I laugh hollowly. “Why would I want to be me? I don’t even know who I am.” He is about to say something, but I quickly cut him off. I turn pleading eyes on him and force the words out. “Tell me, why do you still bother? I’m not worth it.” ‘Why do you still bother trying to help a lost cause?’ I want to ask him, but the rest of the sentence is lost.
“I’m here because I want to help you,” he says, his voice sure and confident. “We’re friends now, so you’ll just have to put up with me whether you like it or not.” There’s not even a hint of doubt. He grabs my shoulders again so that his gaze can meet mine, and his eyes boring into my own. “And you are worth it, trust me.”
I smile slightly. “Okay,” is all I say. Tentatively, I rest my head on his shoulder. It feels nice, in a completely platonic way I convince myself. “Thanks,” I whisper.
Chapter 13: Sixteen candles
11:57
Tick tock tick tock
11:58
Tick tock tick tock
Two minutes: two more minutes to go, two more minutes left. Two minutes left of being fifteen.
11:59
Tick tock tick tock
The clock is actually digital, the imaginary tick tock-ing reverberating in my head. I’m sitting on the white-washed windowsill of my room, the curtains drawn closed around me and the clock sitting innocently in front of me, its green numbers glowing. A crescent moon hangs, suspended in the darkness, and pale moonlight drizzles in. Below me, all is silent.
Tick tock tick tock
It is almost as though the world is holding its breath with me, as though it is holding a minute of silence just for me. I look down at the streets, cold and hard and unmoving. I see the rows of cars, lined neatly in driveways. It is my last minute as a fifteen year old and I’m not sure if I want this moment to last or not.
I breathe out slowly. I’m still breathing, I still can breathe. I’m still alive. My breathe makes translucent ovals on the cold glass that shine a pale, silvery white. Just like ice. I’m the paint brush and the glass is my canvas. I paint with my finger, nimble as it slides effortlessly over the glass and carves transparency into the fog. When my work is complete, there is the prominent outline of a birthday cake in the window, with sixteen burning candles.
00:00
Midnight.
It is the nineteenth of August and I’m sixteen years old.
Sixteen candles for sixteen years. Sixteen chances to live.
When I sift through the chaotic remnants of my memories, I realise that my eighth birthday is the last one I remember. There had been a proper party, one with crackers and ribbons and confetti. It had just been a small party. A family party, but it had still been my party. Even Lily had taken it upon herself to be nice to me that day. Someone had even bothered to buy me a cake. I think it was mother. It was a large, white cake covered by pure icing with pink letters that spelt my name on top. Eight, striped candles pointed upwards at the ceiling, their flames burning and flickering brightly like orange shadows.
“Make a wish,” mother whispered, grinning. Faith, Lily and Dawn stood watching avidly while our father filmed the whole event. And I had smiled, obliged and blown out all of the candles in two large puffs.
Later Dawn poked and prodded me, asking continuously what I had wished for. And I, playing the part of the innocent little sister, simply smiled sweetly and said ‘I wish everyone in the world could be as happy as I am now’ when in reality I had wished that cynical, annoying Lily would be adopted by another family and be sent to live forever in Alaska.
I suppose even as an eight year old I was never that innocent. And eight years on, nothing seems to have changed.
The birthdays that followed my eighth were hardly birthdays. They were just another day in the year, made only slightly better by the various ‘happy birthdays’ and occasional cards I received from classmates. Faith, Lily and Dawn however never even bothered to acknowledge them, or any birthdays for that matter. It was a constant struggle trying to earn enough money to survive, a struggle that seemed to overshadow everything else that had once been important to us.
When I finally turn back to the window, I notice that the street lights are on as well. They glow softly, their light warm and orange like fireflies. All is silent. The velvet sky is ominously still, devoid of stars. The crude drawing of the birthday cake, with its sixteen candles, is still staring back at me from the glassy surface of the window. I glare at it for a moment, before finally sighing quietly.
“Happy birthday,” I whisper to myself.
Then, with a sweep of my hand, the icy flames of all sixteen candles have been snuffed out.
*****
“Target in sight.”
“You mean Mr.-”
“Shhhh, he’ll hear you.”
I sigh, wondering how I let myself get pulled into situations like these and growl into an old walky-talky. “How do you know he’s not deaf? He’s definitely old enough.”
“We can’t take any chances,” comes the irritated reply and I resist the urge to pull at my hair.
I’m sitting on a window sill. To be more precise, I’m sitting on Ash’s window sill, my legs dangling out and one set of white knuckles clutching the window frame while the other is clamped around a small, plastic walky talky. I have a perfect view of Jenny’s garden and of her neighbour’s garden. Old, stained curtains flare out behind me, fluttering pleasantly in the draft. I turn to where I know Ash is hiding in a bush, peering through a hole in the fence.
“This is ridiculous,” I hiss, glaring from my perch on the window sill at his bush camouflage. “Why are we doing this?”
“Because we’re doing a good deed. And it’s fun.”
“And stupid.”
“Just stick to the plan and act professional.”
