by SJI Holliday
When the bottle is finished, she throws it under the bridge and hears it smash as it collides with a rock. She stands, and then realises that the alcohol has already made its way to her legs, helped along the way by the adrenalin from her rage. She feels herself stagger slightly, reaches a hand out to the wall of the bridge again. Slowly, she walks back up to the street.
She can hear the sounds of the shows now, not far. The lights are flashing red, blue, white. A laser searches across the thick, black sky. It’s late now. It’s dark. Navy-blue dark. She walks towards the lights.
He’s there, standing next to the Waltzer. Standing with that creep from the other day. She squints. Someone else is there too. A girl, hanging off the two of them. Cuddled up to Mark. Her Mark.
She recognises the dress. The long boots. Pink highlights flashing in her hair. It’s Hayley. Mark is with Hayley. This . . . this is not right. This was not supposed to happen. Why did she tell Hayley she wanted to sleep with Mark? Stupid. Stu. Pid.
Laura takes a couple more steps forward, then stops. Hayley is pointing at her. The fairground boy – Gaz? Was that his name? – nudges her and they tip back their heads and laugh. Mark catches her eye, looks away. He turns and vanishes into the crowd.
She opens her mouth, wants to shout out his name. But her mouth has gone dry. Her head is whirling. The music is vibrating across the field and into her body. The lights are flashing too bright, too fast. Epileptic. She staggers backwards. Turns away. Lurches back across the field, away from the sounds of humiliating laughter that drift through the air like an angry cloud.
17
The sun has dipped to an eerie twilight. Marie holds onto Sam’s arm, and the pair of them weave through imaginary obstacles along the High Street. They cut up onto the back street, which is deserted.
‘Thanks for coming with me,’ Sam says. He pulls on her arm and they stop in the street at the entrance to an alleyway that leads up to the back of a row of houses where she can already hear the faint sounds of a thumping bass.
‘I need this,’ she says. She doesn’t elaborate. Squeezes his arm.
The back gate is unlatched and they pass a small huddle of people smoking in the corner of the back garden. The back door of the house is open, light spills out from inside. They’ve had a barbecue, she notices. The small drum is blackened from where someone has doused the coals with water to put it out. The smell of scorched meat hangs in the air. Music pumps outside. Something dancey that she vaguely recognises.
‘Sam . . . Marie . . .’ A figure stumbles down the back steps. ‘Nice to see yous. Hope you didn’t bring anything. There’s enough booze in there to sink a battleship. Jack’s been on the rob at Costco again.’ Laughter from the small crowd of smokers.
The man who greets them is carrying a can of cheap Polish lager. He’s grinning.
‘All right, Scott,’ Marie says. ‘What’s happening?’
She feels Sam pull away from her grip, and she feels wobbly for a second, not realising that they’d been supporting each other as much as they had. She watches as he stumbles across the grass, attempting to stay on the overgrown path.
‘Funny, we were just talking about you,’ Scott says.
‘Who was?’
‘Me and Leanne. We were saying, can’t believe we’ve known you all this time and we never even knew you had a brother.’
Marie feels the earth tilt beneath her. She stops walking. ‘What did you say?’
‘Didn’t have you pegged as a Twitterer, either. I don’t really get it myself . . . prefer Facebook. Is Twitter not just for trolling celebs and reading about X-Factor contestants?’ He’s about to say more when a shrill voice yells at him from the back door.
‘Scott, come in here! Jack needs you to fix this fucking stereo.’
Marie opens her mouth to speak, but Scott has already gone back inside. The call of his girlfriend is not something he’s going to ignore. Why he has to fix the stereo, Marie has no idea. But that doesn’t matter now.
She feels sober. As if someone has thrown a bucket of cold water in her face. She balls her hands into fists. Feels her nails cutting into her palms. She follows him inside. Get a grip, Marie. It’s nothing. He can’t know. No one knows. She’s made sure of that. And what was he babbling on about Twitter? She’s never been on Twitter. Like Scott said, she’d never got the point. He must’ve made a mistake. Someone with a similar name, maybe. It was nothing . . . It couldn’t be. Just a weird coincidence. Just like the Lego . . . and the feeling of being watched. And the letters, Marie . . . don’t forget the letters. A small chill runs through her. She walks inside.
