13 Minutes-9780575097407

by Sarah Pinborough

  *

  They’re wriggling like maggots on fish hooks, my best friends. That’s what I thought when I finished talking to Becca. I lay on my bed and tapped the phone against the duvet as I considered it all, my eyes wandering absently over the chessboard. Becca is good at reporting back. She gives pretty much every word – she knows what to remember. No vague, Well, they kind of said this. Or, It was something like that. The details matter and Becca knows it.

  She said that when they went for a smoke, Hayley was curious. That’s no surprise. Wanted to know what I could remember. Becca said she had no idea. Hayley was doing her best to be nice to her, though. Edgy. Nervous. Apologising for being a bitch and reminiscing about the old days. Saying we should all hang out more. Becca played along – just enough but not too much. Nice but slightly wary. She asked Hayley if we’d really had an argument and Hayley denied it again but Becca said she was tense. Wouldn’t look her in the eye. So Becca changed the subject. Didn’t want to push too hard.

  It’s interesting that their first move is to try and make friends with Becca, maybe thinking Becca will be so grateful she’ll tell them whatever it is I’ve ‘remembered’ (as if). It’s so transparent. Surely they must see that? But I guess they don’t have a choice. Maybe they’re desperate already, seeing the battle lines I’m drawing. My stomach tightens thinking about it. Everything is unsettled.

  I checked Facebook on my phone. Neither of them were online and they hadn’t updated their pages. That’s weird, especially for Hayley. We like to collect our likes. Compare numbers. I know she loves it when she gets more than me. As if she can rival me.

  I keep checking my notifications. My update when I got home, about loving the play and the people in it, already had more than forty likes and twenty comments, and the girls I’d name-checked had shared the post full of excitement that I’d mentioned them. I didn’t read the comments. Since my accident it’s become Facebook law to like whatever I say. It pretty much was before, to be honest. I’ve sent Bex an ‘add friend’ request. I should have done it already but some things can’t be rushed. This is the right time. We have secrets together now. We should at least be Facebook friends.

  I looked up Aiden’s page, too, on a whim. It’s not public so I couldn’t really see anything except his profile picture, which was him playing guitar onstage in some dingy club somewhere, his hair sweaty over his face (oh god of course it’s all the wannabe rock star pose clichés and oh god I’m such a bitch) and his cover photo’s some band I’ve never heard of and never want to hear of, but it does say he’s in a relationship with Rebecca ‘Bex’ Crisp and that he’s a full-time musician. I remembered his face as I laughed at him on the ground and my fingers flew over the small keyboard. I hit ‘add friend’ and then I hit ‘message’.

  Hey, I just wanted to say hi and I don’t think you had anything to do with what happened to me. Just so you know. Tasha xo.

  My stomach fluttered when I sent it and I still worry that maybe I shouldn’t have messaged, especially since the police have been interested in him, but it’s done now. I did one more scan for Hayley and Jenny online but they were still silent.

  When I glanced back at the chessboard, I could suddenly see my next move. Becca has taken a knight and two pawns, but we’d both played aggressively and she wasn’t without losses of her own. Suddenly I knew how to force her queen out of safety and take one of her bishops. I texted her the move.

  And I sent Jenny a text to shake her up a bit and make them sweat over the weekend.

  What did you do, Jen?

  I know you and Hayley did something.

  The phone buzzed at once but it was just Becca.

  Good move! Cow!

  It was, I decided, when I got no answer from Jenny. It was a good move. Were they in a panicked phone call now? What would they be saying? I imagined them wriggling on hooks again and slowly, in my head, they morphed into maggots, blind and stupid and desperate to be free.

  *

  I was still thinking of maggots when I went to bed. I didn’t want to be, but I was. I imagined them bubbling out of Nicola Munroe’s distorted, blue corpse. I imagined her loose skin sliding off her as they pulled her from the river, and maybe maggots or something wriggling free into the freezing water. It made me itch all over. I took deep breaths and tried to think of other things. The play. The uneven ground of my friendships. The clearing. I wished I could put my trainers on and go out for a run and not think about any of it, but then I’d have to explain my secret jogging and my muddy, sweaty clothes, and neither my mum nor my dad would understand my need for privacy please.

