by Juno Dawson
‘Sasha!’ I call. ‘Come back! She’ll get put in Isolation again. I’m not surprised she made a run for it. She must be going mad in there.’
‘Going? It’s a bit late for that, babe. Sasha! Where are you?’
‘Like, where is she even gonna go?’ I say as we trample down the path.
‘Right? We’re surrounded by sea.’
I stop and grab Kendall’s arm. ‘She said she wanted to get off the island.’
Kendall rolls her eyes. ‘Oh, come on, she’s not going to swim back to the mainland, is she?’
‘This is Sasha. She might give it a go!’
And now Kendall’s face falls. ‘She might not have to swim . . .’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The docks.’
I remember taking that walk with Kendall and Ruby. There were boats. ‘Oh shit . . . do you think . . .?’
Kendall shrugs. ‘I think it’s worth checking it out.’
Thankfully it’s all downhill. We half run, half jog down the winding hillside towards the beach. ‘Sasha has been on this island on and off for years,’ Kendall pants. ‘If anyone can escape, it’s her.’
The moon is full and white, rippling on the sea. Up ahead, it illuminates a figure pelting towards the jetties. ‘There. Is that her?’
‘It must be.’
‘Shit. Quick.’ We sprint the rest of the way, feet pounding the path. ‘Sasha! Stop!’ I call. She doesn’t even break stride.
The ferry must be back on the mainland. The only boats are the dinky rowboats we saw before. Sasha is heading right for them. She won’t get far in those.
‘Sasha, are you nuts?’ I yell.
‘You tell me!’ Sasha screams. She awkwardly lowers herself into one of the boats, supporting herself against the pier. ‘You know everything, apparently! Are you my social worker or something?’
We hit the jetty, my legs wobbly. I’m so not used to running like this. I can really feel all the tar shifting in my lungs right now.
‘Sasha, get out of the boat before you drown,’ says Kendall.
‘I’m getting out of here. I’ll swim if I have to. You bitches can’t stop me.’
Kendall throws her hands up in despair. ‘Let her go. This so isn’t our responsibility.’
Sasha wobbles and teeters in her boat, trying to untether it from its mooring. A thought pops into my head. Before I can change my mind, I sit on the edge of the jetty and clamber in.
‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’
I take a seat and fold my arms. ‘If you go, I go.’ The words sound stupid and rectangular in my mouth, like a line in some bullshit buddy movie. I realise suddenly I remind myself of someone and that someone is Antonella.
‘What is your problem, Blondie? You got a Caucasian saviour complex or something? I don’t need you to save me.’
It’s funny because, looking at her, that’s exactly what she needs. ‘Sasha, I’m not going. You need help,’ I add so only she can hear.
‘Fine.’ She finally untangles the guide rope and pushes us off.
I was not expecting her to call my bluff. For just a second I must have mistakenly thought I was dealing with a sane person. The boat bobs and tilts from side to side as we float away from the jetty. ‘Oh shit,’ I say and grip the sides.
‘Oh my god!’ Kendall squeals from the dock.
I turn to face her. ‘Kendall! Get help! Now!’ I look back to Sasha. ‘Sasha, this is a really, really bad idea.’
She picks up the oars, one of which is pretty much half an oar, and starts, clumsily, to row. ‘Is it?’
‘Yes. You’re going to get us in so much trouble. Or worse.’ The boat rocks and I grip the edges. Freezing cold water sloshes up over the sides in drunken glugs. I remember I get super-gnarly seasickness.
Sasha grins. ‘Who are you gonna be? When we get to the shore? You can be someone new, whoever you want. I’m gonna be you: a self-loathing nihilist with great clothes and pretty blonde hair.’
I am literally clinging on for dear life. ‘Sasha, please! Just take us back!’
‘How does it feel? Not being in control for once in your life?’
I look at her darkly. ‘When was I ever in control?’
‘She’s a victim,’ Sasha smiles. ‘We’re all victims on this ship.’
‘Look. What Marcus did—’
‘Marcus did nothing you stupid, interfering whore! I felt him up! I tried to suck his dick! He rejected me.’
