques, families sitting round dinner tables or TVs. A pang of longing for home hit her. She hadn’t spoken to her mum in months. Or her brother. Piers had had such a go at her about the pills last time he’d visited, she’d told him to stay away. All she had now was Harris. Her eyes stung at that thought. She paused to wipe them on her scarf.

A wolf stepped out of the shadows as she looked up, appearing like mist from behind a stack of rubbish bags. Lizzie moaned, a choked sound of terror and shock. The wolf was huge and gaunt, a great black beast whose eyes glowed like burning rubies in its narrow skull. She met those eyes, a rabbit in the headlights, completely helpless, utterly useless. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps as she locked gazes with the wolf. “Harris,” she managed to whisper, some part of her hating herself for calling his name.

The wolf padded down the alley slowly, deliberately. Rainwater glistened like jewels in its coal black fur, sliding down its long muzzle. It bared its teeth in a growl that shook Lizzie’s bones.

Oh God, she was going to die. And she hadn’t even managed to dump Harris.

The wolf’s growl rose to a deep, long howl that rattled her head. It slunk closer to her, low to the ground, eyes flashing. She whimpered. “Please… please…”

With a sudden surge of movement, the wolf leapt. Lizzie screamed. Hot pain speared through her as claws dug into her side. She screamed again as the claws lashed at her face, then raked her back when she rolled over to protect herself.