into the garbage shoot. Face down to the ground, my lips take in the taste of tiny, rain-soaked stones. A claustrophobic warmth presses down upon me and Abi’s breath is hot in my ear.
‘You’re not the first,’ Abi says. ‘Or the second, or even the third.’
I push back, but it’s no use.
‘You’re not special. I know you probably think you are, but you’re not.’
‘I don’t—’
‘Shut up.’
Abi’s fingers weave into my hair and she pulls hard. This time, it hurts. I cry out.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I had no idea. I had no …’ But my lips taste more stones.
‘That’s what they all say!’
Then Abi releases me. I sit up, spitting the dirt from my mouth. I wait for her to say something else, to come at me again, but instead she starts to cry. This is not only my worst nightmare, but it’s clearly hers, too. With every sob, every moan, every inch of lost dignity, I connect with her more. We’ve both been burnt, both been duped, we’re both kind of in this shit together. So, I touch Abi’s back, guiding her upwards. Without a second thought, I hold her. For a beat, both of us relax within each other’s embrace, and there’s a short silence.
‘How long?’ Abi asks.
‘Six months,’ I admit.
‘Six months?! That’s not possible, he’s hardly left the house.’
‘Oh, it’s not what you think—’
‘You have no idea what I think.’
‘Of course, I’m sorry. But, we were only talking online, we never—’
‘Online, eh? Well, that makes it alright, then, doesn’t it?’
‘Maybe?’
‘Maybe.’ Abi’s eyes widen, then she raises her voice. ‘Oh, yeah! “Maybe” my arse!’
Abi shifts, pulls away, our moment of sisterhood now passed. She’s growing taller, slowly, towering over me. Closing my eyes tight, I prepare for pain, but, Oh! I’m being elevated instead. First my hands are pulled, followed by my arms, and then my feet are dangling in the air as I flop at the waist from up high. I’m on the move, my whole body bouncing further and further away from Abi, from Nick Gregory … well, Greg. Clifton Crescent becomes smaller and smaller, as if I’m flying on the back of a slim drone.
Around the corner, I’m lowered to stand on my own two feet. My knees are shaking, my palms chafed, a ladder runs down my black tights revealing scraped skin. A continuous thud hammers away in my chest, unbearable and ever so present.
But I’m safe. Jim has saved me.
18
Jim
A massive part of me is hoping I’m still in the Titanic, in that massive bed, having a massive fucking nightmare. I open the passenger door and stomp back round to my side of the BMW.
‘Get in,’ I say to Zara.
She doesn’t move. She not only looks like the victim, but she’s acting like one, too. I mean, yeah, it mightn’t have been polite of me to get involved; whatever was going on over there is Zara’s mess. But I can’t just watch someone get the shit kicked out of them, even if I’m dealing with a loose cannon here. With Zara. This girl I’ve had the pleasure of knowing for a grand total of, what? An hour and ten minutes? Christ, that’s not even the length of a film. Still, I imagine she was taught not to get in a car with a fella who commands, ‘Get in.’ I certainly wouldn’t want any daughter of mine to comply.
‘Zara, love. Get in the car.’
‘It’s okay, you can leave me here,’ she says.
‘Jesus Christ,’ I mutter.
My whole face itches. I crouch down to look in the wing mirror. My eyes, no longer stinging rouge, are framed with purple shadows. This hangover is kicking me in the face.
‘What you doing now?’ I ask, my attention drawn to Zara who’s lugging her bags and suitcases out of my car. Her haste is impressive. She slides that bloody mop out and, holding it upright, stops and lets out a moan.
‘What’s up?’ I ask.
‘My jacket,’ she says. ‘My favourite jacket, my army jacket. It’s lying in the hallway of Nick – I mean, fucking Greg’s – house.’
The mop falls from her hands, the wooden bounce of its handle echoing through suburbia. Zara sits on the largest of her suitcases, reaches into one dress pocket, and then into the other. She’s patting herself all over, like she’s trying to zap a wasp.
‘Fuck!’ she yells at the top of her voice.
The bungalows opposite seem to shudder. I shoot my arms out, as if the ‘whoa’ that escapes me stands a chance