13 Minutes-9780575097407

by Sarah Pinborough

  ‘Well, it’s true.’ I smiled, but all I could think about was the blackness and the overwhelming enormity of my fear in that memory of trying to reach the branches. Like the darkness was waiting for me. Like it was laughing at me. It makes my breath catch a bit in my throat. Not that I can let it show. I want to get out of here in the next few days. I have to. I must stay normal. I told them I can’t remember anything. Judging from Hayley’s face, I don’t know if that was a good thing or a bad one for her many fears. Maybe she wanted stories of bright lights and tunnels and angels.

  When the nurse came to say that Hayley’s mother had arrived to take them home, I wondered for a minute how she knew which of my friends was which and then remembered that they spent the weekend crying around my bed. It’s strange to have been here but not here for that. It still makes me shiver, despite the warmth. It was like they’d attended my wake and I was some kind of vampire risen from the dead.

  My friends squealed their disappointment but the nurse told them I needed to rest (I’m so bored of resting) and looked at me with such warmth it was as if she loved me. She must be a good nurse. ‘They’ll be round with your dinner soon,’ she told me and then spied the crisps and chocolate. ‘If you still have room after all that.’ She’s a large woman, comfortable with her fat. I doubt she’s ever eaten just one piece of chocolate from a bar and thrown the rest away. Did she ever feel the pressure of perfection? Yes, I wanted to eat chocolate. Someone like her would eat it without a second thought. I almost envied that.

  Hayley and Jenny hugged me and we three became a tangle of hair and coats and hot breath. Lean arms were the tightest on me and I knew that was Hayley. When they pulled away, we were all damp with condensation.

  ‘Text us,’ Hayley said. She looked sad. She paused for a moment. And then she said, ‘We do love you, Tasha. You scared the shit out of us.’

  Jenny nodded. ‘Hurry back to school. We miss you.’

  It’s only been one day. I wonder quite how much they could have missed me when no doubt all they’d done was talk about me the whole time. I know it’s a bitter thought. I should be happy we’re friends again. It’s what I want, after all. Things have been a bit creased between us recently.

  ‘I’ve missed you, too,’ I said. The past tense slipped out but they didn’t notice it. I have missed them, in my own way. They’ve been my best friends.

  Maybe things will be different now.

  Nine

  18.20

  Jenny

  That was 2 weird. Don’t u think?

  18.21

  Hayley

  U really txting me from

  the back seat? ;-)

  18.22

  Jenny

  Want 2 talk about it. Grrrr to ur mum. And what is this shit music?

  18.23

  Hayley

  90s crap.

  18.24

  Hayley

  Yeah it was weird. She really

  doesn’t remember.

  18.24

  Jenny

  U think she will? Im scared.

  18.24

  Hayley

  Me 2. I’ll call you l8r.

  18.25

  Jenny

  I wish she’d died.

  18.25

  Hayley

  DELETE! We’ll be ok.

  18.25

  Jenny

  Delete thread or just that?

  18.26

  Hayley

  Thread.

  18.26

  Jenny

  This shit is so crazy.

  18.26

  Hayley

  Don’t worry. Now delete.

  Ten

  Aiden rolled joints faster and smoother than anyone Becca knew. His joints, Becca concluded as she sucked in deep and watched the paper burn orange-red, small grass seeds popping inside, were goddamn awesome. Three, five or seven Rizlas, they were always even, a perfect balance of weed and tobacco, and you never had to tug too hard nor did you ever get a mouthful of shit because the roach and paper were too loose.

  She giggled and coughed as the buzz hit, warming her face which still stung from the cold outside even though the room was roasting. Aiden’s mum did not skimp on the heating. And long may she live for that alone. That and the pizza she’d bought for them.

  ‘Good shit?’ Aiden said.

  Becca was lying in the crook of his arm looking up at the ceiling. ‘Good shit,’ she said and grinned. ‘Now feed me pizza.’

  He dragged a heavy slice out of the box, holding it over her head. She reached up for it and he held it just out of her reach.