The air is thick with sweat. Bodies are packed close. In the hall. In the sitting room. In the kitchen. She squeezes her way through the crowd. Feels eyes on her. Girls looking down their noses, men smirking. Paranoid. You’re paranoid, she thinks. Too much to drink. She pushes her way into the kitchen. She hardly recognises anyone. These are not regulars from the Rowan Tree. These are people who drink in the other pubs in town. The ones that don’t have any rules. The ones that let anyone in, even if they’ve started fights and knocked people out with pool cues.
This was a mistake.
She manages to find her way to the kitchen sink. Tries to block out the noise. Music and laughing and screeching. Where’s Sam? She wishes she hadn’t come. There are a couple of glasses next to the sink. She picks up a pint glass, sniffs it. Turns on the cold tap and rinses it. Again. Fills it with water and gulps it down, trying to stop herself from shaking.
She needs to find Scott, ask him what he meant.
She fills the glass again and gulps down another pint of water. Her head is suddenly clear. She needs to stop drinking. Stop denying it. Something is going on. Graeme has sent her a letter. They’ve had no contact for twenty-five years. She can’t keep pretending that it doesn’t mean something. He’s out. He must be.
He was never supposed to get out.
‘Quick . . . someone . . . help!’ A young girl in a tight blue dress fires into the kitchen as if propelled. Her face is fear. Frantic. ‘Quick . . . come on – it’s Harry. He’s having a fit or something. Fuck!’ The last word is drawn out into a long, bellowing cry. The crowd in the kitchen shrinks back like a retreating tide. The girl is staring straight at Marie. Please, her eyes say. Please.
Marie blinks. Wakes up. ‘Show me.’
The girl grabs her by the hand and drags her through the hall to the living room. The music has stopped. People spin out of the way like skittles. Shocked faces. No one knows what to do.
Someone – Harry – is lying on the floor in the centre of the living room. A small crowd has formed around him as if he’s attempting some weird party piece for their entertainment. Someone is crying. Harry is convulsing, his body rising and falling in the middle of the floor. He looks like he’s being electrocuted. A line of foamy vomit leaks from the side of his mouth. His eyes are turned back inside his head, stark white orbs bulging out of his bright-red face.
The crowd has gone into shock.
‘Someone call an ambulance,’ Marie says. She tries to keep her voice calm. No need to shout – an eerie silence has fallen over the room, except for the muted sounds of sobs.
‘What’s he taken?’ she says. She kneels down next to the young man’s body, takes hold of his hand. ‘Harry! Can you hear me? Try to relax. Try to calm down.’ She has no idea what she’s doing. She’s never seen someone have a fit before. Maybe on TV, but nothing she can recall. She assumes it will stop, eventually. Or else he’ll die. But she doesn’t know what will happen in between. ‘Has someone called an ambulance?’ she repeats.
Someone from the crowd replies. ‘No ambulance.’
No one else speaks.
Fuck, Marie thinks. ‘Fuck,’ she says. ‘Look, it doesn’t matter what shit he’s taken, but if you don’t call an ambulance he’s probably going to fucking die. Do you all want that on your conscience?’
A murmur from the crowd. She hears the beeps of some
one pressing keys on a phone. An argument. More beeps. She tunes them out. She keeps hold of Harry’s hand. ‘Come on, Harry,’ she whispers. ‘Someone give me a cushion.’ She stretches out a hand and someone hands her a cushion. She lifts Harry’s head gently, lays the cushion underneath. She squeezes his hand. His convulsions are getting smaller, spaced wider apart. She watches as they slowly fade to nothing. A final twitch. Then he is still. ‘I need a cloth,’ she says. Another wordless delivery. She takes the corner of the cloth and wipes gently at his face, removing the vomit. Then she lays a hand over his chest. His heart is thumping hard, but slowly. She leans her face down to his. Feels his faint breath on her cheek.