  I turned the light off when I had to, after shouting my obligatory goodnight down the stairs and locking myself in so Mum couldn’t invade my space by checking on me. They used to get it, my need for space, but since the accident she’s become quite clingy. She touches my hair, like she used to when I was small, and when she lets her guard down – or maybe it’s when she’s had too much wine – I see all that fear in her eyes. The fear of what might have happened, what nearly had. I feel sorry for her, but I can’t help her. I survived it. I’m the one who was dead for thirteen minutes. If I can get over it, she can.

  Dr Harvey suggested Nytol might help me sleep after I turned down proper sleeping pills. I didn’t want anything too strong. Nothing that could drown me in sleep. I have to stay in control. I’m not sure if they work or not but I took them anyway. I think maybe they do a little bit. I know my breathing slowed, even as I fought the encroaching darkness, me and my head full of maggots clinging to the driftwood of consciousness.

  Eventually, though, the endless black claimed me. Perhaps part of me wants to go into the void. Terrified as I am, I’m also fascinated by it. It was cold. Vast. I heard the whispers again.

  This time I listened.

  When I woke up I didn’t remember what I heard, but I know, as I write this, that I was afraid. I am still afraid.

  Thirty

  10.14

  Jenny

  That’s what she just texted me. She knows. The fucking skank bitch remembers! I hate her. I fucking hate her.

  10.16

  Hayley

  Doesn’t say she actually

  remembers? Not properly.

  10.17

  Jenny

  This is Tasha. Who the fuck knows? She must remember something! This is such a fuck up.

  10.17

  Hayley

  She’s testing us. I don’t think she remembers. Not properly.

  10.18

  Jenny

  Stop saying that! How do u know? I’m so over this. I can’t take the fucking stress of pretending all the time. She’s going to remember soon. What are we going to do then??

  10.19

  Hayley

  I’ll think of something.

  10.19

  Jenny

  U need to think faster.

  10.20

  Jenny

  And dont tell me to delete. Sick of that shit too:-(

  10.21

  Hayley

  U will tho?

  10.22

  Jenny

  Yes.

  10.22

  Jenny

  I wish she was dead. She should be dead.

  10.23

  Hayley

  Yeah, she should. :-(. I’ll think of something.

  Thirty-One

  Extract from the Maypoole Gazette, Saturday 23rd January

  The police have still not released an official cause of death in the case of local teenager Nicola Munroe, whose body was found in the river between Maypoole and Brackston last Sunday. Their press officer confirmed that they are following up fresh leads in the case but declined to comment on any links between Miss Munroe’s death and the near-fatal drowning of teenager Natasha Howland.

  The Na
g and Pineapple pub, where Nicola worked prior to her death, is holding a fundraiser from 2 p.m. next Saturday to help the Munroe family with funeral costs.

  Extract from the Brackston Sunday Herald, Sunday 24th January

  Insider sources at Kilmourn Central Police Station have confirmed that detectives are investigating a person of interest in relation to both the death of 19-year-old Nicola Munroe, whose body was recovered last week from the River Ribble, and the attack on 16-year-old Natasha Howland, which left the Brackston Community School student technically dead for 13 minutes.

  Officers are believed to have questioned a 19-year-old Brackston man who knew both victims, but no arrests have been made at this time. The man, a musician, is a former Brackston Community School student and is currently in a relationship with a sixth form pupil there.

  Thirty-Two

  They were starting early. It was midday, so early for Jamie, anyway. Aiden was smoking a cigarette at the back door – Jamie was pretty sure he’d smoked at least one joint already – and a pot of coffee was brewing when the quiet peace of the countryside was broken by tyres on the gravel. They barely had time to exchange a glance, Jamie’s confused and Aiden’s scared, when the doorbell rang.