“You’re the one shuffling around, idiot.”
There is quiet for a moment and then I hear a: “But there’s something in my sock and I think it’s moving,” interrupted by the crackle of twigs and leaves. I have a strange sense of déjà vu. I remember vaguely that I had considered the possibilities of becoming a ninja a few times, after various stealthy midnight escapades. Here is more evidence that it’s my ideal profession.
“Hope! Look, quick!” I jolt at his urgent call, automatically seeking out his bush. “Not at me, the target.”
Rolling my eyes, I pick up binoculars and use them to peer at the neighbouring garden, searching out the cause of Ash’s concern. Finally I spot the ‘target’, lounging on a sun bed in the far corner of the garden.
“Target located,” I mutter, feeling extremely stupid. “I’ll get into position, over.”
“Good. Currently five metres from target, over.”
Very slowly, I place one bare foot tentatively on the slanted roof, testing its strength. When I’m satisfied I stand on the tiles and gently shift the rest of my body off the window sill. The binoculars around my neck swing dangerously as I lower myself so that I’m almost sitting down. Luckily the roof is slanted gently, providing a semi-shelter for the patio below.
Squatting on the roof and looking like a spider, I shuffle awkwardly towards the neighbouring garden. My palms are sweaty and I can feel the sun beating down on my back. I have to resist the urge to run a hand over my face to calm myself down. I also have to keep reminding myself why I’m doing this. My pride. After all this time, I still have pride issues.
I manage to shuffle myself right to the edge of the roof – the border line between Jenny’s house and the neighbour’s. I cling to the edge of the house tightly, afraid to let go, although I know that it’s hardly a dangerous drop. If I were to simply slide down, I would manage to scale the small, wooden fence and would land safely on the ridiculously high trampoline on the other side, which is pushed right up against the fence. Why someone would position a trampoline like that – at that height – is beyond my understanding. I vaguely remember Ash mentioning something about convincing the poor people who live in that house to
do it for him.
I cast an angry glare towards the bush as I inch slowly down the tiled slope, reaching the gutter lining the edge. I slide down further until I can feel the wooden fence below me. I take a risk and reach out, almost toppling off, until my feet are hovering just above the trampoline on the other side. Quickly, I curse my pride once more mentally and slide right off of the roof completely.
I let out a relieved sigh at my safe landing. I look across the garden, with overgrown grass and a chaotic assortment of wild flowers flourishing. At the far end the ‘target’ is still resting peacefully on his sun bed. His eyes are closed contently and I realise that he probably is deaf if he had not heard my arrival in the garden. I fish around in my pocket and find the walky-talky.
“I’m at point A: three metres from target.”
“Good, now get the ladder. And try to be quiet about it this time.”
I groan quietly as I go to the shed at the other end of the garden and drag the small step ladder to the fence. Ash scales the fence, climbing carefully down the ladder and joining me. The target still does not move, oblivious to our presence, and for a second I wonder if he’s actually alive or not.
“Much better,” Ash praises, dusting himself off.
“Can we just get on with this?”
He nods, motioning silently for me to follow. We sneak through the grass, towards the old sun bed where the target basks contently in the sunlight, like a photosynthesizing plant. Finally we reach the target.
Mr. Tybalts, the infamously ancient tabby cat that lives six houses away, opens one eye lazily and yawns.
Ash grins, bends down and picks the old, mangy cat up. Mr. Tybalts regards us coolly for a moment, before simply closing his eyes again. Apparently, this cat is worth a cash reward of twenty pounds with the added bonus of freshly baked brownies.
I sigh in relief. He tickles the cat under the chin and says: “Mission complete.”
*****
In the afternoon, Ash convinces me to visit Cleadon Creek with him again. I tell him I’d rather stay indoors and read, but really I know I can’t refuse him. The truth is I like adventure sometimes, even if it is only fishing for newts for his biology project. Amphibians are cute.
Things are going well. It’s a nice day, the sun is still shining, and despite a small argument at the beginning of the trip (“why do you get to have the blue bucket? Come on, swap with me already”) we even manage to hold down a civil conversation. And then everything goes to hell. Maybe it really is coincidence, or maybe he’d been stalking us, but suddenly three figures appear in the meadow, blocking our path. The messy blond hair and grey eyes are unmistakable. Ben.
I don’t even notice the other two – Kate and the other boy who I think is called Jason – standing protectively on either side of him. All I can think about is my warring emotions, half of which are mesmerised by the cold aura he exudes and the other half that remains wary. I remember our dinner dates; I remember that I had actually enjoyed them. And then I remember Ash, standing right beside me, completely oblivious to what I’ve done yet still so trusting of me. For a second I meet Ben’s impassive eyes, and maybe he can see the fear in my expression. But then just as quickly we break eye contact and he turns his attention to Ash instead.
“Going fishing, huh?” he asks loftily.
“Yeah. Got a problem with that?” Ash scowls.
“No. Just try not to drown. I know it must be hard, for an idiot like you.”
“You know that idiocy is contagious, don’t you? If I’m an idiot, I must have caught it from you.”