Well, that shuts me up. I vaguely recall offering a similar deal to Marcus. I was so out of it then, I’d have probably offered sex to Joyce for a fix. ‘Why?’ I say when the gentle lapping of the waves against the boat gets a bit awkward. ‘To get out of Isolation?’
‘No,’ she says. ‘No. I just wanted someone to touch me. I wanted someone to hold me in their arms, like Brady holds you.’ She starts to cry. ‘Of course, he said no. I mean look at me – I’m carrion, I’m repulsive. Even the mirror don’t want me. I just wanted to feel some skin on my skin. That’s what we do it for: skin on skin.’
‘Sasha, I’m sorr—’
‘No. No no no. You do not get to pity me. Pity costs nothing and you’re minted.’
The boat feels like it’s being tossed over the waves and I get the same sensation in my tummy as when I’m cantering on a horse. ‘You are not repulsive.’
‘Would you fuck me?’
‘No, but only because I don’t like girls like that.’
‘Convenient.’
‘Truth. Take it from me, you don’t have to have sex to feel close to someone.’ I remember what Dr Ahmed said. I remember laying close to Brady, feeling his heartbeat against my back.
‘I’m not a virgin, or a retard,’ she says.
‘I know. The problem is that you don’t let anyone close, Sasha.’
‘And you do?’
‘This isn’t about me.’ Right now, it really isn’t. ‘I see you. How much of it’s real and how much is an act? Honestly?’
She stops rowing. ‘I don’t know any more.’
We bob. I feel sick. The salt air thickly coats my skin and lips. I wait for her to go on.
‘I remember it starting. It was like rising damp, dark patches spreading through my brain. Normal thoughts went sour. I thought about being in my coffin; I thought my mum was trying to poison me; I thought people were following me home; I thought there was a man in my air vent. I knew it wasn’t right. At first. I knew it was an illness.’ She closes her eyes. ‘But it just keeps getting worse. The dark patches keep spreading, no matter how many times the doctors and pills try to paint over them. It was too much, too hard to keep fighting it. So I laid down and let the rot sink into my bones and teeth. I submit. And now I’m too far gone. No going back. There ain’t any clean left no more. I’m just rot.’
I shake my head and take both her hands. She lets me. ‘You’re not. You’re not.’
She shakes her head, eyes down. ‘There’s nothing left of her.’
‘I don’t believe that. This is you. And even when you get lost in yourself, you can always get back. It just takes longer.’
‘What’s the point? Do you really think I’m ever gonna have a normal life?’
I shrug. ‘Will any of us? What’s normal anyway? I think the thing we all have in common is we all thought we were the first people to feel the way we feel. But we’re not. We all think we’re so broken. We all think we’re the most broken.’
‘Like that’s something to be proud of.’
‘I dunno,’ I say, thinking. ‘There’s a Japanese art . . . kintsugi, it’s called. I think.’ I once saw an exhibition of it at the V&A. ‘Artists fuse broken pottery together with gold lacquer. It’s gorgeous. Instead of trying to hide the damage, they celebrate it, glorify it. I’m not saying we should be all like “look at me, I’m so amazingly fucked up”. I’m saying that I don’t think there are many adults who aren’t in some way damaged by the time they’re our age. Look at my parents, look at Gold
stein, look at Elaine. They survived the breakages. So will we. I think we should embrace our wonkiness.’
Sasha pouts. ‘What’s it called again?’
‘Kintsugi. Or something.’
‘Kintsugi. I like that.’ She nods. ‘What about you, Blondie? Ready to embrace your imperfections?’
‘I am not perfect. I never was. I never will be. But I would like to be a little bit better.’ We fall silent. The boat continues to roll over the waves. My feet are wet. The wind blusters, tugging at my hair.
And then I think – why are my feet wet? I look down and, even in the dark, I see water swilling about in the bottom of the boat.
‘Hey. Is that normal?’ I try to keep my voice light.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Was the boat in the water when you got in it?’
‘No, it was sitting on the beach. I dragged it into the water.’
In the moment, my brain conjures the image of sharks circling us. I’ve seen too many movies. ‘You didn’t think to check if it floated?’
‘I was in meltdown. Nuclear.’
I look over my shoulder. Sasha must be stronger than she looks because she’s rowed us some way offshore. My heart starts punching against my ribs. My brain swooshes around my skull. I’m gonna lose my shit in any second.
