The Opposite of Amber

by Gillian Philip

  ‘Shh. I’m not going to hurt you, Rubes. I wouldn’t do that to you.’

  Wouldn’t mean to, wouldn’t want to. Liar. I kicked and struggled, tore at my arm.

  ‘It was Nathan’s fault. Wanting Jinn to blackmail me. She wouldn’t have done it. She was so soft. She loved him so much but still, she wanted me not to have done it. It was her own fault.’ He kept right on talking, ignoring my squirming, like he was talking to himself. Making his excuses in advance. ‘And I shouldn’t have said that stupid name Jinx there! Putting you on edge, getting you all tense. Oh, Ruby, you are so right. We all need to watch what we say, don’t we? You’ve got the right idea, Ruby. You’ve always had the right idea.’

  Not always, George.

  But now.

  And here’s another.

  I stopped fighting, went limp. He wasn’t expecting that, wasn’t expecting the struggle to stop. And as he keeled off balance, he wasn’t expecting me to lunge at him with another fistful of grit and sand.

  I slammed the dirt into his eyes. I think I screamed as I ground it in, hard, hard as I could, while his head thrashed and snapped to try and avoid me. He squealed and squirmed and his hand slipped off my arm. And I leaped up and started to run.

  Behind me he was swearing and yelping, like Nathan had, but he was running too, stumbling. He was between me and the car park; I couldn’t run anywhere but north, up the shoreline, higher and higher as the path climbed. I darted glances at my feet, sliding and slithering, my breath sobbing in and out. I couldn’t seem to catch it properly. I tripped and stumbled on a root, and by the time I lunged forward again I could hear his breath almost at my ear. Furious breath.

  ‘RUBY!’

  Trying to catch me with my own name.

  ‘Ruby, you GET BACK HERE!’

  I was afraid it might work, his voice loop round my throat and yank me back. I gave a cry of fear and jumped; the path was giving out. It was landslips and wet grass now. I screamed. Useless. I ran.

  Fingers clutched the back of my shirt, toppling me off-balance. My right foot skidded on sodden daffodils and I fell forward on to my hands. He seized my belt.

  ‘I tried to EXPLAIN. DAMMIT.’

  I slapped ineffectually at him with one hand, trying to clutch handfuls of grass with the other. To my right stones and sand tumbled off the edge. So far down. I was only breathing with my throat. Couldn’t get air into my lungs.

  ‘Listen. LISTEN. I haven’t got a choice. I’ve GOT to do it. You’re not happy anyway, you STUPID GIRL. DON’T FIGHT ME.’

  I kicked, rolled on to my back and kicked again, like a pathetic beetle. He grabbed an ankle, dodged and flailed for the other one, dragging me closer to the edge.

  ‘It’s FINE. You’re just going to jump. It’s FINE and QUICK. Don’t FIGHT.’

  His shouts battered my ears. I couldn’t understand. His eyes were red and raw and I think one eyeball was bleeding. I couldn’t hear him. I could only hear girls’ voices, a chorus in my head. My own voice maybe, just amplified. Let go let go let go let go.

  I let go. The coarse grass tuft slipped through my fist, cutting into my palm, and I had to grab for the path itself. What was left of it. A fistful of path.

  ‘No you DON’T.’ He jerked away, ducked his head, shut his raw eyes still sharp with grit. I had to throw the dirt at him, wildly. He flung his hands up to his eyes, skipped back.

  There wasn’t a path behind him, just a metre of landslip. He fell on to his side with a grunt, and grabbed for the long grass just like I had. His feet were over the edge but he was hauling himself back up. Still half blind.

  I wanted to get up and run but I couldn’t, couldn’t, my legs wouldn’t carry me. I scrambled on to my hands and knees. He tried to grab me with one hand, but he wasn’t secure enough, and he clutched the grass again. I picked up handfuls of grit, fast as I could, flung them at his face, hard as I could, not daring to go closer. But it was in his eyes and he squealed like a girl. He let go of the grass, slapped his hands protectively over his face.

  His feet still flailing at the ground, his fingers belatedly grabbing for a handhold again, he slid, bumpily, over the edge.