‘He’s alive,’ she states. There are some relieved breaths. More murmurs. Still, no one has come to help. Eventually, someone crouches down beside her. A young man she vaguely recognises. Thinks he might be one of those who pops into the Rowan Tree on his way elsewhere. Quiet. She doesn’t know his name. ‘Can you help me turn him?’ she says. The young man helps. They turn Harry onto his side, remove the cushion so his mouth is tilted downwards, in case he is sick again. She carefully folds one leg, one arm, until he is in a sideways reaching pose. She’s not sure if it’s quite the recovery position, but it’s close. His airways are free. His limbs are in a comfortable position. She strokes his back. Whispers to him. Reassures him.
‘The ambulance is on its way,’ a voice from the back says. The crowd has begun to disperse. Go home, she thinks. Think about this. She notices something sticking out of the pocket of Harry’s jeans. A small plastic bag.
The young man who helped her sees that she’s seen it. ‘Maybe I should—’ He reaches towards the pocket, but Marie pushes his hand away.
‘No. Maybe I should. No one will think to ask me.’
The young man nods. ‘OK.’
‘What’s your name?’ Marie asks.
‘Lee. That was my girlfriend who came and got you. Lauren. In the blue dress? Thanks . . . Harry’s my best mate. I didn’t know what to do. Stupid, eh?’
Marie isn’t sure what to say, but she’s stopped from having to think of something as Harry coughs, and vomits up a small pool of white lumps. He murmurs something. Not words. More like a groan.
‘You’re OK, Harry,’ Marie says. She rubs his back again. Drifting in from the back door, she catches the sound of a siren on the breeze. Not long now, she thinks. Hopes. He needs to be checked over, fast. She’s worried about the slow heart rate. The shallow breathing. She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t want to cause alarm. She glances up and sees Sam watching her from the doorway.
‘Want to go home?’ he says.
‘Don’t we have to wait? What about the police?’
‘No police,’ she hears someone say from the kitchen.
‘The police will be here. It’s a suspicious event.’
‘It’s an accident.’
She looks down at him again. Runs her hand down his back. ‘You’ll be OK,’ she says. Slides her hand over the back of his jeans. Gently, she tugs the plastic bag out of his pocket. Rolls it inside her palm.
She stands up.
‘Come on,’ Sam says. He gestures towards the back door. ‘They’ll come round the front. No one will say you were here. You don’t want mixed up in this shit.’
She nods. Lets Sam take her by the hand, and they run down the back path and out the gate, head up the alleyway in the opposite way from the sirens. They’re screeching now. Close. He’s right, she thinks. She doesn’t want to be mixed up with something like this. She has enough to worry about. When they are far enough away, Sam stops. ‘I’ll let you go your own way from here,’ he says. He leans in and kisses her on the cheek. ‘You did great in there.’
Marie walks home. Her hand still gripping the plastic bag, so tight she thinks she might never be able to uncurl it. She tries to let her mind slow down. Takes a breath. Starts to count. Then a memory spikes her inside. Can’t believe we’ve known you all this time and we never even knew you had a brother . . .
How? she thinks. How did they find out?
18
You could always rely on Ian to cheer you up when you were feeling down. Davie didn’t see as much of his friend as he should, and the night they’d just had, just the two of them – watching Ice Road Truckers, getting excited about Ian’s vinyl imports, not talking about anything of importance – it was exactly what he needed. He’d been tempted to ask Anne about Marie, try to find out if she’d said anything. Try to understand why she seemed to be getting cold feet so soon, and seemingly doing all she could to avoid him. But he didn’t want to ruin the night, plus Anne had gone out to the cinema and she wasn’t back before Davie had left.
Back home now, in his own house, the thoughts he had pushed away come back to him. He’d even popped in to see Marie at work earlier but found that she’d been and gone. Or at least that’s what they said in the bar. Maybe she was hiding from him there too. Davie might not be the best with women, but he really couldn’t work out what he might’ve done wrong.
