Willow Walk

by SJI Holliday

  Mindy Heller hadn’t told her about this.

  It’s over too soon. She was just warming up.

  ‘Give it a few minutes, then we can do it again,’ Mark says, panting. He’s lying behind her, spooning her, a hand draped across her breasts.

  Laura drops her hand down behind her, in between his legs.

  ‘You sure you’re not ready again, now?’

  He leans in closer and starts to kiss the back of her neck. ‘You’re a wee nympho, aren’t you? I fucking knew you would be.’

  Laura flinches slightly at the change in his tone, but she’s enjoying herself so she lets it pass.

  15

  She can’t stay at home. She washes her face, brushes her teeth. Tries not to look at herself in the mirror.

  The pub isn’t busy when she arrives, which is unusual for this time on a Friday. But that’s OK. It’s busy enough to keep her distracted. Helen is delighted to leave.

  ‘Feeling better, are we?’ She looks Marie up and down, and Marie can tell that Helen knows that her illness was self-inflicted. Let her think that. She’s right about the rum, but she doesn’t know the reasons behind her drinking it. Fuck her.

  ‘Have a nice evening,’ Marie says, as Helen walks out of the door. ‘Thanks for covering for me.’

  ‘Nice work for some.’ Sam is at the bar, a half-empty pint in front of him. It’s not soda and lime.

  ‘That didn’t last long,’ Marie says.

  ‘It’s Friday.’

  ‘Take it easy, though, OK?’

  ‘You might want to do the same. What’s up, anyway? Not like you to phone in sick.’

  ‘Yeah, well, just one of those days. I’m fine now. Thanks for asking.’

  Marie leaves him to it and goes through to the other side, the lounge bar, where a few couples are sitting. The conversation is quieter through here. The music on low. Marie dims the lights, just a fraction.

  ‘Ah, there you are!’

  Bill appears from the kitchen with a box full of folded napkins. He’s wearing a pale blue shirt, buttoned to the top. His thick red neck bulges out above it.

  ‘Sorry . . . I’m OK now. Thanks for getting Helen in.’

  Bill lays the box of napkins on the serving hatch and walks behind the bar. He stands too close. He reeks of aftershave and Juicy Fruit chewing gum.

  ‘Glad to have you back,’ he says. He rubs a hand up and down her arm like he’s trying to wipe chalk off a blackboard. ‘Wendy is in at eight anyway. You can knock off again when she appears.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No buts, my love. You look a bit peaky. Best you get some more rest, eh? Come back tomorrow.’

  Bill disappears through to the public bar and she hears him greeting someone, laughing his braying laugh. Full of cheer.

  She sighs. She doesn’t want to go back home. Not yet.

  Marie walks through to the kitchen to see who’s on. Quinn, the chef, is at the far end of the kitchen, bent so deeply into the chest freezer that she can only see his legs in his black-and-white checks. She can hear boxes being shuffled and moved, swearing coming out through puffs of cold air.

  Laura is in the middle of emptying the dishwasher, which is full of huge saucepans. Her face is flushed from the steamy air, and something else. She looks happy.

  ‘Marie! Oh thank God you came in – I’ve got something huge to tell you.’ The girl’s eyes are shining; her young face is pink and damp.

  ‘She’s a dirty stop-out,’ Quinn calls, from the freezer. His voice is muffled, his tone is deadpan.

  ‘Shut up, you,’ Laura shouts down the kitchen, trying to make herself heard over the noises of the extractor fan and the fryers.

  ‘What is it?’ Marie says, trying hard to sound enthusiastic.

  ‘Well . . .’ Laura picks up a tea towel and wipes it across her head. ‘I’ve done it,’ she whispers, leaning in close. ‘With Mark.’

  Marie is confused for a moment, and then she remembers. Yes, of course. Mark. The one that Laura has been pretending not to pine over for the last few weeks. She smiles at Laura, but she feels a sudden surge of rage course through her. Stupid girl. Stupid, stupid girl. He will hurt you, she thinks.

  ‘Oh aye,’ she says. ‘Tell all . . .’

  She swallows back bile as Laura tells her about their picnic down by the river. About how they’d ‘done it’ three times. About how Laura loved it. She glances round at Quinn, who is garnishing plates with little piles of salad. She sees the amused look on his face. Knows he’s heard this story before. Probably more than once. He’s a grumpy bastard at times, but he listens. He listens to everything.