  I heard stones roll and bounce and fall, but I didn’t hear him, and I didn’t dare look. I backed hard against the cliff wall, not daring to look over. If I looked I’d fall too. Even now I felt as if I was floating in air.

  Except I wouldn’t float. I’d land like Alex Jerrold, a bag of meat on the rocks below. No truck to break my fall.

  I stared at the edge, waiting and waiting, because I knew. I was waiting for the jolt in my chest that was a human being hitting the ground. It hadn’t happened.

  The edge shifted slightly; long grass was tugged flat by the weight of a climbing body. I heard breathing.

  His knuckles appeared. White, bent almost backwards, gripping a jutting slab of stone. They crept higher, painfully, millimetre by millimetre. The other hand came up too, fingers curling over the edge of the stone slab. The stone wasn’t more than half a metre wide and a dark widening outline showed where it was working loose from dry roots and grass and sand.

  He breathed rage through his teeth, gasping with pain.

  I didn’t know if I could live with myself. I just knew I wanted to live anyway. I couldn’t kick his fingers, I couldn’t do that, but I stuck my heel into the widening gap between stone and cliff, and I prised it out and further out, till the stone came away and his fingers with it, and I heard his surprised intake of breath. And then time stopped. Something that wasn’t stone or sand bounced down the precipice.

  Silence. I shut my eyes, and the jolt in my chest was like an extra heart stopping.

  Epilogue

  He’d bought a chocolate flake to go in my ice cream. When he handed me the cone I stared at it, wrinkling my nose.

  ‘You did say vanilla.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ I took the flake delicately between thumb and forefinger and handed it to him. ‘Here. You can have that.’

  He took it, stuck it next to the flake in his own ice cream. We were sitting on the sea wall, looking out towards the dunes, the town at our backs. The world, or the Breakness bit of it, looked vibrantly bright. The rainstorms had kept on coming for weeks now. The water fell in a torrent from a black sky, then when it was over and the sky was blue again, the world was summer-green and power-washed, glinting bright. It would be slippery up on the cliffs. I bit my ice cream.

  ‘He’s out of hospital today. Straight into jail.’

  I hesitated, nodded. ‘Good.’

  ‘So stop shivering. Aren’t you glad?’

  ‘Aren’t you?’ I turned to examine Tom Jerrold’s face.

  Inflatable George didn’t fall. He went right to the bottom of the cliff, but he didn’t fall so much as slither. He might have died if he’d fallen properly through space, but he didn’t. He had his life. And that was my payment, I think – that George did not fall. He had his life.

  But I had mine back too. Fair’s fair.

  I could have had a bit longer in the house, the house Lara and Jinn and I had shared, but I didn’t want it. It was too haunted, and I didn’t mind ghosts but I minded the sadness. When the council gave me a new place, a one-bedroom flat that was half of a duplex, I left behind the windmills and the plastic sun-faces and the wind chimes, and whatever would survive from last summer’s B&Q bedding plants. (I did take the ugly gargoyle though. I couldn’t leave him behind. He wouldn’t find anyone else who’d love him the way we had.)

  Occasionally I’d pass our house – I had to make a detour, it wasn’t a corner I’d ever pass accidentally – and our garden fripperies were still there. A bit faded, their sparkle dimmed, but the new people hadn’t bothered to get rid of them. That made me wish I’d got rid of them myself.

  The tyres and the old blanket were gone, of course. I didn’t ask what had happened to them.

  My new place was on the edge of Breakness. Not the sea side, of course – the houses there were in too much demand – but
overlooking the flat fields and the pig farm and the airbase, with the hills and Glassford in the hazy distance. I was lucky to have a view like that.

  I had goats, that was the funny thing. Not my own, obviously. A patch of field abutted the duplex garden, between a pig village and a cottage that was more of a shack. Some hippy types lived there, with barefoot kids and a small pottery business and a few ragged chickens. The first time I heard them call out to the goats, I was thrown off balance by the plumminess of their voices. Father hippy used to be a stockbroker and the barefoot urchins, it turned out, went to a private school by day.

  The goats and I enjoyed the joke. I’d go down the end of the garden and feed them leftovers – it was true about goats, they’d eat anything: toast crusts, tomato skins, the end of a cheeseburger, the cardboard core of a loo roll (that last one was an accident). They had evil eyes and wicked natures, and the nanny goat scared the hell out of mother hippy, forever ambushing her between the cottage and their vegetable plot. Jinn would have loved those goats. She’d have got the joke, totally.