  ‘Swap.’

  She waved the joint at him and then hauled herself up, letting her head fuzz, smiling at him as she took a huge bite of the Hawaiian, cheese stretching out in a long thread until it broke and landed wetly on her chin.

  ‘Sexy.’

  She shrugged. ‘I’m not a Barbie. What do I care?’

  ‘A Barbie?’ Aiden blew a lungful of sweet smoke into her face, and she breathed it in while pulling away the offending food.

  ‘You know, like Natasha and her gang. They never eat. They probably purge. How fucking tragic.’

  ‘I think you’re an amnesiac bulimic,’ Aiden said, thoughtfully. He grinned. ‘You binge and then forget to throw up afterwards.’

  ‘Arsehole!’ The word had less potency spluttered around a mouthful of pineapple and cheese. She finished the slice and then took the joint back from him.

  ‘Anyway, why are you even talking about them? You never do. Why do you care? Natasha’s fine. All this shit will blow over.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I guess it’s just brought it all back. What bitches they were to me.’ More than that, she wanted to say. It’s brought back how much I wanted to keep them. How I would have let them be bitches to me forever if I could have stayed in the circle. I was such a loser. Some humiliations, however, you had to keep to yourself if you wanted to keep your boyfriend. No one needed to know what a twat she could be, least of all Aiden.

  ‘Jamie went up to see her,’ Aiden said, ‘but she was too tired, apparently. I think it made him feel like a bit of an idiot. He doesn’t do people at the best of times.’ She offered him the joint back but he shook his head. ‘You finish that. I’ve got to play guitar in a bit.’

  It was the only thing that irritated Becca about Aiden working with Jamie McMahon – they recorded at night from seven or eight through to midnight, or even later if they were close to a deadline. It meant that sometimes she barely saw Aiden at all for days, whereas if they worked during the day like normal people his evenings would be free.

  ‘I’d want to see him if he’d saved me,’ Aiden continued. ‘To say thank you if nothing else.’

  ‘She didn’t text Hayley back, either. Maybe she’s not as well as they think. When I was reading to her in the hospital she was so still. It was hard to believe she wasn’t dying. Or dead or whatever. Maybe you can’t just bounce back from that stuff?’ Why was she suddenly defending Natasha? How hard did old habits die?

  ‘Still odd. And very Natasha not to give a shit that he’d gone all that way to see her. She could have managed five minutes.’

  ‘True,’ Becca said. ‘Her mum rang mine. Apparently she doesn’t remember very much. Like, nothing from that whole day.’

  ‘All the more reason you’d think she’d want to see him.’

  ‘Yeah, but this is Tasha. I’m not sure hospital-bed hellos would be her thing.’

  Aiden looked quizzical.

  ‘No make-up. No hair straighteners. No padded bra.’

  ‘Oh, meow.’ Aiden laughed, pulling her up to him. ‘You can be such a bitch.’ His tone was light, though, and he had one hand in her hair as he leaned in to kiss her. She loved the way he kissed. Gentle, sweet expl
oration. It was even better when they were stoned – which was most of the time they were together, if she was honest. The tingle in her tongue ran through to the buzz in her veins and it was only ever a moment or two until her whole body was throbbing. She’d never get tired of Aiden. Never. Natasha had been stupid to turn him down.

  She had Natasha’s cast-off. She tried not to think about that. Aiden loved her, Becca. He would never have loved Natasha, not like this. Not in this soulmate way. But it still bothered her that he’d wanted Tasha. That he’d thought she was beautiful. She was beautiful. That made it worse. But even if they had dated it wouldn’t have lasted. He would have found Rebecca eventually. Once Tasha’s gold-plated shine had worn away to show the cheap metal underneath, he’d have seen that Becca was his diamond. Of course he would.