  ‘So he’s coming to meet me tonight when I finish. Bill says I can have a shower upstairs. We’re going back to the shows, and I’m going to tell that stupid fortune teller that she got it all wrong. Nothing bad is happening – it’s all bloody ace. Silly cow.’

  Laura is babbling away, and Marie finds herself tuning in and out of the conversation. She’s about to say something, about to tell Laura that all she’ll ever gain is disappointment. But she looks at the girl’s eyes, and she can’t do it.

  ‘Well, lucky you, eh?’ she says at last. ‘He’s a bit of a dish, that Mark.’

  Laura laughs. ‘Dish? No one says that any more.’

  ‘What do you say, then?’

  ‘He’s hot.’

  Quinn clears his throat. ‘He’s a ride. Do yous still say that? That’ll be what he’s saying to his mates about you now, anyway. “Right wee go’er, that one . . .”’

  Marie turns to look at the chef. He’s sliding fish onto plates. There’s a mischievous glint in his eye. He’s joking, but what he says is true.

  ‘Be careful, Laura.’

  Laura throws a pot into the sink and it clatters against the sides, metal on metal. ‘You two are just jealous ’cause you’re not gettin’ any.’ She turns back to Marie and her smile has slipped, just a fraction. ‘Anyway, it’s not like that. He’s not like that. We’ve fancied each other for ages. He’s really nice, you know. You can see for yourself. He’s coming in to pick me up at nine.’

  ‘Better get on with they pots then, eh?’ Quinn says. ‘Service!’ he shouts, raising his eyebrows at Marie.

  Marie picks up two plates.

  ‘Table 6,’ Quinn shouts behind her, his voice fading as the swing door to the kitchen closes.

  The bar is busier now. The drinkers have filled up the public bar. The place is littered with pints and crisps. The TV is switched to MTV. They’re getting fired up. There is a steady hum of conversation in the lounge bar. The scrape of plates on cutlery. The occasional burst of laughter. The room smells of curry and chips.

  Marie walks back through the service space and behind the bar. Wendy has already arrived for the late shift, and there’s nothing left for her to do.

  ‘Do you need me to stay?’ she asks Bill.

  Bill shakes his head. ‘Go an’ sit down and have a drink. Here . . .’ he says. He shoves a small glass up under one of the optics. Repeats. Fires in some Coke from the gun. He slides the rum and Coke to the end of the bar, and Marie walks out and pulls out a stool. On the other side of the gap, Sam sits. He’s still got half a pint in his glass, but Marie knows it’s not the same one he was nursing earlier, before she went through to the kitchen. It hasn’t had time to warm up yet. Condensation slips slowly down the outside of the glass.

  ‘Davie was in here looking for you,’ Sam says.

  Marie takes a sip of the drink. It’s not like her to drink like this. She can still taste it in the back of her throat from the night before. ‘Oh aye. Did you not send him through to the kitchen?’

  Sam downs his pint. Wipes his top lip. A smear of foam sits on the back of his hand. ‘Sorry, I thought you’d gone home.’

  Aye, right, Marie thinks.

  She sighs. Takes another drink, then climbs off the stool to retrieve her handbag from where she’s left it behind the bar. She checks her phone. Davie. ‘Starting to think you’re avoid
ing me.’

  She texts back. ‘I was in the kitchen.’ Hesitates. ‘Come back. Have a drink with me.’

  He replies straight away. ‘Can’t now. With Ian. See you tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes. Cool. Meet you at Landucci’s for lunch?’

  He replies again. ‘Could do . . . Or maybe pop along to the shows? I fancy a toffee apple.’

  Marie laughs, and Sam turns to look at her. She ignores him.

  ‘Perfect. Meet you at the bridge at 1 x’

  ‘See you then xx’

  She tips back the rest of her drink just as Wendy appears through the gap from the other bar. ‘Same again please, doll. Sam, another pint? My shout.’

  Sam looks at his empty glass and pretends to consider it. ‘Aye. Cheers.’