  I was happy in my new home, and only occasionally missed the old one. That’s why I kept making a detour to see it: just to cure my nostalgia. The place didn’t seem to have anything to do with me now, or anything to do with Jinn.

  ‘I’m glad,’ said Tom at last.

  He’d taken a long time to think about that one, taken it very seriously. I had to think hard to remember what the question had been.

  ‘I mean, I’m not glad he’s alive. I couldn’t care less,’ he said. ‘But it’s true what they say. It would have been an easy way out for him if he’d died.’

  ‘He’ll be inside for life,’ I pointed out. ‘For ever, they told me.’

  ‘Aye. Till somebody wants to marry him and starts a Facebook campaign.’

  ‘Cynic,’ I said. ‘Never happen.’

  ‘You hope he’s in for good? You must do.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Oh, Ruby. I wonder if you’d have said the same about me?’

  Who invented ice-cream cones? They aren’t even nice. Dry as sticks once the ice cream’s gone. I chucked the remains of mine at the river. This time it drifted downstream for a second or two before it was shanghaied by a gull.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah. Well, I don’t know what made you think you could push a Toyota over a cliff.’

  I wasn’t sure he was right, but, ‘Sorry,’ I said again. ‘I thought – I really thought it was you. Who killed her.’

  ‘Why? Why would it be me?’

  ‘I dunno. Because I wouldn’t feel so guilty if it was? I dunno.’

  ‘You do feel guilty, yeah?’

  God, my face must have clashed with my hair at that moment. ‘Alex told you what I said that day?’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  Well, I’d guessed that, hadn’t I? I just hadn’t known it for sure before.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m really sorry.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I didn’t.’ I licked my lips, cleared my throat. I didn’t want to sound like I was making excuses. ‘I didn’t mean what I said to Alex. I didn’t mean . . . I’m not saying I’m not responsible. Just. You know. I wanted you to know I didn’t mean it.’

  ‘I know.’ He almost looked at me, almost smiled. ‘Thanks for going to see him.’

  Well, he didn’t need to thank me. It hadn’t been so awful. No question of Alex reclining palely on a Victorian sickbed; he’d been in a high-tech sort of wheelchair, propped up. And the atmosphere hadn’t been brilliant, but we’d exchanged some awkward conversation, and we’d both said ‘Sorry’ at exactly the same moment, which nearly made Alex huff a laugh.

  ‘He’s liking the book. When do you need it back?’

  ‘No hurry. I borrowed it off an old girl in Oak Tree Court. Said I’d take it back next month.’ Which I would. This time.

  Now that we’d got Alex off our respective chests, the atmosphere was nicer. Tom snapped the end off his cone, scooped out a baby ice cream, ate it whole. That gave me a tug inside my ribcage.

  I was right the first time: there’s nothing you can do. Things stay done and said. You can’t undo or unsay. Nobody could atone for Alex’s lost future, and nobody could atone for Jinn either. But why should I have the satisfaction anyway? There was nothing I could do now to stop Alex jumping. I couldn’t take back what I said then, but I couldn’t wallow in it either. It was like Foley said: Got to live with it. Got to live with it.

  Tom leaned back on his elbows and gazed at the sky. ‘I wasn’t there for him. I don’t feel great about that, but the little fecker jumped all by himself. I didn’t push, you didn’t push. I don’t want to be angry with him for ever but I don’t want to excuse what he did. Not to my mum or dad or anybody. What he did, him. We’ve all just got to live with it. The selfish little bastard.’

  ‘I wish it hadn’t happened,’ I said.

  ‘Me too.’

  He stood up, gave me a smile. ‘I’ll see you around.’

  I got to my feet too. It felt like a formal moment, and not just because he was in his suit and tie. I thought I should shake his hand but I wasn’t sure how, so I just said, ‘Bye.’

  He waved a hand as he walked off.

  I watched the river flow fast out towards the sea, and the kids running over the rickety bridge to the beach. Trip-trap trip-trap. When I checked my watch again, it was time for my afternoon shift.