“Hah, you’re getting better at this, Falkland. Maybe Hope’s actually taught you something.” Ben’s eyes flick to me again in a knowing way, almost as if he’s mocking me.
“Since when were you on first name basis with her?” Ash asks, raising an eyebrow in confusion. I hold my breath, terrified for a moment that he’s going to tell our secret, but then he just shrugs.
“It’s none of your business,” Ben says and I let out an internal sigh of relief.
“Stop letting him provoke you,” I mutter to Ash, tugging on his sleeve. “Let’s just go already.”
“Backing out already?” Ben suddenly sneers at me. “I thought you stood up for yourself. Or were you just saying that to sound tough?” Maybe I should have expected it; the hardness of his eyes, lacking any of the warmth I had seen there before. They are empty eyes.
“I’m not backing out,” I growl, trying to sound more confident than I actually am. “Just unlike you, I don’t argue for fun.”
He laughs, as if I’m a ridiculous little child not worth acknowledging. “And you, Ash? Do you really need a girl to speak for you now? You used to be able to do that easily on your own.”
It’s eerily quiet then. Something unsaid seems to pass between the two boys. Both of them appear calm on the outside, their expressions unreadable. But when I look down I see Ash’s hand clenched tightly into a fist. Above us a cloud blocks out the sun, casting a shadow over the meadow.
Ben smirks; a twisted smile. “What’s wrong, Ash?” he taunts. “Are you still afraid of me, after all these years?” He turns to me. “And this is the best you can do? Your standards really have dropped, haven’t they?”
Something in Ash seems to snap. In a split second, he has cast the fishing net and bucket down onto the grass and has launched himself across the short distance that separates our two groups, tackling Ben to the ground with a cry of “go to hell!”
I stand completely still, frozen in shock. I had never expected this to escalate to a proper, physical fight. But when I see the spite, the satisfaction in the cold grey eyes and a similar look mirrored in the chocolate pair, I realise that I should have expected it. No one, especially Ben, is what they seem. I had been stupid enough to trust him, to trust that he was somehow different and that just because he acted nice on our two dates it meant he’d had a sudden change of heart. How naive. Ben never liked me. And I hate myself for going along with it when I’d known this the whole time.
The two boys struggle fiercely amongst the long grass, which sways and rustles ominously in warning. And then Jason, the burly side-kick, jumps in to join them. But instead of pulling them apart like he is supposed to, he pins one of Ash’s arms to the ground and strikes at his face with a large, boulder-like fist.
“Hold him down!” Ben cries out. Out of the corner of my eye I see Kate slowly backing away from the fight, a look of horror and disgust on her face as the larger boy manages to pin down the flailing legs and Ben swings at Ash’s face, narrowly missing. The next time however, he is not so lucky. Ben aims a kick at his side, and I see chocolate eyes widen in pain.
I don’t need to decide whose side I’m on. There’s only ever been one side that I could be on, but there’s not enough time to think about that. There’s not enough time to be scared. All I know is that Ash is getting hurt and I have to protect him. So I snatch the forgotten, yellow bucket – a tattered fishing net still in my grasp – and run to join the fray.
Later on I’ll be known as the secret weapon; the rash, impulsive secret weapon. But at the moment all thoughts of tactics, plans, common sense and logic have been whisked away by the wind that rushes through my hair as I charge forwards. Time seems to slow down. I see the bewilderment in the eyes of all three boys, before time speeds back up again and I’m suddenly jamming the bucket onto Jason’s head.
Thud. The stocky boy lets out a distressed screech, struggling lamely to free himself of the bucket. Ash, taking his chance, manages to kick him off of his legs and I swing around blindly with the wooden rod of the fishing net, sending Jason sprawling to the ground. Ben is shouting something, but it is a blur to me. When I turn around, Ash has staggered to his feet and has punched Ben in the stomach with his remaining strength, winding him. I jab Ben in the shoulder with the fishing net, causing him to stagger backwards onto the edge of a steep hill. And before I realise what is happening, Ash has thrown himself at Ben and the two boys to
pple over the edge.
“Ash!” I yell out his name, but before I can inspect the damage done, I turn around just in time to see Jason staggering painfully to his feet, the yellow bucket discarded on the grass. He snarls angrily at me.
“You’ll pay for that, runt!” He curses, lumbering through the grass towards me. I quickly side-step out of the way and thrust out my fishing net, swinging with as much force as possible and hoping for a hit. Luckily I catch the boy in the gut and he doubles over. I feel the vibrations from the rod travelling up my arm and wince. However I take advantage of his momentary pain and swipe the rod at his feet, sending him tumbling back down to the grass. Without looking back, I turn around and run to the edge of the hill, peering over the edge anxiously.
At the bottom of the grassy hill, the two boys are rolling around viciously, both trying to land punches. Painfully, they struggle to their feet while still trying desperately to hurt the other in any way possible. Their eyes are ablaze – two fires eerily alike. It takes me a moment to realise that Ben is the one who has the advantage.
Cold Water Page 14