They’d gone out for a drink the night after a great evening round at Ian and Anne’s. They’re moving house, and it was the last time they’d be having a dinner party there, so the four of them had made sure it went with a bang. They’d managed to drink most of Ian’s wine collection, which was good at the time but not so much fun the next day. He’d had the day off though, thankfully, and when he’d met Marie that night she’d been in good spirits, carrying on from the night before. They’d gone to the cinema a few days later. All very civilised. He’d kissed her, and had felt no resistance. But when he’d suggested she stay the night at his she’d pulled away.
‘Next time, Davie,’ she’d said. ‘It’s been a while for me. I want to get this right.’
‘It’s been a while for me too,’ he’d said. ‘But I hope it’s true what they say – that it’s like riding a bike . . .’
She’d laughed at his joke. Pretended to be outraged. Let him squirm when he’d tried to explain that he meant you never forgot how to do it . . . not that he was implying she was a bike. She’d laughed even harder the more he dug himself a hole.
He’d thought there was something there.
But ever since then she’d been ignoring his calls. Avoiding his texts. She finally texted him back after he’d missed her in the pub. But it was too late by then. He was already at Ian’s, and he wasn’t going to ditch his mate for a woman. Especially not one who was blowing so hot and cold.
Davie likes to think of himself as the sensitive sort. He has good relationships with women. They talk to him. Which is why this thing with Marie is really irking him. He senses that something is going on with her, but he doesn’t want to push. Anyway, she’s agreed to meet him tomorrow, so maybe he’ll get a bit more insight then. If not, it could be time to cut his losses.
Going to see the woman in hospital with Malkie has shaken him. But he realises now that it wasn’t because he had strong feelings for Marie like that, it was more the thought of something so horrific happening to someone he knows. There’s been enough of that lately.
He fires up his computer and makes himself a coffee. He doesn’t need to do this tonight, but he’s curious. These herbal highs that he’s been looking into at work. It’s a bit of a summer phenomenon. Long hot nights, parties, that feeling people get in the summertime – like they have more freedom – not like the dark, miserable winters where you sink into depression and barely leave your house.
The thing that has come up in most of the searches is called Krackoff. Some bright spark came up with that name – probably felt quite pleased with himself. Davie’s searched on the internet and found that it’s quite easy to get hold of. It’s described as a mixture of nutmeg, hogweed and other herbal ingredients, and it’s meant to give the user a ‘mild sensation of floating’ when taken in the correct quantities. However, there are no suggested quantities provided, and a search through various drugs forums has yielded some more sinister results.
BlowBoy
19: This drug does nothing on its own, and must be mixed with H@PEE to have any sort of decent effect. Unfortunately, it’s almost impossible to buy H@PEE ready made, due to some of the components being illegal, namely ephedrine, which is banned in the UK (and most other places too). There’s a workaround but it takes a bit of time. If you really want to take this shit, it might be worth finding some other likeminded folks and clubbing together to make a batch of something as close to H@PEE as you can get.
The_Bong: It can’t be that hard. You got a recipe or what, bro?
BlowBoy19: Try this link and let us know how you get on.
PashaQueen: You can make an ephedrine substitute using wicks from Benzedrex inhalers. You have to order them from the States, but I don’t think they’re illegal.
PashaQueen: Sorry, clicked too soon. Amazon does them. Then you need to extract the compound. I think you boil them in lemon juice. I’ve never done it, but I know some people who have and they said that mixed in with the smashed up Krackoff pills is better than the real thing.
Davie scrolls down. There are forty-two pages of this stuff, and this is only one of the forums. There are endless anecdotes about people mixing stuff with various juices to be able to swallow it, as apparently it has the most disgusting taste ever – the bloggers compare it to cow shit, dog shit . . . just generic shit, in fact. He can’t understand why anyone would force something so disgusting into their bodies. Is it really worth all that effort? He’s about to shut down for the night when he finds a final post, right at the end. Page 42. It is the newest one, but the posts are sorted the other way. He realises he’s been reading stuff from five years ago. This one’s from a few months ago. It is what he needs.