  ‘I’ll get it.’

  Jamie saw the badge first because she held it up to his face. Official. Officious. He smiled. He couldn’t help himself. She wasn’t at all who he was expecting, and the first time he’d seen her he’d thought she was actually very pretty under that fierce outer shell. Or maybe because of it. ‘You don’t need to show me that, DI Bennett. Did our time in hospital together mean nothing to you?’ He wasn’t a natural flirt and as he said it, he knew this wasn’t the moment for flirting, either. Even to his own ears his words sounded, at best, sleazy, and he cringed.

  ‘Is Aiden Kennedy here?’ she asked, as if he hadn’t even spoken.

  ‘Yes.’ Jamie’s smile collapsed as the initial surprise of seeing her vanished. Context was suddenly everything. ‘But surely you’re done with him now?’

  ‘May we come in?’ she asked, not answering his question, and he gave a small nod.

  She pushed past, a move she managed without actually touching him but which still made him feel as if he’d been shoved aside, and a uniformed constable followed in her wake, nodding a semi-apology to him. They headed to the kitchen. Bennett didn’t rush. Her stride was purposeful, not urgent. Aiden hadn’t moved.

  ‘We’d like you to come with us to the station, Mr Kennedy,’ Caitlin Bennett said. ‘We have some more questions for you.’

  ‘Can’t you just ask them here?’ Jamie said. In the kitchen doorway, Aiden’s tall, lanky frame looked as if someone had just removed a section of his spine. He’d slumped over a little, his shoulders curving in as if he wanted to curl up into a ball. Maybe he did.

  ‘We need you to come to the station,’ she said, ignoring Jamie. ‘There’s some new evidence we’d like to talk to you about.’

  Evidence. Jamie stared at Aiden. The Google search on street cameras. The dark shadows under his eyes. His snappiness. Ignoring Becca’s calls after his initial rush to reassure her. Oh, Aiden, he thought. What have you done?

  ‘Are you arresting me?’ Aiden asked, crushing out his cigarette. His voice was hollow. Resigned.

  ‘No. But this would be easier at the station.’

  He nodded.

  He’d been expecting this, Jamie realised. Maybe not right now but at some point. But whatever they’d found, Aiden was no killer. He was sure of that.

  ‘Do you want me there with you?’ Jamie asked. ‘I can follow behind in my car.’

  Aiden nodded again.

  ‘We will provide a duty solicitor to sit in on the interview if Mr Kennedy so wishes.’

  ‘I am a solicitor,’ Jamie took a little pleasure in the reminder. ‘I was, anyway. For today I can be one again.’

  ‘Then it’s up to Mr Kennedy,’ Caitlin said, dryly. What did Caitlin Bennett see when she looked at Aiden, Jamie wondered.She probably saw a surly, guilty teenager. A stoned loner who listened to hard rock and heavy metal. The kind of kid who had deeply hidden emotional issues that could erupt in unexpected violence. From the outside, maybe that’s what most people would see. But Jamie knew that wasn’t Aiden. He was a sweet kid. Shy. Sensitive. A great musician. Not a loner, just selective and private in his life.

  ‘I want Jamie with me,’ Aiden said quietly.

  ‘Okay, mate.’ Jamie squeezed his arm. ‘I’m with you.’ He met DI Bennett’s eyes and this time he didn’t smile at her. Right now, she might not be the enemy, but she was definitely wrong about Aiden. ‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘Get this cleared up once and for all.’

  Thirty-Three

  Becca had hoped to hide in the theatre alone at lunchtime, working. She wasn’t in the mood for company and didn’t even care about the psycho Barbies. She’d barely eaten for two days and had a huge row with her mum on Sunday night when she wouldn’t accept that Becca just wanted to be left alone. Have you had a fight with Aiden? She’d slammed her door on that. Or is it about Natasha? The extra concern in that last question sent Becca over the edge. The words just fuck off had definitely been used as her face burned, and then she’d had to listen to all the shouting downstairs as her mum and dad disagreed about how to handle it. Her dad was particularly loud about just wanting some peace.