No.
No, I’ve gotta keep it together. ‘Right. Well. Start rowing us back, I’ll see if I can bail it out.’ I cup my hands and start tossing water over the side of the boat. Sasha joins me, but it doesn’t seem to be helping. In fact, as we move around, more water seems to bubble up through a long, fine split in the hull. ‘Shit!’
‘Lexi, I can’t swim,’ Sasha mutters.
‘What?’
‘I can’t.’
‘You have got to be fucking kidding me.’ The fear in her eyes says she’s not. ‘You row. Get this thing turned around and back to shore.’
In this light it’s hard to tell how much water the boat is taking on, but all of my boots are now submerged. ‘Keep rowing!’
Black water swishes and swills inside the boat, and it does now seem to be leaning. Water creeps up my calves. It’s so cold. I wonder if the shock of the cold alone will kill us. I remember getting my roots retouched at the salon and reading an article in the paper about strapping young men who drown in reservoirs. The water is so cold their muscles seize up and they can’t swim.
What a horrible way to die.
I keep tossing water over the side.
‘Which would you rather?’ It’s Kurt, stoned on the Kensington Roof Gardens rooftop. ‘Be burned alive or drown?’
‘Burned,’ I told him. ‘I think you’d pass out quicker – the pain would be so intense. With drowning, you’d really know about it.’
I go faster.
The rim of the boat is now only inches from the water. The more water we take on, the faster it sinks. Figures, I guess, in a physics-lesson way. Shit. We’re going under.
Don’t panic.
‘Sasha, we’re gonna have to swim for it.’
‘I can’t swim!’ she shrieks – a real shriek, no more Mad Girl Theatre.
‘I can. Keep your shit together, OK? If you freak out now, you will kill us both. You could have killed yourself hundreds of times, but you didn’t, which suggests you actually want to be here.’
Me and Antonella in our pyjamas in the pool. To go on the Year 10 trip to Brittany, you had to learn some basic lifesaving because we’d be sailing and canoeing. We laughed and laughed, taking it in turns to haul each other to the side. ‘Girls!’ The instructor blew her whistle, a shrill warning toot. ‘Could you please take this seriously? This might save someone’s life one day!’
I splash water at Sasha. ‘What are you doing?’ she cries.
‘We have to get used to the water temperature before we get in. Get wet.’ I close my eyes and scoop water into my face. It’s cold, bitterly cold, and salty. It stings my eyes and nostrils. Sasha does the same, rubbing her arms and legs with seawater.
I can now feel the boat sinking out from under us. I take a deep breath. I push myself into the water. The cold snatches the breath right back. It feels like a slap, a slap everywhere. ‘Fuck!’ I cry, mostly to keep myself alert. There. I’m in. God it’s cold, but I’m in. I need to steady my breathing. It now comes in fast, shallow pants and I doubt that’s good. ‘Sasha! Get in!’ She’s clinging to the boat.
‘I can’t! I can’t swim! I’ll sink!’
‘You won’t! That’s not how it works. You’ll float and I’ll swim us back.’ I can see the jagged outline of the cliffs, the broccoli silhouette of the trees. I think I can even see lights on in the mansion. But it’s quite the swim. I don’t know if I can make it.
But it’s like I said to Sasha, I know I don’t want to die. The fight almost surprises me. ‘Sasha, you have to trust me. Get in, so I can get hold of you.’
‘You won’t let go of me?’
Oh, it’s too cold to be cheerleadery. ‘I promise.’
The stern dips all the way under and Sasha screams, flopping into the water. Her head dips under the surface, but I grab hold of her sweater. She thrashes around like a fish. ‘Stop kicking!’ I command. ‘You need to be still or I can’t do this.’
‘Have you got me?’
‘Yes!’ I recall Antonella pretending to be unconscious. I remember looping my arms around her and swimming backwards, towing her as I went. ‘Lean back against me. I’m going to pull you. If you thrash around, you pull us both under.’
It’s cold, it’s cold, it’s cold. Oh Jesus, it’s cold. It saws to the bone.