  They chat about nothing. Marie feels the drink taking effect. Everything is a bit fuzzier around the edges. Nothing seems quite so bad any more. Fuck Graeme and his stupid letters. She’s not going to read them. She’s going to take the whole lot out the back and burn them. Cadbury will like that. The cat has always had an obsession with flames, jumping excitedly when she flicks the gas on the stove. She’ll do it when she gets home. Maybe just one more drink.

  At nine o’clock, Laura appears. She smells of peaches and youth. Quinn must’ve let her away early so she could shower for her date. He’s a grump, but he’s a softie underneath.

  ‘Excited?’ Marie says.

  Laura grins. ‘What do you think? Erm, Marie . . . any chance you can sneak me a wee one in this?’ She holds up her Coke glass.

  ‘Sorry,’ Marie says. ‘I would, but it’s too busy now. If Bill sees, he’ll hit the roof.’

  She watches as Laura glances around the bar. ‘Aye. OK.’ The girl’s shoulders slump, just a bit. But then she’s all smiles again when the door opens and a young man walks in. But then a girl follows, and Laura turns away.

  ‘Fancy coming to this party, then?’ Sam says.

  Marie realises she’s been dreaming. She’s hardly aware of where she is. The sounds of chatter and the clink of glasses. The music pumping in the background. All a fuzz. A nice, nice fuzz.

  She glances up at the clock. It’s just gone nine thirty.

  Laura is sitting at the edge of one of the long banquette seats. The glass of Coke is on the table beside her. The old men at the table are shuffling dominos and trying to get her involved, but she shakes her head. She must feel Marie staring at her. She turns, and Marie sees disappointment and embarrassment radiating off her.

  She wants to say, ‘See, I told you.’ But instead she says, ‘Want to come to a party with us?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ Laura says. She stands up, leaves the Coke on the table. ‘I think I’ll just go home.’

  ‘Plenty more fish in the sea,’ Sam says, as he stands, wobbling slightly. Marie punches him in the arm, then takes hold of him. They push through the small crowd to a few shouts of ‘oi’ and ‘manners’ and other pointless words that they will have already forgotten have left their lips.

  ‘Shut up, Sam,’ Marie says. ‘Let’s get ourselves to this party.’

  17th July 2015

  Dear Marie,

  My scar hurts sometimes. Does yours? When I first moved here, it used to itch like mad. The doctor had a look at it. Said it was strange . . . it had been healed for fourteen years by then. You could hardly see it – just a faint silvery squiggle. Much smaller than yours. He gave me some cream to rub onto it, and when I rubbed it I imagined that you were putting it on for me. I imagined your small, soft hands, running up and down my side. I hope yours hasn’t given you any trouble. Like the doctor said, it’s healed. Just a phantom itch. Just in my head.

  Do you still swim, Marie? I long to swim, but there’s no pool here. There was talk of them getting one installed once, but I think it was just that. Talk. I try to talk to the workers as much as I can. Try to get all the gossip. It’s so dull here, otherwise. I’m sick of playing games. Ludo, Scrabble, Battleships. Monopoly – monotony, more like. I spend a lot of time in the library. They’ve got computers in there now. Some rich relative donated them, apparently. They don’t let us use the internet, though. Not unless someone is watching.

  There is always someone watching, Marie.

  Can you imagine how that feels?

  Please write.

  Even just one word.

  Just a hello.

  Love,

  Graeme

  16

  ‘You are a fucking idiot,’ Laura mutters to herself. ‘Total. Fucking. Idiot.’

  She leaves the pub and heads towards the High Street. She’s only texted him once – thank God – at 9.15, saying ‘Where are you? xx’

  He didn’t reply. She told herself he was just running late, that he’d burst in any minute with some mad story about what had happened and where he’d been and why he was late. Then she flitted to panic. What if he’s been run over? What if he’s been mugged?

  Eventually she got it . . . What if he’s not coming?

  Bingo.

  ‘Stupid cow,’ she says. She stops next to a plastic bin at the end of the street and kicks it. Hard. Not a stupid girly kick. She steps back, raises her arms into fists in a proper defensive stance, swings a sharp roundhouse kick about three-quarters of the way up and knocks the bin head clean off the top. Chip wrappers and drinks cans scatter across the pavement.