  ‘What?’ he asked, pulling away from her as if he could feel the distraction in her kiss. His eyes were hazy red and his smile soft.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Nothing at all.’ They only had half an hour or so before he’d have to drop her home and then head off to work on whatever soundtrack Mr McMahon was composing for the rest of the night. She didn’t want to spend it thinking about Natasha Howland. Natasha Howland was part of her history. She could stay there. Even if Tasha came crawling back to her – which she never would – Becca would have nothing to do with her. If it had been Becca out by the river, she wasn’t even sure she’d have pulled her ex-best friend out. So much for forever. The only thing that lasted forever was death. The thought made her insides cool a little. Death and her love for Aiden. She wrapped her arms around his neck more tightly. This was forever. She was sure of that.

  Eleven

  From the Brackston Herald, Wednesday 13 January

  Although it is still a mystery how sixteen-year-old Natasha Howland (pictured left with her mother) came to be found in the local river on Saturday morning, the police are not currently considering foul play.

  According to hospital sources, Miss Howland, a sixth form student at Brackston Community school, has made a good recovery after being pulled from the water and was released from hospital this morning. Feared dead on discovery, her resuscitation has been hailed as miraculous by both doctors and her family. She still has no memory of the events of that night. Although this story has a happy ending, it would appear the beginning is destined to remain a mystery. Both the Howland family and police are appealing for anyone who might have seen Natasha on the night of Friday, 8th January, to come forward.

  Twelve

  Taken from DI Caitlin Bennett’s files: Extract from Natasha Howland’s notebook

  My mum took me shopping. Of course she did. What she lacks in interpersonal skills, she makes up for with cash. I guess in some ways it’s a good trade, and it’s not as if my dad doesn’t earn enough to keep us in the manner to which we have become accustomed. I hate that phrase. My mum uses it all the time and tries to make it sound like a joke, but it isn’t, really. It’s more of a threat. A reminder of what makes her marriage tick.

  She loves my dad, I’m sure of it, but only as long as he keeps providing. She stays pretty and trim for him, goes to the gym and has facials, but all of it has a price tag. Not that he minds. He likes buying her things. Even the things she never uses – her untouched-for-months MacBook Air – the same as mine, matching gifts – how sweet; her iPad mini, the only thing she sometimes uses, her Kindle and the various other electronic devices he thinks will make her life easier. They gather dust around the house. Unless I use them, of course.

  All my mother really wants is for him to continue paying off her credit card every month when she’s spent hundreds on shoes and lunches and ‘wine with the girls’. And of course he does. Because that’s how they show their love. But it’s their life, not mine. I’m just another accessory. If this madness makes them happy then who am I to point it out? Especially with the allowance I get every month. And the freedom. It all works in my favour.

  We came back from the hospital as a family, but as soon as we were through the front door and it was clear I wasn’t an invalid, Dad didn’t know what to do with himself. He headed off to work in his study so we could have some mother-daughter time. I don’t know how my mother felt about it, but it made me groan inside. I just wanted to chill out in my room. Do what I needed to do. Think about things. Maybe read the play before the audition. Prepare to go back to school. Go shopping on my own. I checked my various social media accounts on my phone as she made tea and cut us slices of chocolate cake – a sliver for her, a wedge for me – but the well-wishing was getting boring. Since it became clear I wasn’t going to follow through on my half-promise of death, a lot of the outpouring of love had dropped off. The drama was over. We’ll see about that when I get back to school. I have to laugh at myself a bit for that – the vanity of it all.

  Once we’d drunk our tea and eaten the pieces of too-sweet cake, Mum declared that she’d have to skip dinner to make up for it, even though she’s as thin as a twig. It made me think I should skip dinner, too, as I’d eaten the Crunchies as well, and that irritated me. I don’t need to lose weight. I know my figure is good. So is hers. I was half-tempted to tell her that the skinny look doesn’t necessarily work on an ageing woman, but why spoil the moment?

  I wonder if she was lean and toned like me when she was younger. Her skin is different from mine. It almost hangs from her in places. Mine is firm, welded to the flesh and bone underneath, one smooth, strong machine. Her body is starting to show its different parts. The droop of her breasts. The sagging skin at her elbows. I’ve never noticed them before, those whispers of physical mortality. I think I’ve become slightly obsessed by death over the past two days. I guess that’s to be expected.