I start swimming on my back. Sasha lets herself float. I let the boots slip off my feet and that makes things easier. With one arm around Sasha’s tits and the other one pushing against the water, we start to move. Small mercies – the waves aren’t too bad. I do feel the pull of the tide, but I just hope it’s pulling us towards the shore and not further out.
We swim. I don’t think we’re going very far, very fast, but we are moving. If this was a heated indoor pool, we’d be at the side by now. If this was Grand Cayman, it’d be quite relaxing.
But it’s neither of those things.
I can’t feel my hands. My teeth clatter together no matter how hard I lock my jaw. With every stroke Sasha seems to become heavier like she’s getting waterlogged. Or maybe I am. It’s like swimming in superglue. We’re just not going anywhere. Getting to the beach will take hours at this rate.
‘Can I help?’ Sasha asks quietly.
‘Kick your feet up and down . . . like pedalling.’
She does so. It helps. ‘This is all my fault,’ she says.
‘Don’t start,’ I say. ‘Just kick.’
It’s too hard. I’m not strong enough to get us both to shore. I doubt I’m strong enough to get myself to shore. I let out a little cry.
‘What’s up?’ Sasha is panicking too.
My legs stop. I try to kick but it’s too hard.
Oh god. This is it. I’m going to drown. I suppose it’s better than a heroin overdose, but it’s still pretty stupid. I wonder how Mummy and Daddy will spin it. Accident on holiday?
‘Keep going,’ Sasha says.
‘I don’t think I can. I’m too weak.’
‘You’re not! Lexi, you’re badass. You’re Lexi motherfucking Volkov.’
Wait.
‘Wait what, darlin’?’
‘Here’s what’s going to happen, Steve. I’m going to give you ten thousand pounds and you’ll never come near me or Kurt ever again.’
‘Is that right? But I want a blow job.’
‘I’d take the money, if I were you. The other choice is I speak to my daddy. You know my name, don’t you, Steve? Lexi Volkov. THE Lexi Volkov. My father owns that lucrative, if ambiguous, space somewhere between the mafia and the oligarchs. And look at you . . . a small-time dealer in a council flat in Battersea. So, before you threaten me or Kurt again, I’ll ask you this: do you really want to fuck with the Ru
ssians?’
I laugh.
The noise jolts me back into reality.
‘What?’
‘Nothing,’ I say. I go for a few more strokes, digging into strength I didn’t know I had. We go another couple of metres, but then I have to stop again. My whole body is numb. My brain is telling my limbs to move but it’s total paralysis. ‘I can’t do it. I’m sorry.’
‘OK. Don’t let go of me.’
I clutch Sasha tight. We float, skimming over the waves. I want to close my eyes but I know that’ll be the end of both of us. Instead I look up at the midnight-blue sky, wispy cotton wool clouds are torn up between the stars. It’s pretty. Despite everything, I’m weirdly chill.
It’s like falling asleep. I don’t feel the cold any more. I don’t think that’s a good thing. This is it. This is it. This is how I die.
And if I’m going to die . . .
So, that night.
That night was a fail from square one.
London goes soft in the summer. It was hot, like the skyscrapers and buses and pavements and trains were soaking up the sun and pouring it back out again in meaty belches. All you can do is head to the nearest bit of green. For us, that day in July, the oasis was Battersea Park.
Battersea Park is all winding paths and weeping willows and honking geese on the ponds. You can tell a lot about an area of London by the dogs you see. That day brought a pedigree mixture of Pomeranians, chihuahuas, pugs and French bulldogs sniffing at our picnic blanket.
It was rare to see Kurt in daylight hours and, like a vampire, he didn’t once take his shades off. He quietly came down from last night’s binge, lay flat on his back, hands behind his head. Every once in a while, I reminded him to apply sun cream or he’d sizzle like bacon.
Even though he was essentially unconscious, I claimed a minor victory that I’d managed to get him to come meet me and my friends. On our overlapping blankets were me, Kurt, Antonella and Nevada, and some St Barney’s guys: Jack, Gay Jack and Troy.
God, it was so humid the air stuck to my tacky Hawaiian Tropic skin, my hair pure frizz. The butt-sweat situation was real. I wore a miniscule Dolce bikini top with some H&M denim cut-offs.