  Goody Goody Laura. Nice little swot Laura. She gets good grades, she does her homework. She goes to karate three times a week. She volunteers at the library on a Saturday morning and reads stories to little kids. Laura is nice, Laura is lovely, isn’t she? That’s what everyone says. And today – finally today – she decides to shake that off. She does something brave, and crazy and stupid. She does something that everyone else in her year has already done. And she thinks that, yes, now she’s just like everyone else.

  Then she gets stood up.

  What a fucking fool! Why did she think that Mark was different to every other boy in their school? And worst of all, why the hell had she told Hayley? She imagines that the news has already spread. She imagines that everyone already knows what she’s done.

  She stares at the overturned bin. Her first instinct is to pick it up, shove the rubbish back inside, replace the lid. No one has seen her, have they? There might be a CCTV camera on the corner, but she doubts it can see where she is now. Besides, what are they going to do? It’s only a bin. It’s only some rubbish.

  Screw it.

  She storms past, kicking a plastic bag filled with something soft that is probably dog shit into the air, and heads down the High Street. There aren’t many people about – probably because they’re all either in the pub, at the scuzzy party that Marie was on her way to or, more likely, down at the shows. Where she is supposed to be right now. With Mark.

  Fuck you, Mark.

  She stops and sits down on the steps of one of the dilapidated tenements that line the street. She takes deep breaths, tries to push the rage away. Laura isn’t someone to fly into a rage. She’s a well-mannered, good-natured girl. So everyone keeps saying. School reports. Her nan. Her mum. What do they know? She’s changed today. She’s not the same person any more. She’s given a part of herself away to someone, someone she thought was special. And that person has chosen to humiliate her in return.

  ‘Well, I’m not having it,’ she says. She stands up. Down at the bottom of the street there is only one shop with its lights still on. She marches down there. Kicking at stones and any other pieces of debris that get in her way. Her face is burning. Her hands tight from balling them into fists.

  She takes a deep breath before she walks in. Tries to keep calm. She places a bottle of sparkling wine on the counter, takes a fiver out of her purse. The guy serving is two years above her. He’s just left school. He tried to chat her up once, at a party at some random house out in the country. A thing in a barn where the hippy parents let the kids do what they like as long as they didn’t start any fights. She rebuffed him, but gently. He still
smiled when he passed her in the street. She’s kicking herself now, because she can’t remember his name.

  ‘I need to ask you for ID,’ he says; he’s trying to look serious, but there’s a smile threatening to escape. He knows she’s not eighteen.

  ‘You can just say you’ve seen it,’ Laura says, trying to smile.

  He nods and puts the wine in a bag. Rings it up in the till and gives her 50p change. ‘You OK, Laura? I, er . . . I don’t think I’ve seen you in here before.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she snaps. Takes a breath. Smiles again, although it feels like an effort to move her lips upwards even a fraction. ‘Thanks for this. Totally fine. I’m going to the shows. Might see you later.’ A bell above the door tinkles as she leaves. He might’ve said something else as she left, but she’s too preoccupied to hear it.

  A hump-backed bridge crosses the river over to the common land where the fairground lies. There is a small dirt path that leads down to the river. Laura has never been there at night before, and she realises that there is no street lighting that covers the small patch of land down there. She tries not to think about what might be down there. Used needles, used condoms . . . cans and bottles. Broken glass. Hopefully that’s it for the riverside props. Hopefully there are no people down there, because that’s the only thing she really wants to avoid right now.

  She walks carefully down the path, feeling the edge of the bridge with one hand to guide her down. The stone is cold and slimy. The path feels dry. The loose dirt makes it slippery. Don’t fall. Don’t fucking fall. At the bottom, she finds a space on the low wall that lines the river and sits down. She unscrews the bottle. She glances up towards the street above, wonders if anyone can see her. Fuck it. She takes a long, slow drink. The wine is cold, and the bubbles catch in her throat. She stops, coughs. Savours the unfamiliar flavour on her tongue. She’s had wine before. Just a little bit, now and then. Mostly when she’s with her parents, having one of those excruciatingly awkward Sunday lunches. This wine is slightly drier than she’s used to. Sour, like unripe berries. But it’s not that unpleasant. She’s already getting used to it. She has no idea how much she needs to drink to get drunk. But she can already feel it fizzing through her, hitting her stomach. The fluttering in her chest. Her head feels fuzzy. She takes another drink.