  I came to a breathless halt when I saw Wide Bertha. She was sitting on the leather sofa in the salon window, reading a celeb magazine, her bag beside her.

  Clarissa said, ‘That’s Bertha Turnbull in to see you. Hasn’t got an appointment.’ She gave me a hard stare, like it was my fault. ‘She wouldn’t take no for an answer.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t forget you’ve got Mrs Bolland at two.’

  How could I? She of the brick-melting face.

  I felt sick and I didn’t want to turn and approach Bertha, but Clarissa was giving me the evil eye. So was Mrs Bolland, head full of glittering foils, waiting to get them rinsed out.

  I stood in front of Bertha, but I couldn’t say anything. At last she sighed and folded the magazine neatly back at a middle page.

  ‘You don’t come to my house any more, so I thought I’d come here.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I . . . Want to sit here?’ I pointed at one of the styling chairs.

  She stood up fast and marched across. Sitting down, she tweaked her thin fringe, then glanced up and met my eyes in the mirror. Her tight smile didn’t show any teeth. She flourished a photo in the magazine.

  ‘Pink highlights. Like her, here. You promised.’

  I grinned. Couldn’t help it. ‘Pink.’

  ‘Yes. Can you manage to talk to me long enough to do it?’

  ‘I can’t – I’ve got somebody else just now. And I’ll need to do it at your house. I’m not qualified . . .’

  ‘But you’ll come round? Stop being a stranger?’

  ‘Course I will.’

  ‘That’s what I like to hear. All right. I’ll go, then.’

  I swallowed hard. ‘I’m sorry about –’

  ‘I’m due at work,’ she interrupted sharply. ‘Oh, by the way, he’s wanting a word and all.’ Bertha nodded at the window.

  I shut one eye, drawing out a strand of her hair to examine it closely. ‘Who is?’

  She jerked her thumb. I had to look. Beyond the displays of wax and gum and conditioner, beyond the spotlit plate glass, beyond the impatient traffic, I saw a boy hunched against the far wall of the surf shop. He glanced nervously up and down the street, anywhere but at the salon. A small girl, bored stiff, was kicking his shin rhythmically.

  ‘Oh,’ I said.

  ‘Poor Foley. He was angry about the car thing. Upset. But he got over it, you know. Now he kind of thinks he let you down.’

  Well. He bloody did.

  On the other hand, he did put the car in neutral and
help shove it. And I kind of let him down too, just by expecting him to do it.

  ‘Well,’ I sighed. ‘Everybody thinks that sometimes.’

  At that exact moment I caught his eye, so I lifted my comb and waved it diffidently. He tried not to smile too hard as he raised a hand in return. Mallory thrust up her middle finger and flourished it at me.

  ‘I’ll see him after work,’ I told Bertha.

  ‘I’ll tell him.’ She stood up.

  ‘Can you do Mrs Bolland now?’ Clarissa waited till Bertha had left, but she sounded cross.

  Remembering I did still need a job, I swallowed hard and forgot Foley. Funny how nervous I felt. She wasn’t so bad when you got started, Mrs Bolland. You just had to chat to her. Warm her up. Act like she was a human being.

  I didn’t have Jinn to do that sort of thing for me any more, so it was time to start living with it. Even at the dark deep end that was Mrs Bolland.

  I tweaked her foils and smiled at the old bat in the mirror. She could melt bricks but I’d seen worse.

  ‘So, Mrs B,’ I said. ‘Are you going somewhere nice for your holidays?’

  Acknowledgements

  A criminally clueless author would like to thank former police inspector Avery Mathers, former police detective Sharon Birch, and Michael McKenzie at Grampian Police Media Office, Carol Findlay at Moray College, and Kerrie Morrison. All the mistakes are, as always, mine.

  I’m grateful also to my fabulous agent, Sarah Molloy; and to Emma Matthewson, Isabel Ford and Sarah Taylor-Fergusson at Bloomsbury, for enthusiasm and patience above and beyond the call of duty.

  Also by Gillian Philip

  Crossing the Line

  Bloomsbury Publishing, London, Berlin, New York and Sydney

  First published in Great Britain in April 2011 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  36 Soho Square, London, W1D 3QY