  She’ll come downstairs when she’s hungry.

  That’s not the bloody point, Jim, and you know it!

  She had stuck her headphones on and drowned them out while trying Aiden’s number again. He didn’t answer. Again. Eventually he texted back, just as she was about to puke with worry, saying he’d been sick all weekend and then sleeping all day. He’d call her tomorrow. She almost sniped back that he could have said so on Saturday because then she could have gone out with Hannah or done something, but realised how tragic that made her sound. How tragic she was – sitting in her room waiting for him to call. At least Tasha hadn’t been around to witness her distracted mood and hurt. Tasha would have made her talk about it, and then Tasha would have thought she was a total wet blanket. Thankfully, Tasha was away with her family for her gran’s delayed birthday. Aiden aside, that was a relief, too. They’d texted a bit, but it wasn’t about the Barbies so much, just comedy about relatives, Becca’s next chess move, dull shit. She was quite glad they’d left it alone. It gave her some breathing space in her head. She couldn’t think about the shit with Hayley and Jenny as well as Aiden ignoring her.

  Monday had been difficult. At school she felt pulled in all directions. Hayley and Tasha were both texting her between lessons, and every time her phone buzzed, her heart leapt at the thought it would be Aiden. She didn’t mind Tasha so much, but it was hard to keep her pretence up with Hayley, especially as she was being more like the old Hayley. She had to be careful not to get drawn in. Hayley and Jenny were grade-A bitches and Becca needed to remember that.

  She’d had lunch with Hannah – the only person she could offload with about Aiden. And that had been fine, but the others kept texting her and Hannah had done the shitty passive-aggressive thing of saying, You’re popular today. Back in with your old crowd, then? All the time with that needy don’t hurt me look on her face. But what was Becca supposed to do? Not answer? She almost told Hannah what was going on just to shut her up, but she couldn’t betray Tasha’s confidence like that. Not to Hannah. And it was their secret for now. Theirs alone. At least until they could actually prove something.

  Aiden had eventually called her, just after school finished, and claimed he was still sick. To be fair, he didn’t sound great – he sounded exhausted and low and quiet – but she still felt hurt that he wanted to be on his own. When he had the flu, they’d stayed curled up on his bed and watched movies all day while he worked his way through three toilet rolls blowing his nose. The pangs of insecurity and self-doubt crept up from whatever hidden pi
t inside her they called home and she instantly felt sick again.

  She still felt sick now, Tuesday lunchtime, and was desperately trying to throw herself into preparations for the afternoon’s rehearsal rather than thinking about her shitty boyfriend or listening to the equally shitty voice in her head telling her he didn’t love her any more. He was mad she’d got mad at him. She’d basically accused him of murder so how he was supposed to still love her? No way, José. You’re out of luck, chubby little Rebecca Crisp.

  She swallowed it all down and gritted her teeth. He was just sick. That was all. She tried not to think about the fact that his phone was now switched off and had been since about 11.30. His phone was never switched off. Avoiding. He’s avoiding you.

  Mr Jones had thought her ideas for lighting and staging sounded pretty cool but before committing and planning his direction around them, he wanted to try one scene out in the round. She’d hoped to do it on her own or with Casey, but Casey was in a coursework catch-up class and Hannah had insisted on coming to help instead. They’d only run masking tape down one edge of what would be the performance area when all the Barbies turned up, Tasha first, then Jenny and Hayley.

  Hannah pretended not to really care but Becca noticed the sudden clumsiness in her movements. They unsettled Hannah. They made her remember her position in the hive. Girls like them were – Becca was sure – the reason Hannah had never opened an Instagram or a Twitter account. She was on Facebook, but Hannah’s mum was on her friends list and she only had thirty-something friends, if that.

  ‘This is going to be so cool,’ Tasha said, standing close to Becca and looking at her planning drawings and then down at the lines they were marking out, bringing what would become the stage to life little by little. ‘You’re so clever, Bex.’