  My bedroom looks a little odd to me now. In it for the first time, once I’d fled the calorie conversation, I stared at the window – firmly shut – and out at the tree and rope ladder beyond. There was a lot of snow. I wouldn’t have wanted to scramble down there in this weather, strong body or not.

  I sat on my bed, idly flicking through The Crucible, and wondered how long it would take. (She’s nothing if not predictable, my mother. But then, most people are.) As it turned out, about twenty minutes. I had my bag ready and my shoes on when she knocked on the door to suggest we go shopping. ‘I could treat you to something nice?’ she said, like that would sort out my near-death. ‘A new coat, maybe, for this terrible weather?’

  I’m not short of coats as my walk-in wardrobe will attest, but you can never have too many clothes. I smiled at her. I could have a worse mother in many ways, that’s for sure.

  *

  I wore a hat with my hair tucked in, just in case anyone recognised me – it’s not like I’m a celebrity or something, but there were reporters and photographers outside the hospital this morning and I bet I look shit in their pictures. They want me to do a photo and piece with Jamie McMahon. Maybe I will. I can’t decide if I want to speak to him or not. I turned him away at the hospital, but perhaps it could be interesting. I feel like I know him already. Maybe I should see him. I’ll think about it later. It’s not urgent.

  We cruised around the shops, which were quiet in the foul midweek weather, and after an hour or so – however long it took to buy three tops, a skirt, a coat and a pair of skinny jeans – I mentioned that I’d like to get Hayley and Jennifer presents of friendship bracelets or something, so they’d know how much it mattered to me that they were there. I looked down at my snowy boots and tried not to blush. I didn’t want to sound needy or too grateful they were at my bedside. ‘It was strange being in hospital,’ I explained. ‘It made me realise how fragile everything is.’ It’s true. The idea that I was nearly dead – for-good dead, not just thirteen-minutes dead – still makes me tremble.

  ‘Then let’s do that,’ my mother said, smiling. ‘But make it a celebration of your friendships rather than a fear of loss.’

  Sometimes she’s overly sentim
ental, but maybe she had a point. I smiled, too. I had to, really. I needed her credit card to pay for everything.

  ‘What about Rebecca?’ she asked, almost tentatively, after we’d picked out the delicate charm bracelets, each with a silver heart attached that read Forever Friends. Maybe they’re a bit childish – okay, a lot childish – but they’re certainly not tacky. Not at the price tag they came with.

  I had to think for a moment. Becca. Of course. Not a bracelet, though. That would be ridiculous, given everything, but I did have another idea.

  *

  When we got home, there was a phone call from the drably serious police inspector, Bennett, checking that everything was all right and I was home safely. She told my parents that they weren’t taking the investigation any further at the moment but to call her immediately should I remember anything. She said it all to my father, as if I was from some far-off distant land and didn’t speak English – or, worse than that, as if I was five years old.

  I mean, what if my dad was the one who pushed me in the river? What if that, Mrs Clever Police Inspector? I can hardly ask him for your number so I can call and say, Hey, guess what I remembered? It’s bad enough not remembering without people thinking that it’s suddenly made me stupid.

  When the call was done, my dad asked if I wanted take-away for dinner. We rarely have take-away. Mum’s proud of her homemaking skills, even though she’s so embarrassed about being a housewife that we have a cleaner who comes twice a week and does the ironing. Amongst her friends, choosing not to work is a status symbol, but I sometimes think that so much wine at lunchtime doesn’t indicate a fulfilled life. She had a job a long time ago, before I was born. It’s how she met dad. Anyway, the long and short of it is that mum is an excellent cook and takes pride in serving up a healthy but tasty meal every evening. It’s the one thing I try to be here for, because it makes life easier if I am. My parents don’t seem to know where I am from one minute to the next but they do like us to sit down as a family once a day, even if my mum’s just nibbling on a salad pretending to eat. I usually manage about fifteen minutes with them, and they usually find that acceptable.