I won’t let you in. Not tonight.
“Come on, Mike,” she taunted, looking away from the spectre out in the dark. “Get a move on.”
He finally reached the end of the bench and lurched to his feet. “There,” he said, dusting himself off with a dramatic flair. “One has escaped from the darkest recesses of the booth and seeks both alcoholic sustenance and female company. Exquisite Samara…super…sexy Samara…would you accompany me to the bar?”
“About damn time,” she said, laughing along with Lily.
She followed him past the other packed tables towards the long bar. Two deep, behind the patrons that sat on high stools along its polished, wooden length, Samara and Mike joined the waiting customers.
“Good to get away,” he said, voice back to normal, shedding the tones of the adventurer. “Catch a breath. I’m sorry about Kieran. He comes on a bit strong. His mum dropped him on his head as a baby. But who can blame her? He was five foot by age three, big freak he is.” He placed his hand on the small of her back, drawing her in close. Samara allowed herself to be led, tingling from the intimate touch. Mike spoke close to her ear over the din from the jukebox and patrons clustered at the bar. “He has his eye on your friend. Is she seeing anyone?”
Samara shook her head. “No,” she said.
Mike tapped his ear and turned to the side. “Speak up. Bit loud.”
Samara pressed her lips against his ear. “I said no!”
They exchanged positions, Samara nearly giggling.
“Does he stand a chance?” Mike half-yelled into her ear. “I mean…we’re all having a good time, but I’d rather tell him if it’s a no go. Save wasting his night and hers.”
Samara licked her lips and leaned in close. “I think he stands a good chance.”
“He’ll be happy to hear it! What about you? Are you seeing anyone?” Mike turned his head, raven hair clutching the pale skin of his skeletal face, lower jaw reaching down to swallow her head whole. His voice descended to a guttural growl. “Or are you here all alone?”
Samara jerked back, closing her eyes for a moment, washing the image away.
“No,” she said after a moment. “I’m not seeing anybody.” She sucked in a long breath. “Any update on that drink?”
“Okay,” said Mike, his voice returned to normal. “I’m trying.”
Samara felt him move away and she finally opened her eyes.
Mike had found a gap in the battalion of thirsty customers and had driven forward, claiming his place at the bar. Already they were surrounded by reinforcements: veteran drinkers returning from established tables or privates fresh from the front door, still wrapped in their coats and scarves, done battling with the elements and now tussling for attention by the barmaid. Samara didn’t care. First come, first served. An ancient rule, pure in its simplicity, powerful in its enforcement. She needed a drink. Another Metz maybe. A shot sublime. A liquid embrace, fuzzy and protective.
She leaned onto Mike, wrapping her arm around his waist, resting her face against his lean back. The crusader, battling for his maiden. “Hey!” she cried. “Bit of service?”
“It’s okay,” he said over his shoulder. “They’re busy. Give it a minute.”
“Come on…”
To the side, a girl with dirty blonde dreadlocks, face riddled with piercings, spoke to a guy with long dark hair, pointed beard, and thick eyeliner. She grinned at Samara, mouth hanging loose, a shark striking through concealing shoals of blustering fish.
Samara looked away, staring at the back wall of the pub. The booths were wider, housing larger tables and low dividing wooden walls. Huddled groups of fat men with long beards; burlesque teenage girls with painted almond eyes and alabaster skin; young men, silver teeth, green hair and leather trench coats. Samara blinked, seeing the girl with each cohort, smiling a challenge at her, mouth hanging askew.
Not welcome here.
Come and try.
TRY
“You okay?” said Mike. “You’re kinda hurting.”
Samara released her grip. “I thought… But…not even here…”
“Sam?”
She turned away. Of everything he offered, of all the things she thought she needed, only one mattered. Just one. A drink. He was hopeless.
Barely enough wonderful alcohol flowed through her blood. Not sufficient to forget the scene that awaited her at home. Not enough to forget the spectre that lingered between her and every other person in the bar.
Confirming her decision, the girl padded long the ceiling above her, crawling like a spider, reluctant to drop but happy to stay close.
She had tried. Fuck it! She’d tried so hard. Knowing what kept it at bay. Driven to the point of either rejection or embrace. The devil always lingered. Did she fulfil the cinematic hero role and overcome her? Or simply accept her constant presence?
TRY
“Fuck you,” muttered Samara, arriving back at the table. Fuck Mike. Pussy couldn’t even get a drink at the bar. Fuck Kieran and his idiot simplicity. And fuck you too, Lily. So easy for you. You don’t have her to deal with.
“Everything okay?” asked Lily. “You don’t have a drink.”
The front door slammed open, and everyone looked to see who had entered.
Recognising the harried figure rushing into the pub, Samara knew nothing was okay.
7.
Samara slammed her bedroom door, the old image of thick black goo sealing it shut once again rushing through her head. It would take more than her dark, imaginary adhesive to keep her safe. Her breathing came in ragged gasps, ribs squeezing tight around her lungs in a deadly embrace. She sucked in a deep breath to fend them off.
Pacing back and forth, the inch-thick rubber soles of her boots pounded a firm beat on her carpet.
The bed. Did she have the strength to move it? The adrenaline surging through her veins, driven by her panicking heart, lent her confidence. Samara grabbed one of the thick bedposts, her lacquered fingernails digging into the soft wood. She tugged. The mattress and mountain of pillows shook, but the bed refused to move. The legs had long sunk into the carpet, forming ruts that held them fast. Samara growled and, gritting her teeth against the pain, jerked the bedpost harder.
From the hallway came the sound of ascending footsteps, each one ringing through the house like cannon fire.
“Come on,” Samara roared. The bed declined to yield.
With sanctuary denied, she sought another route of escape.
Striding to her desk, she clicked on the lamp and rummaged through the accrued mess. Make up brushes and hair ties were swept onto the floor. Paperback novels, deserving more respect, were quickly set aside in a small pile. Handouts from art class, outlining the course, timetable, and assignment requirements, were still scattered beneath the mess from the first week of college. Satisfied, Samara pulled them free and turned the sheets of paper over to hide the text and reveal the potential. Dropping into her chair, she snatched up a sharp pencil and touched its tip to the paper. A plethora of nightmares struggled for position in her frantic mind, fighting to emerge victorious, to be rewarded, to emerge into the real world, born by her hand, delivered in hard, dark strokes.
Her bedroom door slammed open, striking the wall.
“Don’t think you can skulk away in here,” bawled her mother, stepping across the threshold from the brightly lit hallway. “You can’t hide from this.”
The pencil paused on the paper without so much as a line. “Get out.”